In the dim stillness of his room, Wan sat at his desk, his mind numb, his body moving as if by some external force. Everything felt distant—the clutter on his desk, the quiet hum of his computer, the occasional sounds of life drifting in from the street outside. He barely registered any of it. His hands moved with mechanical precision, setting aside his notebook, his phone, and a worn-out sketch of something monstrous he had drawn weeks ago.
Before him lay a razor blade. It caught the dim light, glinting softly, waiting. Wan stared at it, the jagged weight of the decision pressing down on him like a stone. He had imagined this moment countless times, but now that it was here, he felt strangely calm. There were no tears, no last-minute doubts. Just a bone-deep exhaustion—a quiet certainty that this was the only way out.
He picked up the blade and held it to his wrist. A long breath, in and out. The cold metal pressed into his skin, thin and sharp. There was no ceremony, no second guessing. Just a quick, deliberate cut. Then another.
The pain was sharp and immediate, but the relief that followed was deeper—like he had been carrying a weight all his life that was finally slipping away. Blood welled up, hot and vibrant, cascading down his arm in rivulets. It pooled on the desk, dark and glistening. Wan watched it in silence, mesmerized by how alive it looked. The irony wasn't lost on him.
He slumped forward, head resting on the desk, his vision already beginning to blur. His pulse slowed, each beat becoming weaker, fainter, like footsteps walking away from him into the distance. The world tilted. His limbs grew cold.
This is it, he thought. Finally.
He expected nothingness—a soft, eternal darkness where he could dissolve into oblivion. But the moment the last flicker of consciousness faded, a sharp, jarring pain ripped through him, dragging him somewhere else.
He wasn't gone. He wasn't free.
Instead, he was falling.
The world around him collapsed into a swirling void, a nightmare of jagged colors and crushing darkness. It felt like being torn apart and reassembled all at once, as if every part of him—body, mind, soul—was being stretched and twisted beyond recognition. Then came the voice.
At first, it was a low rumble, like distant thunder, vibrating deep in the marrow of his bones. Then it grew louder, clearer—a voice that was neither man nor woman, neither kind nor cruel. It was ancient and immense, filling the void around him with cold authority.
"WAN."
His name echoed through the darkness, each syllable reverberating inside his skull like a hammer. The sound rooted him in place, holding him together even as the void tried to pull him apart.
Suddenly, there was light—blinding, searing light that burned into his eyes and made him cry out. From the brilliance, a figure emerged. It wasn't human. It was vast, impossible to comprehend, both radiant and shadowed at once. Its form shifted constantly, flickering between shapes—like the reflection of a god shattered into a million pieces, all moving in discord.
Wan knew, in the deepest part of himself, that this was not the kind of God who forgave. This was the architect of existence itself—a being that held no warmth, no mercy.
The Architect loomed over him, its presence so overwhelming that Wan felt as if he might disintegrate under the weight of it. His entire soul lay bare before the being, every shameful act, every cruel thought exposed like an open wound.
"You threw away the gift I gave you," the Architect said, the words cutting like jagged glass. "You discarded your life as if it were nothing."
The fury in the being's voice was not human anger. It was something colder—an absolute, inescapable disappointment. Wan tried to speak, to defend himself, but no words came. It was as if the Architect's gaze stripped him of everything, leaving him hollow and powerless.
"Did you believe you could escape your suffering?" the Architect asked, its voice low and deliberate. "You are wrong. There is no escape."
The light surrounding the being twisted and warped, flickering into grotesque shapes—images pulled from the depths of Wan's own mind. He saw shadows forming into the bodies of kittens he had once held in his hands, only to harm them. He saw faces—his parents, his classmates—blurred and distorted, their mouths twisted into sneers and jeers. He saw every fear, every regret, every moment of his life he had tried to bury.
"You are not finished," the Architect said. "You will not find peace. Not yet."
Wan's pulse quickened. "What do you want from me?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
"You will face the monsters you created," the Architect replied. "Every night, you will descend into the depths of the hell inside your mind. And every morning, you will wake—broken, but alive. You will wake again, and again, and again, until you understand what you truly are."
The being's presence pressed closer, suffocating in its enormity. "Survive the darkness," the Architect whispered. "Or be consumed by it. There are no other paths."
Wan felt something shift—a terrible, final understanding sinking into his bones. The darkness he had embraced, the monsters he had fed with every cruel thought and action, were waiting for him. And they would come every night. There would be no peace. Not until he passed through every level of torment.
"Or fail," the Architect added, its voice softer now, almost amused. "And fall into the void forever."
Then everything shattered.
Wan's eyes flew open, and he gasped, his lungs burning as if he had been underwater for hours. He lay sprawled on the cold floor of his room, heart racing, his mind struggling to catch up with reality.
He was back. In the same room. The same desk. The same life.
He scrambled to sit up, grabbing his wrists and expecting to find them torn and bloody. But his skin was smooth, unmarked. There was no blood on the desk, no razor in sight. The evidence of what he had done—of what he knew he had done—was gone.
His heart pounded violently in his chest, the memory of death still raw and sharp in his mind. He had felt it—he had died. But now he was here, alive, as if nothing had happened.
And yet... everything had changed.
Wan staggered to his feet, his body trembling, the weight of what the Architect had said settling over him like a curse. Every night, the nightmares would come. Every morning, he would wake—again and again, until he passed through all the horrors waiting for him in his mind.
He glanced at the clock. It was early evening—barely 7:00 PM. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across his room.
Wan's stomach twisted with dread.
Soon, it would be night. And when he closed his eyes, the first level of hell would begin.