Wan first felt the weight—thick and oppressive- as if the night had wrapped around him and refused to let go. His breath came in ragged gasps, his skin slick with sweat. It clung to his clothes, his sheets, even his hair, as though his body had been submerged in a feverish nightmare.
He lay perfectly still for a moment, blinking against the dim morning light seeping through the gaps in his curtains. His heart pounded against his ribcage, wild and desperate, as if trying to convince him he was alive. But the memory of his death hung over him, sharp and clear: the razor's slice, the pooling blood, the sudden void.
And then… the voice.
The Architect. The memory hit him with the force of a hammer—those cold, terrible words. "You belong to me now. Each night, you will descend into hell."
His mouth went dry. No, it wasn't real. It couldn't have been real. It had to be some kind of mental breakdown, just another mind game his exhausted brain was playing on him. Maybe he had hallucinated everything—the void, the Architect, the blinding light. He rubbed his hands over his face, willing himself to focus on the here and now. I'm awake. It's over.
But the dampness on his skin made him feel dirty, as if something vile had followed him back from that dream. He could still taste the dread in his throat, sharp and acrid.
It wasn't real.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cold floor beneath his feet. His head throbbed, and the room seemed slightly off-kilter, as if reality was still settling into place. He squeezed his eyes shut, took a few deep breaths, and told himself to get a grip.
It was just a dream.
He pressed his hands to his knees, grounding himself—but the moment his gaze dropped to his left hand, his stomach twisted into a knot. There, on the inside of his wrist where the razor had sliced his skin the night before, was something that shouldn't be there.
A tattoo.
Tiny. Small enough to be missed at first glance, but unmistakable. His heart stuttered in his chest as he brought his wrist closer to his face, his mind scrambling to make sense of what he was seeing. It wasn't a random pattern or abstract design. It was… him.
A grotesque, miniature figure of himself was etched into his skin. In the tattoo, Wan knelt in the midst of a nightmarish landscape—twisted shapes and flickering shadows surrounded the tiny figure, their forms vague but unmistakably hostile. His own face, barely the size of a fingernail, wore an expression of abject horror—eyes wide, mouth twisted in silent agony.
It was a scene plucked straight from the heart of hell, captured in grotesque detail. Even the strands of his hair, the folds of his shirt, the anguish in his expression—they were all etched perfectly into the ink.
No. No, no, no.
Wan's breath hitched, and the room tilted dangerously to the left. He pressed his back against the wall, trying to steady himself, but the sight of the tattoo burned into his brain.
This can't be real.
He frantically rubbed at the mark with his thumb, hoping it would smudge or disappear. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe he had somehow drawn it in his sleep. But the more he rubbed, the clearer it became: the ink wasn't going anywhere. It was deep, permanent, stitched into his skin like a brand.
The reality of it crashed over him in waves, leaving him breathless. His mind churned, desperate for some kind of rational explanation, but none came. It was real. The dream—the Architect—it had all been real.
And the tattoo was proof.
His stomach lurched violently.
Wan stumbled toward the edge of the bed, clutching his wrist as if trying to keep the mark from spreading. His chest felt tight, and his throat burned with the sour taste of bile. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, sharp and unforgiving. He barely made it to the small trash can next to his desk before his body convulsed, and he vomited, hard and fast.
Acid burned his throat as he heaved again and again, his entire body shaking from the force of it. His vision blurred with tears, but he didn't stop. The bile came up in ragged bursts, as if his body was trying to purge the truth along with it.
When he was finally empty, he slumped against the side of the bed, panting and exhausted. His fingers trembled as they hovered over the tattoo again, reluctant to touch it but unable to look away.
The figure of him in the tattoo stared back with blank, hollow eyes, trapped forever in that nightmarish landscape. It was a cruel, miniature portrait of his fate—a fate he could no longer deny.
He clenched his teeth, breathing through the nausea that still lingered at the back of his throat. This isn't happening. But the mark was undeniable. He couldn't pretend anymore. He had been marked—claimed.
Every night, he would return to that place.
And it would only get worse.
The thought settled heavily in his gut, a cold, unyielding truth. There would be no escape from this—not in sleep, not in death.
Wan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his heart pounding in his chest like a drumbeat of panic. His eyes drifted back to the tattoo one last time, as if hoping it would somehow vanish if he looked away long enough. But the ink remained, permanent and unrelenting, etched deep into his flesh like a curse.
He wanted to scream, to tear at his skin until the mark disappeared. But there was no point. The Architect's words echoed in his mind, low and terrible.
"You will wake again, and again, and again, until you understand what you truly are."
The nausea returned, but this time he swallowed it down. He sat there for a long time, drenched in sweat and fear, his mind swirling with the implications of what had just happened. Every night. He would have to survive it every night.
His eyes drifted to the clock on his nightstand. The morning sun was creeping higher into the sky, but it offered no comfort. It was just a reminder of the hours that stretched ahead—each one dragging him closer to nightfall.
Closer to hell.
Wan leaned back against the wall, his pulse slowing but the dread growing heavier with every passing second. There was nothing he could do. When the sun went down, he knew what awaited him.
He stared at the tattoo on his wrist, his face pale and gaunt.
This is real.
And the worst part?
It's only the beginning.