Liang Wenyan sat on the floor of his apartment, his knees pulled to his chest. The rain outside seemed like a distant hum now, eclipsed by the whispers that echoed in his mind. They had grown louder, more distinct. Each word scraped against his sanity, like claws on stone.
His phone sat on the table, its screen dark. The last message still haunted him: "We're coming for you."
Wenyan had tried everything. He had shut off the lights, paced the room, drowned himself in alcohol, but nothing silenced the voices. They weren't just inside him anymore—they were in the room, in the walls, in the very air he breathed.
"You can't fight it," one whisper hissed.
"Why run?" said another, softer but no less sinister.
Wenyan clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "Shut up," he muttered.
A sharp knock at the door made him jump. His head snapped toward it, his pulse racing.
The knocks came again, louder this time.
Wenyan approached cautiously, his heart hammering against his ribs. Through the peephole, he saw a figure standing in the rain, hooded and motionless.
"Who's there?" Wenyan demanded, his voice shaking.
"It's me."
The voice was familiar. Zhao Heng's voice.
Wenyan's stomach twisted. "That's not possible…" he whispered.
"Let me in, Wenyan," the voice said again, calm and eerily patient.
"No." Wenyan stepped back, his breathing ragged. "You're not him. I saw you—"
"You left me," the voice interrupted, sharper now, accusatory. "Do you think you're safe? Do you think it's over?"
Wenyan felt his knees weaken. "What do you want?"
"To show you the truth," the voice replied.
The room grew colder. Wenyan could see his breath fogging up in the dim light. The air itself seemed to vibrate, a low hum that resonated in his bones.
Then, the whispers stopped.
The silence was deafening, and for a moment, Wenyan felt an overwhelming sense of relief. But it was short-lived.
The door rattled violently, as if something massive was slamming against it. The wood creaked and groaned under the force.
"Open the door, Wenyan," the voice growled, deeper now, almost unrecognizable. "You can't hide forever."
Wenyan stumbled backward, his eyes darting around the room for something—anything—to protect himself. His gaze landed on his camera.
The camera…
He snatched it up, fumbling with the settings. The door continued to shake, the growls and whispers merging into a cacophony of sound.
As the door began to splinter, Wenyan raised the camera and snapped a photo.
The flash lit up the room, blinding and stark. For a moment, everything froze. The rattling stopped. The air went still.
And then, he saw it.
In the flash's afterglow, a shadow stood behind him, tall and twisted, its limbs unnaturally long. Its face—or lack thereof—was a void, swirling with faint red light.
Wenyan turned, but there was nothing there. Only the oppressive darkness of his apartment.
His phone buzzed on the table.
Hands shaking, Wenyan picked it up. Another message had appeared, the words chilling in their simplicity:
"You took the first step. Now finish it."
Wenyan dropped the phone, his breaths coming in short gasps. He didn't know what "finish it" meant, but he knew one thing: he wasn't safe here.
He grabbed his coat, camera, and keys. The whispers resumed as he opened the door, fainter but still present, like an unwanted passenger in his mind.
The streets were deserted. The rain continued its relentless assault, masking his footsteps as he wandered aimlessly. He didn't know where he was going, only that he couldn't stay still.
As he walked, the markings appeared again—on walls, on the pavement, even faintly etched into the windows of passing buildings. They pulsed faintly, as if guiding him.
And he followed.
---
The markings led him to an abandoned temple on the outskirts of the city. Its once-majestic structure was crumbling, vines and moss creeping up its ancient stone walls. The air here was heavier, suffused with an unnatural energy that made Wenyan's skin crawl.
He hesitated at the entrance, staring at the ominous doorway.
The whispers grew louder. "Finish it…"
With a deep breath, Wenyan stepped inside.
The interior was even darker than the warehouse, the faint light from outside swallowed by the oppressive shadows. The markings covered every surface, glowing faintly. At the center of the room stood an altar, and on it, a single object: a small, black stone etched with the same symbols.
Wenyan approached cautiously, his camera in hand. As he neared the altar, the whispers stopped once more.
The silence was suffocating.
He reached out to touch the stone, his fingers trembling. The moment his skin made contact, a searing pain shot through his arm, and his vision blurred.
He fell to his knees, clutching his head as images flooded his mind—visions of the creature, of Heng, of countless others consumed by the markings. And at the center of it all, a presence.
It was vast, incomprehensible, and ancient. A being that existed beyond human understanding, watching, waiting.
The whispers returned, louder than ever. But now, Wenyan understood them.
"Welcome," they said.