The sun cast its pale light into a small room, but instead of warmth, it brought a chilling breeze—winter had arrived. The room was as disordered as you'd expect from someone who never cared to tidy up. Clothes were strewn about in a strange yet familiar pattern, making the room feel even barer, furnished only with a bed, a wardrobe, and a single dim light source. This was Oliver's room. Decoration wasn't his thing—he preferred simplicity. In fact, if he hadn't needed a place to store clean clothes, he wouldn't have bothered with a wardrobe at all.

Oliver stirred awake as a thin beam of light slipped through the gaps in his curtain, the only item he'd ever splurged on. Groggy but content, he got up to start his day. While most people dreaded winter's chill, Oliver embraced it. The long nights, the crisp air—it all gave him a strange sense of joy. After savoring the morning cold for a while, he headed to the bathroom to freshen up. A hot shower later, he returned to his room and threw on the first clothes he could find—no concern for fashion, just function.

Ready, or so he thought, Oliver left his room to face whatever the day had in store. But as he made his way downstairs, he ran into his mother. She stood at 5'7", her stature small compared to Oliver's six-foot frame. Her body was slightly chubby, and strands of grey hair ran through her head, but none of that diminished her beauty. It was a different kind of beauty now—a warm, aging grace mixed with a motherly air that time alone could bring. She looked at Oliver with tired eyes, sizing up his outfit.

"You're not going out like that, are you?" she asked, more of a directive than a question.

Oliver glanced down. A black top and some joggers, nothing special. He didn't think much of it.

"What's wrong with how I'm dressed?" he asked, genuinely confused.

His mother sighed, holding back her urge to roll her eyes. "What's wrong with how you're dressed?" she repeated, this time barely masking her frustration. "Where do I even begin? That shirt looks like it should've been burned ages ago, no one needs to see those joggers, and worst of all, where's your hoodie? It's freezing outside!"

"Oh, okay," Oliver shrugged. "You could've just told me to change."

His mother sighed again, defeated by his casual obliviousness. "I did…"

It took three wardrobe changes and finally, a trip to his room where she handpicked the clothes herself, but eventually, Oliver was dressed—decently enough to pass his mother's inspection. Oliver stepped outside, the chilling wind instantly greeting him, and he silently thanked his mother for insisting on the extra layers. He pulled his hoodie tighter, battling the cold as if it were a worthy opponent. After a brisk walk, he finally reached his workplace—"Dev," the tech firm where he worked.

"Hey, dude!" a voice called out the moment Oliver stepped in.

"Hey, my man," Oliver responded, shaking the outstretched hand of his friend and colleague, Ethan.

Ethan was the kind of guy who knew everyone. Outgoing, quick with a joke, and always the social heart of the office. Oliver, on the other hand, was more low-key, a self-proclaimed "code junkie." He'd been working at Dev for only two months, but his skill with programming had already earned him a reputation as a keyboard wizard.

"You look sharp today," Ethan teased, glancing at Oliver's outfit. "So I'm guessing your mom picked your clothes?"

"How could you tell?" Oliver asked, smirking.

"Bro, everyone can tell," Ethan replied, laughing.

The two of them continued chatting, exchanging casual banter as they made their way into the office. The workspace was nothing fancy—just the typical open-plan setup with rows of desks, monitors, and the constant hum of computers. But to Oliver, this place was a playground. Here, he could lose himself in the code, and that was all that mattered.

After chatting with Ethan, Oliver returned to his desk. He had finished his assigned tasks for the day, so he turned to his personal project, "Eternity." It was a cryptic code he'd stumbled upon a decade ago, a puzzle that had fueled his passion for coding. After years of debugging, tweaking, and sleepless nights, he was finally about to see it run cleanly for the first time.

"Please work," Oliver muttered under his breath, cracking his knuckles as he hit Run.

The screen lit up with a progress bar. 1%, 5%, 20%, 50%—his heart pounded with each increment. At 90%, he leaned in, holding his breath. The bar jumped to 99%. This was it. His years of frustration and hope culminated in this single moment.

100%.

A rush of elation surged through him. "Yes!" Oliver yelled, his dream of cracking the mystery finally realized. But his joy was short-lived. The lights flickered, and the air in the office shifted, growing thick and unnervingly cold. A low rumble shook the ground.

The sky outside darkened unnaturally. Thunder growled, but there were no clouds. Then, the voice came—a deep, resonating sound that wasn't confined to the office. It echoed from everywhere, yet nowhere, as though the air itself was speaking. The words were foreign, yet every soul could understand them.

"The gates have opened. The chains are unshackled. Prepare, mortals, for this is your dusk."

Fear spread through the office like wildfire. People looked around, eyes wide, whispering, shouting, trying to make sense of the impossible. Panic crept into their voices.

"Did anyone hear that?" a man nearby stammered.

"What the hell is happening?" another cried.

"It's a prank, right? This has to be some sick joke!" a woman shrieked.

But Oliver wasn't listening. His body seized in overwhelming pain, unlike anything he had ever felt. His muscles tensed, his veins felt like they were on fire, and something deep within him, something more essential than flesh or bone, was burning. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air.

Then, a whisper brushed against his mind—cold and sharp, like a knife made of shadows.

"As the mortal who opened the gate, you bear the Mark of Dusk."

The pain receded, leaving him trembling, but the voice's words lingered. The Mark of Dusk? What did it mean? Why him? He clutched his chest, not feeling any physical mark, but deep down, he knew it wasn't on his skin. It was etched somewhere far more profound—his soul.

The office erupted in chaos around him. A scream pierced the air, jerking Oliver from his daze.

"Monsters!" a woman shrieked, pointing at the far corner of the room.

Oliver's eyes followed her trembling finger, and his blood turned to ice. Creatures—short, green-skinned, with long, pointed ears and jagged teeth—emerged from the shadows. Their eyes gleamed with hunger, and their laughter was guttural, primal. Goblins. They looked like something ripped from the pages of fantasy books, but they were all too real.

The first victim was a heavyset man who couldn't run fast enough. The goblins pounced on him, tearing into his flesh with ruthless efficiency. Blood splattered across the walls as the man's screams were drowned out by the grotesque sound of the creatures feasting.

Panic surged through the crowd. People shoved, scrambled, and clawed at each other, all desperate to escape. Oliver's survival instincts kicked in. Heart hammering, he ran faster than he'd ever thought possible, weaving through the chaos. He had no idea where to go—he just needed to get out.

He spotted the stairwell door ahead. Hope flared in his chest when he saw Ethan holding it open.

"Hold the door!" Oliver shouted as he sprinted toward safety.

But just as he reached the door, Ethan's eyes locked onto his—cold, calculating—and, with a smirk, he slammed the door shut.

For a moment, Oliver's mind went blank. Shock rooted him to the spot. Why? Why would Ethan betray him like this? Were they ever friends? His mind raced, but there was no time to dwell on it.

The goblins were on him.

One of them slammed into his back, knocking him to the ground. The floor rushed up to meet him as the wind was forced from his lungs. Claws raked across his skin, sharp and brutal. He closed his eyes, bracing for the end.

Oliver braced himself for death, closing his eyes as the goblins feasted on his flesh. The agony was unbearable, but after a while, he realized something was wrong—he was still alive. Every nerve in his body screamed in pain, his skin torn, organs exposed. Yet he remained conscious, his heart still beating.

Then, the voice returned, cold and detached:

"The bearer of the Key of Dusk cannot be undone by death."

The words were cryptic, but their meaning was clear—he couldn't die. His body, though ravaged by the goblins, was healing itself, flesh slowly knitting back together. The pain, however, was relentless. It took every ounce of strength he had not to give in to despair. But then, a single thought rose above the anguish:

His mother.

The memory of her face, her voice, her endless concern for him—he couldn't abandon her. Not now, not like this. Gritting his teeth, Oliver forced his trembling body to move. He shoved the goblins off, staggering to his feet, his guts spilling to the ground before slowly retracting back into place.

The goblins watched in disbelief, their hungry eyes turning to confusion. Their meal was still alive—and healing. Oliver, too exhausted to care, locked eyes with them. He no longer felt fear, only the will to survive.

The battle that followed was gruesome beyond words. Each time Oliver was torn apart, his body would heal just enough to keep him going. The goblins, relentless in their hunger, attacked with primal fury, but Oliver fought back with a resolve they couldn't comprehend. By the time it was over, the floor was a sea of blood and mangled bodies—both human and goblin.

Oliver stood victorious, though barely. His own body was reduced to little more than bones and tattered flesh, but he couldn't stop. He wouldn't rest until he found her. His mother needed him.

With the last reserves of his strength, Oliver ran. He ran faster than he ever had, pushing his broken body beyond its limits, driven by a single thought: Find her. Protect her.

He reached his home just as dusk settled, the sky painted with the dying light of the sun. His breath hitched as he saw the door ajar, the ominous silence in the air. He prayed she was safe, that she had hidden like he always told her to in an emergency. But as he stepped inside, a stench hit him—putrid, thick, suffocating.

It was the smell of death. But worse—it was the smell of violation.

No. No, please, no.

The scene before him stopped his heart. His mother, the woman who had cared for him his whole life, was pinned to the floor, her body broken, her clothes torn. Five goblins surrounded her, and they were laughing—a sick, guttural sound as they took turns violating her.

"Get off her!" Oliver's voice cracked with desperation as he charged at them, fury overtaking him.

The leader of the goblins, larger and more menacing than the rest, roared in response. Two of the goblins turned toward Oliver, snarling, ready to kill. But they had no idea what they were up against. Oliver had already survived worse. He had already lost everything.

The first goblin lunged at him, but Oliver sidestepped with ease, grabbing its leg and using it to slam into the second. Both creatures hit the ground hard, knocked unconscious in an instant. If it weren't for his mother's presence, Oliver would have torn them apart right then and there.

He turned his gaze to the remaining goblins, his eyes filled with an unholy resolve. "Run." His voice was low, but it carried the weight of death itself.

The goblins, sensing the shift in power, scrambled away, terrified. Oliver didn't watch them leave. His focus was solely on his mother, lying motionless on the ground.

He knelt beside her, trembling. "Mom..." he whispered, gently lifting her into his arms, her skin cold to the touch.

Her eyes fluttered open, but they were hollow, empty. Broken.

"Kill me," she said, her voice barely a whisper, but the words hit Oliver like a hammer.

"No, no, no, Mom..." He held her tighter, tears streaming down his face. "I can't. Please, don't ask me to do that. Please."

Her body was sticky with blood, sweat, and filth. She didn't respond, only repeated, "Kill me."

Oliver sobbed, shaking his head. He clung to her, begging her to hold on, to fight, but she was gone. Her mind had shattered beyond repair. The woman he loved, who had raised him, was already lost. And no matter how many times he cried out to her, her response was always the same:

"Kill me."

It wasn't until the last light of the sun disappeared beyond the horizon that Oliver finally understood. There was no saving her. Her body was still here, but her soul was gone. She wasn't asking out of fear—she was asking for release.

With trembling hands, he kissed her forehead, whispering his final goodbye.

The blade sank into her chest.

She exhaled a soft, relieved breath, and in her last moments, she smiled—something peaceful, as if death was the mercy she had longed for.

"Thank you," she whispered, her final words hanging in the air as her life slipped away.

Oliver knelt there in the growing darkness, his heart shattered. He had killed the only person he had ever truly loved. The weight of that reality crushed him. The day he should have been there. The day he lost it all. The day he had to kill his mother.