Wan didn't go to school. He barely left his bed.
The morning dragged into afternoon in oppressive silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock on his nightstand. Every second felt like a countdown to something terrible. The mark on his wrist—it shouldn't have been real. But no matter how many times he stared at it, traced the inked outline of his miniature self writhing in a nightmare, it remained burned into his skin, defying explanation.
He pressed the heel of his palm hard into the mark, as if the pressure might smother it out of existence. When that didn't work, his fingers trembled as he grabbed a safety pin from his desk drawer and began digging at it. The metal point scraped against his skin, drawing thin, jagged lines of red.
The tattoo didn't fade.
The panic in Wan's chest swelled, and he pressed harder, scratching and stabbing at the mark until his wrist was a mess of angry, bleeding cuts. Blood welled up, staining the sheets beneath him, but the inked figure remained untouched—perfect, pristine, like it had been branded directly into his soul.
"Come off, damn it," he whispered through clenched teeth, tears of frustration pricking the corners of his eyes. He scraped harder, until his entire wrist was a raw, throbbing wound. "Please, come off—"
It didn't.
He stared at the blood seeping from his skin, a horrible realization settling over him like a shroud: There is no getting rid of it.
Desperation clawed at his mind. He could feel the weight of the Architect's curse pressing down on him, suffocating. If this thing wasn't real, why couldn't he make it stop? Why didn't the pain offer him any release?
In a frenzy, Wan scrambled off the bed and stumbled toward the kitchen. His hands shook as he opened the drawer, yanked out a large knife, and pressed it to the same spot on his wrist where the tattoo lay. If the ink wouldn't come off, maybe he could cut deeper. Maybe he could sever something, stop his pulse, bleed out. Die properly this time.
He gripped the knife harder, his heart thundering in his chest—but the moment the blade touched his skin, the world shifted around him. A sharp, jarring force slammed through him like a bolt of electricity, making his entire body seize. The knife slipped from his hand, clattering uselessly onto the floor.
The pain in his wrist vanished instantly.
When Wan looked down, his skin was smooth, the bleeding gone as if it had never been there. The tattoo remained. Perfect. Untouched.
And then the truth hit him with sickening clarity: He couldn't die. No matter what he did, the curse wouldn't let him escape. Every cut, every wound—reversed. It was irreversible. The Architect's words rang in his ears: "You will wake again, and again, and again." There was no way out, no end, no escape through death.
His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. What have I done? The question echoed in his mind, relentless and unforgiving. What did I do to deserve this?
He stayed like that for hours, slumped on the cold kitchen floor, the weight of his existence pressing down on him like a crushing wave. Every breath felt heavier than the last. When night finally began to fall, the room around him darkened, and his dread grew unbearable.
The shadows in the corners stretched and deepened. His clock ticked steadily toward 10:00 PM.
He didn't want to sleep.
He couldn't sleep.
The hours crawled by, and Wan fought desperately to stay awake. He paced the room. He ran cold water over his face. He slapped himself hard, over and over, until his cheek throbbed. But exhaustion weighed on him, thick and inescapable, settling into his bones like a drug. His eyelids grew heavier with each passing second, his limbs sluggish and unresponsive.
The clock read 11:54 PM.
His head lolled against the edge of the bed, and he bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. The metallic taste filled his mouth, but it didn't stop the sleep that was creeping over him, slow and suffocating. His muscles ached. His brain buzzed with fatigue, foggy and confused.
He tried sitting up—tried forcing his body to move—but it was like trying to swim through quicksand. His arms felt distant, as though they didn't belong to him. Every movement was a struggle. Stay awake. Just stay awake a little longer.
But it was no use.
His vision blurred, the edges darkening. His thoughts slipped away, scattered and disjointed. And then, with a slow, inevitable pull, sleep claimed him.
Hell opened its eyes.
Wan's head jerked up, and he was no longer in his bedroom. The floor beneath him was cracked and jagged, a landscape of blackened stone stretching endlessly in every direction. The air was thick and choking, laced with the scent of ash and decay. Strange shadows writhed at the edges of his vision, their forms shifting and curling like smoke—half-seen shapes of things that did not belong in any sane world.
And then the ground beneath him trembled.
A low hum echoed through the space—familiar, terrible. It was the sound of something ancient and vast awakening, stirring from slumber. The air shimmered, and the shadows gathered into a single shape.
The Architect stepped forward.
Wan froze as the figure materialized before him, shifting between light and darkness, a colossal being whose presence bent the very fabric of reality. It was both beautiful and monstrous, a god and a nightmare woven together.
The Architect's gaze burned into him, and Wan felt the weight of its judgment settle over him once more.
"You thought you could resist," the Architect said, its voice cold and serene, like the whisper of a distant storm. "But there is no resisting the truth of what you are."
Wan's mouth went dry, his limbs trembling with fear. "Please," he whispered. "I don't want this—"
The Architect tilted its head, a smile—or perhaps a grimace—curling at the edges of its form. "This is not about what you want."
It gestured to the landscape around them, a vast, hellish expanse that seemed to stretch on for eternity. "This is what you built. The first level of your hell, born from the darkness within you."
Wan's breath came in shallow gasps. "I didn't—"
"You did," the Architect interrupted, its voice sharp as a blade. "And now, you will live it."
The shadows at the edges of the landscape began to move—figures emerging from the darkness, their forms grotesque and familiar. Wan recognized them instantly.
They were the things he had drawn in his notebooks. The monsters from his sketches, the twisted creatures he had created with his own hands. They slithered and crawled toward him, their mouths wide with hungry grins, their eyes gleaming with malice.
"You thought you could escape them," the Architect murmured. "But your creations never leave you. They only wait."
Wan's pulse thundered in his ears as the creatures closed in, their laughter filling the air—a high, terrible sound that made his skin crawl.
And then, with a final, terrible whisper, the Architect said:
"Welcome to the first level of your hell."