Micheal was dragged through the dim, narrow hallway, his feet scraping against the rough stone floor. The walls on either side flickered with the faint, unsteady light of torches, their flames casting ominous shadows. The air was thick with dampness, each breath heavy in his chest. His thoughts spiraled in chaos, unable to piece together his surroundings as the events of the arena replayed in fragments—Evander's rage, CORE's mocking smirk, and the searing pain that left him broken.
The guards marched with purpose, their iron grips digging into Micheal's arms, forcing him forward. Time seemed to stretch endlessly until, after what felt like hours but was only minutes, they came to an abrupt stop. Micheal's gaze lifted, and the sight before him made his breath catch.
At the end of the hallway stood a cold steel chair, illuminated by the faint glow of a single torch above it. Frost clung to the surface of the chair, the chill radiating outward. The air around it was bitter, stinging his exposed skin as if the cold itself were alive, creeping into his bones. A layer of frost had formed on the floor beneath it, tiny shards of ice reflecting the torchlight in cruel glints.
The temperature dropped sharply as they approached, the guards visibly shivering as thin scallops of ice began to form on their armor and Micheal's torn, bloodied clothes. His breath fogged in front of him, each exhale a visible reminder of the freezing air.
Without a word, the guards forced him into the steel chair. The icy metal bit into his skin, the sensation sharp and agonizing as though he were being pierced by thousands of needles. His muscles tensed involuntarily, but the guards worked with mechanical precision, fastening heavy iron chains around his wrists, ankles, and chest. The shackles were ice-cold, their touch burning as they bit into his already bruised flesh.
Finally, they locked a rigid steel band around his head, pinning it against the chair's backrest. The unyielding pressure made it impossible to move, let alone speak. His jaw ached under the restraint, and the coldness of the metal seeped into his skull, numbing his thoughts further.
The hallway grew deathly silent save for the faint sound of frost cracking against the chair. Micheal's heart thundered in his chest, his breath shallow and uneven. The cold wasn't just physical—it was suffocating.
The faint, rhythmic echo of footsteps filled the hallway, each one sharp and deliberate, slicing through the suffocating silence. With every step, the air seemed to grow heavier, the chill more piercing, as though the cold itself were responding to the presence approaching. Micheal's breath hitched as a shadow emerged at the edge of the flickering torchlight, stretching across the frozen ground.
He didn't need to see the figure to know who it was. CORE stepped into view, his silhouette splitting the shadows like a blade, his presence radiating a palpable sense of power and dread. It wasn't just his figure that commanded attention; it was the sheer weight of his aura—an oppressive, almost suffocating force that pressed down on Micheal.
"Hello, MR1," CORE said, his voice smooth yet sharp, a tone that could cut through even the coldest peak. It wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be—the weight of his words was enough to freeze Micheal's blood.
Micheal strained against his restraints, his anger simmering just below the surface. His muscles tensed, his teeth clenched, but the chains held him firm. He wanted to lash out, but all he could do was glare, his breath fogging in the icy air.
CORE tilted his head slightly, as if he studying him. Then, with a sigh, he leaned back slightly, his tone shifting to something almost conversational, though no less unsettling. "Where do I even begin… Oh, MR1. Science—it's remarkable, don't you think?" His words hung in the air, deliberately slow, as if he were savoring the moment.
Micheal remained silent, his jaw tight, refusing to dignify the question with a response. CORE's lips curled into a faint smirk, the kind that carried both amusement and menace. He waited for a beat, as though expecting an answer, before continuing.
"You were selected—chosen, just hours ago. And now… look at you. Hated. Cast aside. It's fascinating, isn't it? How quickly people can turn on you? How fickle loyalty really is?" CORE sighed again, his expression darkening. "It must sting. That realization. The bitterness of it all."
Micheal's struggling slowed, his anger momentarily eclipsed by curiosity. He didn't want to listen, but something about CORE's words—his measured tone, his cryptic statements—compelled him to.
CORE took a step closer, his boots crunching against the frosted ground, his shadow looming over Micheal. "I imagine you must feel cursed. Unlucky, even. To be honest…" He paused, his smirk deepening, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You still are."
The words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting, as if they carried the weight of some terrible truth.
"Hey, Micheal," CORE's voice broke through the icy silence, his tone layered, enigmatic—both curious and menacing. The air shifted with his words, as though even the cold obeyed his presence. The chill seemed to creep deeper into Micheal's skin, gnawing at him from within. "What do you think happens after death?"
The question lingered for about two seconds, heavy and unsettling, like a stone dropped into a pond.
Suddenly, the steel chair beneath him jolted violently. Micheal's body jerked against the restraints as the chair began to shake uncontrollably, the sound of grinding metal and sparking wires filling the air.
"What—what the hell is—" Micheal managed to choke out, but his words were cut short by the blinding burst of electric energy that erupted around him.
The air crackled and hissed as bolts of electricity arced across his body, searing his senses. The world seemed to fold in on itself, the sharp metallic smell of ozone overwhelming him as the chair shuddered one last time. And then—
BOOM.
An explosion, deafening and absolute, ripped through the air. Everything vanished into blackness.
For a moment, there was nothing. No sound, no sight, no sensation. Just an endless void, cold and unfeeling.
Micheal opened his eyes to find himself lying on warm, golden sand. The gritty texture pressed against his bare skin, and he blinked rapidly, shielding his eyes from the glaring sun above. He was naked, his body exposed to everything, but instead of the icy chill he'd grown accustomed to, the warmth of the sun caressed him gently.
The scene around him was surreal. The sky stretched endlessly, a flawless blue expanse dotted with soft, white clouds. Waves lapped gently against the shore, their rhythmic sound soothing, almost hypnotic. A cool breeze whispered across his skin, carrying the salty tang of the ocean and the faint chirping of birds overhead.
Micheal sat up slowly, his body aching but his mind racing. He turned his hands over, staring at them as if to confirm they were real. "What… What is this?" he muttered, his voice hoarse.
He staggered to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him as he took in the sight before him. The vast ocean stretched out on one side, endless and calm. But when he turned around, his breath caught.
A city.
Towering structures of glass and steel reached toward the sky, their designs sleek and futuristic, unlike anything Micheal had ever seen before. The city hummed with life, faint sounds of activity drifting toward him on the breeze.
Confusion gnawed at him, and his heart pounded in his chest. What was this place? How had he gotten here? Was this some sort of illusion, a cruel trick orchestrated by CORE?
He took a hesitant step toward the city, his bare feet sinking into the warm sand. Then another, and another. The questions churned in his mind, but one thought rose above the rest, clear and unrelenting.
He had to find out what this place was. He had to know if this was real—or if this was the afterlife CORE had hinted at.
With every step, the shoreline behind him grew smaller, the city looming larger in its place.
Micheal trudged toward the city, the golden sand giving way to smooth stone as he stepped onto a paved path. The warm breeze still whispered past him, but it carried a new weight—the faint hum of distant vehicles, muffled chatter, and the clinking of glass.
As he approached the towering skyline, the perfect serenity of the shore began to shift. The streets were bustling, alive with people, all moving with purpose. Their clothing was strange—sleek, futuristic fabrics that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Some wore devices on their wrists, others had glowing visors over their eyes. They passed Micheal without a second glance at first, their expressions neutral and focused.
But then, the stares began.
Micheal's tattered, raw presence stood in stark contrast to the polished world around him. He caught the wary glances from strangers, their eyes darting to his bare, sunburnt shoulders, his dirt-smeared face, and the raw confusion etched into his features. Some whispered to one another as he passed; others merely stepped aside like he carried some contagious disease.
"Hey!" Micheal called out to a woman hurrying past. She flinched, quickening her pace and disappearing into the crowd.
"Can someone—" he tried again, his voice breaking, but no one stopped. His stomach churned as he stumbled forward, aimless and desperate.
Eventually, Micheal's eyes landed on a bar tucked into the corner of a bustling square. Its exterior was aged, almost out of place amidst the sleek architecture surrounding it. A faded wooden sign above the door read The Iron Flask. The muffled sound of laughter and clinking glasses seeped through the cracks in the doorframe.
With no other options, Micheal pushed the door open.
The bar was dimly lit, a sharp contrast to the brightness outside. Patrons sat scattered around, some nursing drinks while others chatted in low voices. The room smelled of strong ale, worn leather, and something faintly metallic.
The bartender, a stocky man with a graying beard and a cybernetic eye, looked up from polishing a glass. His gaze settled on Micheal, and his brow furrowed. "What the hell happened to you?"
"I… I need help," Micheal stammered, his throat dry. "I don't have clothes. I don't know where I am, or what's going on."
The bartender let out a gruff sigh, setting the glass down. "Well, you can't walk around looking like that. Scaring off my customers." He gestured to the back of the bar. "Spare clothes in the storeroom. They ain't fancy, but they'll cover you up. Go on."
Micheal hesitated, relief washing over him. "Thank you," he murmured, heading toward the storeroom.
The clothes were a simple—a plain gray shirt and dark, durable pants—but they fit well enough. When Micheal emerged, the bartender slid a glass of water across the counter. "You look half-dead. Drink."
Micheal didn't argue, gulping the water down. As he set the glass down, his eyes caught something pinned to the wall behind the bar—a calendar.
He squinted at it, his heart skipping a beat. June 11th, 5237.
The glass slipped from Micheal's hand, shattering on the floor.
The bartender raised an eyebrow. "You alright, kid?"
Micheal's mind reeled. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears. 5237? That's… century's from the last date I remember. How is this possible?
His hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the counter for support. The bartender frowned, leaning forward. "Hey, what's the matter with you? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Micheal didn't answer. He stumbled toward the exit, the weight of the discovery pressing down on him. The bar door swung shut behind him as he stepped into the bustling street, the futuristic city sprawling out before him.
He didn't know how, or why—but somehow, Micheal was no longer in his own time.