TUCKER'S POV
Tucker followed the man with pink hair, his steps hesitant. Something about him felt… off. A flicker of distrust gnawed at the back of Tucker's mind, but he shrugged it off. There wasn't much else he could do but follow.
The man led him to a steel door. The handle turned with a creak, and as the door swung open, a wave of decay hit Tucker like a punch to the gut. The air inside was thick with the stench of death, and a chill wrapped itself around him, sinking into his bones. Tucker shivered, his muscles suddenly weak as if the room itself drained the strength from his body.
Without a word, the man lifted Tucker and placed him on a cold metal table in the center of the room. The mist was so dense it felt alive, coiling and curling around the edges of the table, obscuring everything but the immediate space around them. Tucker strained his eyes, but it was impossible to see beyond the veil of fog.
The man disappeared into the mist, his form swallowed whole. Moments later, he returned, a faint shadow at first, emerging with a small needle in hand. Tucker didn't have time to react before the sharp prick grazed his skin.
A wave of dizziness hit him, his vision blurring until all he could see was darkness.
When he woke, the room was completely different. The table was gone, replaced by soft grass beneath his hands. The air smelled earthy and fresh, a stark contrast to the suffocating stench from before. The dim light of a single candle flickered in the distance, casting the room in a warm, calming glow.
But he didn't move. Something deep within told him to stay put. He wasn't sure why—just a gut feeling. So he sat there, waiting. Waiting for what, he couldn't say.
6 YEARS AGO
Tucker's childhood was a patchwork of emptiness and survival. His parents were absent, leaving him in the care of his grandparents until he was four. They did their best, but by the time he turned six, Tucker was on his own.
He wasn't like other kids. While they played games or stayed glued to their phones and televisions, Tucker created his own gambling website—an odd pursuit for someone so young, but it worked. Surprisingly, the website was a success, and for a brief moment, he thought he'd found a way to escape the void in his life. But no amount of profit could fill the gaps left by neglect.
Illiteracy set him apart. No one took him seriously, and the ridicule cut deeper than he let on. He bottled everything—his anger, his sadness, his frustration—keeping it locked away where no one could see. To the world, Tucker was "chill," unbothered by the chaos around him
But SOB442 saw it differently. "The day TFR gets mad," he once said, "the world will see hell."
Tucker never believed him.
TUCKER'S POV
Tucker blinked, his senses snapping back to the present. He was back in the misty room, lying on the same metal table. Something felt different, though. The heaviness in his chest was gone, replaced by a strange lightness
The man stood before him, his expression calm as always, though there was a flicker of something unreadable behind his gray eyes. "Come with me," he said, his voice steady.
Tucker slid off the table, landing on shaky legs. He followed the man, his mind swirling with questions he couldn't yet put into words. There was something unsettling about the man—something simmering beneath his calm exterior, like anger held tightly in check
They stepped out of the misty room, the steel door groaning shut behind them, and made their way back to where Shirley was waiting. The man pushed open the door, motioning for Tucker to enter.
Inside, Shirley was sprawled on the floor, snoring softly. Tucker glanced at the man, who stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, before turning his attention to his friend.
"How do you feel?" the man asked.
Tucker's voice cracked, hoarse but alive. "Great!" he exclaimed, a burst of excitement surging through him.
Shirley stirred, rubbing his eyes groggily. He sat up, blinking at the pair in confusion. "Oh… you're back," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
Tucker couldn't contain himself. "Look, Shirley!" he shouted, his words tumbling out in excitement. "I can speak now!"
Before Shirley could fully process what was happening, Tucker tackled him, sending him back to the floor with a laugh.
Shirley froze, staring at Tucker in disbelief. Then, finally, he burst out, "WHAATTT?!"
The room erupted into chaos as the two of them celebrated, shouting and laughing, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of joy. For the first time in what felt like forever, Tucker felt something warm and real—a fleeting moment of connection.
As their celebration continued, the man cleared his throat, halting the excitement. Shirley and Tucker froze and turned their attention to him.
"I'm happy for you both," he said, his voice calm. "But it seems I haven't introduced myself properly."
Shirley raised an eyebrow, intrigued by what the man might say next.
"My name is Michael Rich." The man's eyes briefly flashed to a lighter gray, like a shadow passing over them.
"Cool!" Tucker exclaimed, his excitement bubbling over.
Shirley, however, remained still. A flash of recognition flickered in his eyes. "I swear I've heard that name before…"
The man's lips curled into a smirk. "You read the book, didn't you?" he asked.
Shirley's eyes widened as realization crashed over him
SOMEWHERE ELSE
A man sat in a dark room, his back straight against the chair. His black hair was slicked back, and his eyes—an unusual peach color—held a predatory gleam, with inverted pupils like a cat. A tattoo ran down his arm, spelling out "CHOREEES" in bold, angular letters. His skin, pale and cold, seemed to absorb warmth from the air, and a single touch could freeze you in an instant.
He sat alone in his castle, perched between two distinct regions. Ropes stretched across the divide, connecting the hot west with the paradisiacal east.
A servant hurried into the castle, but the man's sharp hearing caught the sound of footsteps long before the servant reached the door. He descended the stairs quickly, his expression twisted with disdain.
"Idiot," he muttered under his breath. In one fluid motion, he raised his hand, swinging it toward the servant. The servant flinched but was left untouched. For a moment, nothing happened.
But then, with a sickening swish, the servant's head was severed from his shoulders. The man didn't flinch. No remorse, no shock. His cold, calculating gaze remained fixed on the fallen body, as though nothing extraordinary had occurred.