In one of the narrow, filthy alleys of the city's poorest district, where the stench of rotting garbage mixed with smoke and despair, Sansan sat on a broken wooden crate. He was a skinny teenager, his skin pale from lack of food and sunlight, dark circles ringing his eyes. In his right hand, he clutched a cheap plastic cup filled with equally cheap beer — its pale yellow color more like urine than anything luxurious.
He had saved for this cup over weeks. Stolen coins from sleeping passersby, sold scraps from the street, even done odd jobs for small shop owners for a handful of change. All for one taste of beer in his life. He didn't dream bigger; just a moment of "luxury" before everything ended.
He sat directly across from the rundown police station, which looked more like an old prison than a security post. He knew they were looking for him. For days now, the symptoms had appeared: crushing fatigue, dizziness, an overwhelming urge to sleep even while standing. He was a new "Sleeper," infected with the strange sleeping curse that turned people into monsters if they died in their dreams.
He slowly raised the cup, stared at the scant foam, then gave a faint smile. "A toast... to myself. And to all the long nights of hunger."
A policeman at the door heard his voice. The burly man turned, saw the filthy boy sitting there calmly, and shouted: "That's him! The little bastard!"
The officer charged toward him, heavy boots pounding the cracked pavement. Sansan didn't run. Instead, he lifted the cup to his lips and drank greedily, as if trying to swallow every drop before it was taken away. The taste was bitter, burning — nothing like the luxury he'd imagined — but he felt a tiny spark of rebellion.
The policeman reached him and delivered a hard kick to his stomach. Sansan fell to the ground, but — by some miracle — kept the cup raised, not a drop spilled. He went back to drinking, gasping for air.
"You little scum! We've been searching for you for weeks!" the officer yelled, grabbing him by the collar of his ragged shirt and dragging him. "You're infected, and you're sitting here drinking cheap beer?!"
Inside the station, two other officers waited. One, a bald man with a thick mustache, looked at Sansan and sneered: "Is this the new Sleeper? Looks like a stray cat."
"Yeah, finally caught him," replied the one who dragged him. "He was about to fall asleep in the street. If he'd slept there, he'd have turned into a monster right in front of us."
They were about to beat him, but Sansan's body began to slump. His eyes slowly closed, his frame trembling from extreme exhaustion. They realized the danger immediately.
"Quick! To the isolation room!" one shouted.
They grabbed him and threw him into a small, sealed room — more like a medical cell — then slammed the door shut. Sansan heard their voices from outside as they called: "Extermination team for Sleeper creatures! Get here now. We have an infected on the verge of turning. Stupid homeless kid... I hope he dies in his dream and doesn't come back as a monster."
Then everything faded to black.
...
Inside the dream...
The heat was unbearable. A red, blazing sun scorched everything, the sand beneath the wheels glowing like embers. The caravan moved slowly across an endless wasteland, a large cart pulled by emaciated camels, loaded with chained slaves. The air reeked of sweat and fear.
Sansan opened his eyes abruptly. He was no longer in his scrawny body. He was a middle-aged man, reasonably strong, wearing light leather armor, a long whip in his hand. He sat on the cart as a guard.
He looked at his hands, then at the whip, and broke into a wide, strange grin. "Oh... this is exciting."
He hopped down lightly, ignoring the terrified stares of the slaves. He approached one — an old, gaunt man in chains, trembling from heat and fear.
"Oh gods, it's the good guard Gam!" one slave whispered to another, trying to fake respect.
But Sansan's smile was different. It wasn't the smile of an ordinary cruel guard... it was the smile of someone seeing a chance for something "heroic" and ridiculous.
He stepped closer, raised the whip. The old slave looked up in fear: "Is... is something wrong, sir?"
"Ah..." Sansan replied calmly, then struck suddenly.
The whip cracked like thunder, slashing across the slave's face. The man collapsed into the sand, screaming and crying hysterically, blood trickling from his torn lip.
Sansan smiled wider, raised the whip again, and declared in an over-dramatic voice: "Slaves need to know their place. Heroism begins with discipline! Do you hear me, you oppressed people? I'll save you... after I teach you a lesson!"
The slaves stared at him in shock and horror. This wasn't the guard they knew. This was something worse: someone who believed he was a hero — and was far more dangerous because of it.
He raised his hand again, but suddenly... he felt something strange. A voice inside whispering: "This isn't you... you're just a tool in a bigger game."
He ignored it and kept smiling. "Now... who's next on the rescue list?"