The dreams came to Markus like scenes from old movies he used to watch as a child—grainy, flickering, their edges blurred as if projected through damaged film.

  He drifted through shifting landscapes, none of them familiar yet all of them hauntingly real. A vast battlefield choked in fog, the air heavy with the scent of blood and fire. A ruined city bathed in green light, its streets silent, its buildings crumbling into dust. A darkened chamber, where figures cloaked in shadow whispered words he could not understand.

  Through it all, a heartbeat echoed—steady, unrelenting. But it wasn’t his own.

  It pulsed through his chest, a cold, unnatural rhythm that didn’t belong to him.

  And then, as if guided by some unseen force, Markus turned.

  There—standing in the center of the darkness—was himself.

  Or rather, something wearing his skin.

  Its body was wreathed in green flames, its eyes hollowed pits of glowing, endless void, staring back at him with a look that sent an ice-cold shudder down his spine.

  It tilted its head, the movement sharp, unnatural.

  Then it spoke.

  "Not yet."

  The words were a whisper and a roar all at once, filling his skull, making his vision fracture like broken glass.

  Markus gasped—

  And woke up.

  ***

  Markus groaned as he rolled in the cot, pain bubbling beneath his skin, radiating through his muscles like embers buried in his flesh. His entire body ached, every nerve raw, every movement a struggle.

  The air was stale, tinged with the faint scent of old wood, dust, and something metallic. The cot beneath him creaked, its thin mattress doing little to cushion the weight of his exhaustion.

  He forced his eyes open. Dim light filtered through wooden slats, casting uneven lines across a cramped, unfamiliar room. His breathing was shaky, his heartbeat slow, heavy, unnatural.

  For a few seconds, his mind struggled to catch up.

  Where was he?

  What had happened?

  Then—the memories slammed into him all at once.

  The foxes.

  The fight.

  The fire.

  His fingers twitched, and for a terrifying moment, he expected to see skeletal remains where his hand should be.

  But it was… normal. Or at least, it looked normal.

  His skin was pale, almost sickly, but intact. No burns, no charred one—nothing to suggest he had been wreathed in fire, twisting into something inhuman. He sat up slowly, muscles protesting with every movement, and scanned the room.

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  It was small—barely more than a storage space. The walls were lined with shelves packed with old supplies, crates stacked in the corners, some labeled with faded labels. From the ceiling, A lantern hung, its warm light barely enough to push back the shadows.

  Markus tried to stand up, but the moment he put weight on his legs, they buckled beneath him. His body collapsed, sending him crashing onto his hands and knees on the cold wooden floor. Pain flared across his muscles, a dull, aching burn radiating through his limbs. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart hammering with the strain of simply existing.

  For a moment, he just sat there, panting in exertion, his hands clenched into trembling fists against the floorboards. His body felt wrong—like it wasn’t entirely his anymore. There was a lingering emptiness, a strange hollowness that settled deep inside his bones as if something had been drained from him.

  “What…is going…on?” Markus whispered to himself through gritted teeth as the pain returned. As if on cue, however, a familiar sight appeared in front of him.

  A blue screen flickered into existence before his eyes, hovering in midair, its glow unnatural, pulsing softly. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of unease through Markus’s already battered mind.

  He stared at it, his breath still heavy, sweat rolling down his forehead.

  The screen glitched for a second, lines of unreadable text flickering before settling into something legible.

  Markus stared at the screen, his mind still trying to process the numbers and words floating in front of him.

  Strength, Agility, Endurance, Vitality…

  Some of them had numbers next to them, a few marked as boosted while others—like Vitality—were labeled Unstable. What the hell does that even mean? he thought as he ran a hand against the screen, its icey feeling sending a chill through his hand. His eyes flickered toward the "Lifeforce Integrity: 67%" message. Just looking at that made his stomach feel weird. Was that his health? Did that mean he was only at 67% of what he should be?

  He clenched his fists, frustration bubbling under his exhaustion.

  "What is this even supposed to mean?" he muttered under his breath. "Am I supposed to understand any of this?"

  No answer.

  The blue screen simply hovered, waiting.

  Markus ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

  His gut told him that whatever this was, it wasn’t going to disappear. He wasn’t hallucinating this. The pain in his body, the weight of what happened, the fire—it was real.

  That meant he couldn’t just sit here, waiting for the world to explain itself.

  First thing’s first—where the hell am I?

  His gaze swept across the dimly lit room, taking in the shelves packed with old supplies, the crates pushed against the walls, the faint scent of dust and wood hanging in the air. It was cramped, barely more than a storage space. Wherever this was, it wasn’t what remained of his apartment.

  And that meant he needed to move.

  Even if his body felt like it had been run over, even if his bones ached, he wasn’t going to sit around waiting for answers to fall into his lap.

  With a sharp inhale, he braced himself—And then, he tried to stand.

  Markus gritted his teeth and forced his arms beneath him, pushing off the cold wooden floor. His muscles screamed in protest, every inch of his body aching like hell, but he refused to stay down. With sheer effort, he lifted himself into a squatting position, his legs trembling violently beneath his weight. His breaths came in short, controlled gasps as he steadied himself, trying to push past the unbearable weakness in his limbs.

  Then—his legs gave out again.

  He collapsed back onto the floor, his palms slamming against the boards as he caught himself. A low growl of frustration escaped his lips, but he didn’t stop.

  He tried again.

  And again.

  Each time, he got a little further, his body adapting to the strain, his will outweighing his exhaustion. His fingers dug into the wood, his arms trembling with effort as he dragged himself back into a squatting position, his knees locking in place, refusing to let him fall again.

  His heart pounded violently, his breaths ragged, but he was upright.

  Finally.

  One step at a time.

  His foot shifted forward, unsteady, wobbly—but it held.

  Another step.

  His body threatened to topple over, but he forced his other leg to follow.

  He was standing.

  Barely—but standing nonetheless.

  Markus let out a shaky breath, sweat rolling down his forehead. His legs felt like jelly as if they would give out at any moment, but he pressed forward.

  One step.

  Then another.

  Each movement felt like dragging his body through wet cement, but he pushed forward anyway, his fingers grazing against the walls for support as he inched toward the door.

  The woman said nothing, merely watching, her expression unreadable.

  When he finally reached the door, Markus paused, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

  He reached for the handle.

  His grip was weak, fingers trembling, but with effort, he twisted the knob and pulled.

  The door creaked open, revealing the world beyond the room.

  It was hell