Ivan slowly opened his eyes, blinking against the weight of his heavy eyelids. His mind felt clouded, as though it were a thick fog that refused to clear. His thoughts were sluggish, and the world around him seemed distant, almost unreal. It was as if his brain was a jar of muddled paste, shaken violently and now struggling to settle.
For a long moment, he couldn't make sense of anything. His vision was blurred, everything obscured by a hazy mist that clung stubbornly to his sight. Eventually, the fog began to lift, revealing the familiar surroundings of his bedroom. He was lying on his back, staring up at the plain white ceiling of his apartment. It was a sight he had seen countless times, yet now it felt strangely unfamiliar.
A dull, throbbing pain pulsed in his temples, each beat sending a wave of discomfort through his skull. He tried to recall what day it was, but his memory failed him. The events that had led to this moment were a blank, as though they had been wiped clean from his mind. With a groggy sigh, he reached out from under the warm embrace of his quilt, fumbling for the cigarette pack and lighter that he always kept on the bedside table.
Sitting up slowly, he leaned back against the headboard, the worn wood creaking slightly under his weight. He intended to light a cigarette, hoping the familiar ritual would help clear his muddled mind. But when he opened the pack, he found it empty—just a few scraps of tobacco dust at the bottom. He stared at the empty pack for a moment, his mind sluggishly registering this small but frustrating detail.
This was not a good sign.
Irritated, Ivan got out of bed, the cold air biting at his skin as he moved. He searched the apartment, checking his usual hiding spots, but found nothing. There were no more cigarettes. The realization settled over him like a heavy blanket, thick and suffocating. For a man like him, who was practically glued to his cigarettes, running out was more than just an inconvenience—it was a crisis.
For some people, the biggest obstacle to staying in bed might be a full bladder or a noisy neighbor, but for Ivan, it was his nicotine addiction. The need for a cigarette gnawed at him, an insistent hunger that couldn't be ignored. With a resigned sigh, he threw on a coat over his disheveled clothes and decided to go downstairs to restock.
The tobacco shop downstairs was run by Mark, a man Ivan had become acquainted with over the years. Mark was always there, day in and day out, with his ever-present smile and a ready supply of cigarettes. As Ivan walked in, the familiar chime of the bell above the door announced his arrival. Mark looked up from behind the counter and greeted him with a friendly smile, though there was a hint of concern in his eyes.
"The usual?" Mark asked, already reaching for the familiar brand that Ivan always bought.
"Yeah, the usual," Ivan replied, his voice rough from sleep. He dug into his pocket for his wallet, fingers brushing past the leather as he tried to shake off the lingering fog in his mind.
Mark turned to retrieve the cigarettes, but as he did, he mumbled almost absentmindedly, "You really should try to cut back, you know. Smoking's not good for you."
Even though Mark made a living selling cigarettes, even he couldn't help but comment on Ivan's relentless smoking habit. It was the kind of habit that bordered on addiction—no, it was addiction, plain and simple. But for Ivan, smoking was more than just a vice; it was a ritual, a small pleasure in an otherwise chaotic life.
"It's fine," Ivan said with a dismissive wave. "I'm tough. Besides, who knows how long someone like me has left? Could be tomorrow, could be today. But that doesn't matter. At least I know these cigarettes are the real deal."
"Living for the moment, huh? That sounds just like you," Mark chuckled, though there was a note of melancholy in his voice. His hands, usually steady and quick, seemed to move a bit slower as he reached for the pack.
"You know, I've been feeling that way more and more recently," Mark continued, his tone softening as he sighed deeply. "They say you never know what'll come first—tomorrow or an accident. I guess people have to live like that, right?
We're always afraid. Afraid of losing everything—wealth, power, control. Because when you have nothing, you fear those who have it all. We walk on eggshells, constantly worrying about the rules, the regulations. We numb ourselves with the little distractions of life, trying to forget what's really out there, lurking in the shadows. But deep down, we all know it, don't we? That thing we're all afraid of... it's always there, no matter how much we try to ignore it…"
As Mark spoke, Ivan felt a growing unease. Something was off. Mark wasn't usually this philosophical, especially not with a customer he barely knew beyond the daily transaction of cash for cigarettes. Even though Ivan and Mark had known each other for years, their relationship was purely transactional—small talk about the weather or sports, nothing more.
"Mark?" Ivan said, his voice tinged with suspicion as he watched the man closely.
Mark suddenly turned around, but instead of holding the usual pack of cigarettes, he had a fruit knife in his hand. A wide, unsettling grin spread across his face, transforming his usually calm demeanor into something sinister.
"I should've done this a long time ago," Mark said, his voice dripping with a mix of regret and something darker.
Before Ivan could react, Mark lunged at him with the knife, aiming directly for his chest. Instinct kicked in, and Ivan sidestepped the attack, his reflexes sharp despite the lingering fog in his mind. He grabbed Mark's arm, trying to disarm him, but Mark was quick—too quick. With a twisted laugh, Mark let go of the knife with one hand and caught it with the other, slashing at Ivan in one fluid motion.
Ivan barely managed to dodge, the blade slicing through the air just inches from his skin. Without thinking, he grabbed Mark's wrist and twisted, forcing the knife out of his grip. The blade clattered to the ground, but the danger wasn't over. Ivan moved quickly, using Mark's momentum against him, and threw him over his shoulder.
Mark crashed through the shop window with a loud shattering of glass, his body tumbling onto the sidewalk outside. Ivan didn't wait to see if he was down for good. He kicked open the door, stepping out into the cool morning air, his heart pounding in his chest. Simultaneously, he pressed the button on his earpiece, connecting to HQ.
"This is HQ," the operator's voice crackled through the line.
"HQ, we've got an incident with an infected person. Possible connection to the laughing infection, level unknown…" Ivan's voice was steady, but his mind was racing as he tried to piece together what had just happened.
But before he could finish his report, the operator's voice shifted, taking on a strange, almost gleeful tone.
"Infected? Hahaha, that's great... just great…"
Ivan's heart skipped a beat. "HQ? What's going on…"
The laughter on the other end grew louder, more deranged. "HQ isn't needed anymore. Welcome to Radio Nothingness."
The operator's voice dissolved into hysterical laughter, joined by the chilling sound of others laughing maniacally in the background.
But it wasn't just coming from his earpiece.
Ivan stepped out onto the street, just in time to see a truck barreling towards him, its engine roaring like a beast. He jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being crushed as the truck crashed into the tobacco shop with a deafening impact. The front of the vehicle smashed through the wall, embedding itself halfway inside. The driver, covered in blood, lay slumped over the steering wheel, laughing uncontrollably, his face twisted into a grotesque grin.
And then the people began to gather.
They came from all directions, a growing crowd of men, women, the elderly, and even children, all with the same horrifying expression—wide, feral smiles plastered across their faces as they laughed, the sound high-pitched and unhinged. They moved toward Ivan, forming a circle around him, their laughter growing louder, more frenzied.
Ivan's instincts kicked in. He lashed out, his fists flying as he knocked down one of the attackers with a solid punch. Another fell to the ground, clutching a broken nose. But more kept coming. They surged forward, overwhelming him with their numbers.
Someone grabbed him from behind, their grip like a vice on his arm. Ivan swung around, landing a punch to the person's face, but the blow wasn't enough to make them let go. The person, now missing a front tooth, just grinned at him, blood dripping from their mouth as they tightened their grip. Two more people jumped on him, pinning his other arm.
He was quickly overpowered, the crowd pressing in on him from all sides. The laughter was deafening, a wall of sound that seemed to close in around him, suffocating him. It was like being pulled under by a powerful current, dragged down into a sea of madness where nothing made sense anymore. Everything went black, the world fading away, leaving only the echo of that terrible laughter...
Then, with a jolt, he woke up.
The horrific scene was gone, vanished like smoke in the wind. It had been a nightmare—a vivid, terrifying nightmare. But as he blinked awake,he realized that waking up hadn't brought him any relief. The oppressive atmosphere lingered, and the sense of dread from the dream seemed to have followed him into reality. He was no longer in his bedroom, nor was he surrounded by familiar surroundings. Instead, he found himself in a dingy, dimly lit room that exuded a sense of malevolence.
The room was small and claustrophobic, with walls that seemed to close in on him. An old, flickering incandescent light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow glow that barely reached the far corners of the room. Shadows clung to the edges, dark and thick, as if hiding something sinister just out of sight. The air was heavy with the smell of dampness and decay, a combination that made his skin crawl.
Ivan's heart pounded in his chest as he took in his surroundings, trying to piece together how he had ended up here. His memory was still fragmented, but he slowly began to recall the events leading up to this moment.
He had been at the Service Division's base, summoned there for questioning. An agent had shown him footage from the surveillance cameras of the FBI's Fourth Precinct. The video had captured his face the night before—at a location tied to an old alias he had long since abandoned. The agency wanted answers: why he had been there, what he had seen. It was clear they didn't trust him, and he suspected they were preparing to subject him to a psychiatric evaluation.
But before things could escalate, he had managed to escape. He had shaken off his pursuers, relying on his instincts and training, only to be ambushed…
He winced as a sharp pain lanced through his skull, a remnant of whatever had been done to him during the ambush. He felt groggy, his thoughts still slightly muddled. It was as if the nightmare he had just experienced had left a lingering fog in his mind.
A noise from the shadows snapped him out of his reverie. He wasn't alone.
"Ha~ You're awake."
The voice was low and mocking, dripping with a kind of twisted amusement. Ivan tensed, his eyes darting toward the source of the voice, though it was difficult to see anything clearly in the dim light.
"I'm sorry I couldn't make this meeting more comfortable," the voice continued, oozing with false sincerity. "But how should I put it? I'm a big fan."
The voice was coming from the darkest corner of the room, where the light didn't reach. Ivan strained his eyes, trying to make out a figure, but the shadows were too deep. The speaker remained hidden, their presence a malevolent weight pressing down on Ivan's already frayed nerves.
"And I'm sure you feel the same way. I know you must be thrilled to finally meet me face to face, considering how special I am to you."
There was something unnerving about the way the man spoke, a blend of condescension and familiarity that set Ivan on edge. He shifted slightly, testing the bonds on his wrists and ankles. They were tight, cutting into his skin. Whoever had tied him up knew what they were doing.
Despite the situation, Ivan managed a sneer. "I've met plenty of people like you. You all think you're special," he spat, his voice laced with disdain. "But in the end, you're all the same—just delusional lunatics."
The man in the shadows chuckled, the sound grating against Ivan's nerves. "Haha, very funny. I can tell you mean that from the bottom of your heart," the man said, his tone playful yet sinister. "But when you say 'delusional lunatic,' I bet you're putting yourself in that category too, aren't you?"
There was a pause, a silence that stretched uncomfortably long. Ivan felt the man's eyes on him, piercing through the darkness, watching him with a predatory intensity.
"That dream you had—a world of laughing, joking people—don't you want to know how it ends?"
Ivan's breath caught in his throat. His heart skipped a beat, a cold chill running down his spine. How did this man know about his dream? The one that had felt so real, so visceral? Ivan hadn't spoken of it to anyone—it had been a private hell, something he was glad to have left behind. And yet, this stranger knew.
"You're wondering how I know about your dreams," the man continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if sharing a secret. "Haha, the answer is simple, really. Because, as I said, I'm so special to you."
The man stepped out of the shadows and into the weak light, revealing his face.
Ivan's blood ran cold, and his body went rigid with shock.
Standing before him, illuminated by the sickly yellow glow of the overhead bulb, was a face he knew all too well—his own. It was as if he were looking into a mirror, but the reflection was wrong, twisted in a way that sent a wave of nausea through him.
This other version of himself wore a malevolent grin, his eyes glinting with a mixture of madness and sadistic glee. His features were the same as Ivan's, yet there was something deeply unsettling about them. The eyes were too wide, the smile too sharp, as if someone had taken Ivan's face and warped it into a grotesque mask.
Ivan's mind struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. This wasn't possible. It couldn't be real.
"Surprised?" the doppelgänger asked, tilting his head slightly as he observed Ivan's reaction. "You shouldn't be. After all, who knows you better than you know yourself?"
The laugh that followed was cold and hollow, echoing off the walls of the small room. Ivan could feel the sound vibrating in his chest, reverberating through his very bones.
The doppelgänger took a step closer, leaning down so that his face was just inches from Ivan's. The air between them felt thick and oppressive as if the very atmosphere were suffocating him.
---
If you're enjoying the story and want to see more chapters
- 50 Power Stones = 1 Extra Chapter
- 100 Power Stones = 2 Extra Chapters
- Anything above 100 = 3 Extra Chapters
If you'd like to support my work even further and get early access to chapters, please check out my Patron at Patr_eon.com/OneSword (remove the underscore). Currently, I am thirty-plus chapters ahead on Patron.
Free Members can read up to 5 chapters in advance.
Thank you, and Sword out!