He had gone to bed with a heavy heart. A sickly feeling settled deep in his chest, weighing him down as if the emotions of a thousand painful moments were rushing back at once—emotions he couldn't place, ones he had no idea he'd ever experienced. He muttered to himself, I just got to this world and already so much is being dumped on me. Why do I feel these things?
It was as if the evidence of his existence here extended beyond what his memory could recall. A troubling thought took root in his mind. Amnesia? No, that was too cliche, too convenient of an explanation. Then what?
Perhaps something deeper was at play. He wondered if his consciousness had simply swapped places with another—if there had been someone, or something else, living in this body before him. His mind wrestled with a chilling possibility: What if I only gained free will when the master of this house, that giant animal monster, decided to let me have it? His chest tightened at the thought. Had this body been living on animal instinct the entire time? The idea sent a cold shiver down his spine.
The notion of being trapped in such a hollow existence made him feel sick. A body, once soulless, only living to obey commands without ever questioning them. No autonomy. No rebellion. Just a dog, too happy to serve.
He gazed at the photos he'd taken from the bedroom earlier, turning them over in his hands. The eyes in the images—they weren't his eyes, but they felt familiar. Anger, bitterness, sadness, all buried beneath a mask. That same hollow, plastic smile stretched across a face like a designer mannequin. He shut his eyes hard, trying to block out the vision. I don't want to be here. I want to go home.
He clutched his blanket tighter and fell into an uneasy sleep.
Late in the night, the distant sound of music echoed through the halls. It was grand, regal even. The melody carried an air of prestige and unfathomable luxury. The strings hummed with an almost ethereal grace, each note perfectly crafted, as if the music itself was a living testament to the power and wealth of those who played it.
But beneath that elegant melody, there was something unsettling. An underlying dread crept in with every drumbeat, as if the rhythm mocked the defeated. Victory, but not a joyous one. A sinister celebration of conquest.
He opened his eyes, blinking in the darkness of his room, feeling disoriented. And then, he heard it. Muffled crying, faint at first, but growing louder and louder. It was coming from the room next to his. His heart pounded in his chest as the cries intensified, turning into wailing. It was a sound unlike any other—pure, unfiltered agony. The suffering in those cries was palpable, as if the person behind them was enduring unimaginable pain.
Each breath they took seemed to be a struggle, each wail an expression of torment beyond words. He pressed his hands to his ears, trying to block out the sound, but it seeped through, invading his mind, his very soul. It was inescapable. And the music? It played on, unbothered by the suffering it accompanied.
He threw off his blanket and stumbled out of bed, the cold of the floor biting into his feet. The door next to his—the one that had been locked before—was now ajar. The crying, the rumbling, the muffled voices, all came from inside. He pressed his hand against the door. It was unnaturally cold.
His breath hitched as he reached for the knob, bracing himself for whatever was on the other side. Slowly, he pushed it open.
Nothing. The room was completely empty. Cold, barren, with a faint smell of rotting wood and moths hanging in the air. He blinked, confused. The sounds had been so real, so visceral, and yet... there was nothing here.
He closed the door behind him and turned back toward the hallway. The sound of crying was still there, but it had moved. Further down the hall, toward the ballroom. He followed it, drawn by a mixture of fear and curiosity. He had to know what was happening in this house.
The grand doors of the ballroom stood before him, their edges glowing faintly with the light from within. He could hear the chatter, the laughter, the clinking of glasses. It was as if the ballroom was alive with people—a party in full swing.
He hesitated at the door, his hand hovering over the handle. The smell of food, alcohol, and flowers wafted from beneath the doors. The scent was intoxicating, laced with the aroma of something ancient, something timeless. He reached out, touching one of the flowers in a vase beside the door. It withered at his touch, crumbling into dust.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.
The sight before him was not what he had expected. The once grand and majestic ballroom was in ruins. Tables overturned, chairs broken, decorations shattered on the floor. The lavishness of the space was tainted by the destruction that had befallen it. But in the center of the room, there was something that caught his eye.
A mask. A simple party mask, lying on the ground, its eyes and mouth glowing faintly, as if reflecting some distant light. He approached it slowly, each step weighed down by a growing sense of dread. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, to leave, but he couldn't. He was too far down this path to stop now.
He crouched down, carefully picking up the mask. It felt wrong, like a vortex of negative energy swirling around it, but against his better judgment, he flipped it over, gazing into its hollow eyes.
And there it was. A party. He could see it reflected in the mask's eyes—a grand ball, filled with elegant, beautiful animals. The same music, now louder, clearer, filled the space around him. The chatter, the laughter, the dancing—it was all there, alive in the reflection.
This can't be real, he thought. But he couldn't help himself. He lifted the mask to his face.
The ballroom came to life. He was no longer in the ruins of the once-great hall; he was in the middle of a grand celebration. The music swelled around him, strings and drums, filling the air with a rich, haunting melody. The grandeur of it all was overwhelming. Everything was pristine, polished to perfection. The floor gleamed under the chandeliers, which sparkled with an otherworldly light.
The guests... they were something else entirely. Animals, some he recognized and others he didn't, filled the room. Each one was impossibly beautiful, their fur coats, feathers, and scales shimmering under the light. Their bodies, graceful and powerful, moved with a nobility that seemed almost unnatural. They were perfect—too perfect. Their beauty was almost predatory, their elegance masking a primal, dangerous aura.
He couldn't look away. It was as if he had been thrust into a world beyond his own, where the rules of nature had been rewritten. These creatures weren't just animals; they were something more, something ancient and powerful, like apex predators who had evolved beyond their primal instincts but still carried the raw, untamed energy of the wild within them.
And then, at the center of it all, he saw her.
The Smilodon girl. She stood at the heart of the celebration, dressed in a beautiful gown that flowed like water around her. Her fur was soft, patchy in places, as if someone had painted her with delicate, deliberate strokes. Her mane, long and adorned with gold and flowers, crowned her head like a queen.
It was her birthday—a grand celebration for her fiftieth, though she looked no older than a teenager. Do animals age differently here? he wondered. Had they found a way to extend their lives, like humans had in their world?
She turned to look at him, her eyes locking with his. He froze. Time seemed to slow down as she stepped toward him, the crowd parting to let her through. He saw the master of the house, her father, standing nearby, watching with a cold, approving smile.
"He's all yours now, daughter," the master said, his voice booming through the ballroom. "Your very own human. You may claim him."
She approached him slowly, her smile widening, revealing her sharp, deadly teeth. His heart pounded in his chest. Fear, dread, horror—they all washed over him in waves. He wanted to run, to scream, but his body refused to move.
She leaned in close, her breath warm against his neck. And then, gently, she bit him. It wasn't hard, not enough to draw blood, but it was enough to leave a mark. A burning sensation spread from the bite, searing into his skin like a brand.
The master smiled, clapping his hands together. "Congratulations. He's marked. He's yours now, until the day you die."
The Smilodon girl beamed with glee, but he felt nothing but despair. Tears welled up in his eyes as the reality of his situation sank in. His life, his humanity—it had been stripped away from him in an instant. He was no longer his own person. He was a possession, a toy, a pet.
And there was no escape.
and then. He woke up. and the nightmare was over. at least... For the old me, it was.