November 23, 2018
The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting pale streaks across Lucas's room. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the faint glow of his computer screen. He hadn't slept. His mind wouldn't let him.
The words from the old text haunted him, lingering in his thoughts like a storm cloud refusing to break.
"A storm born within the chosen."
Was it coincidence? A myth that happened to sound like his own impossible reality? Or was it something worse—something he couldn't ignore anymore?
The hum in the air hadn't left. It was faint now, almost imperceptible, but it was there, vibrating just beneath the surface of everything.
With a sigh, Lucas stood and made his way to the kitchen. His footsteps on the wooden floor felt too loud, the creaks echoing in the silence of the house.
His mother had already left for work, her usual note taped to the fridge:
"Working late. Leftovers in the fridge. Love you!"
It was comforting, that small routine.
The refrigerator door let out a soft squeak as he opened it, its light illuminating the dim kitchen. Lucas stared blankly at the contents—leftover pasta, half an apple, a carton of milk. None of it registered.
The window above the sink drew his gaze. His reflection stared back at him, pale and hollow-eyed.
He glanced at the backyard behind the glass. It was still. The faint sway of the trees in the wind. Yet something about it felt wrong, like the world beyond the window was.. waiting.
Shaking off the unease, Lucas closed the fridge and grabbed a glass of water. The glass felt heavier than usual, the chill of the water biting against his palm.
The hum grew louder as he drank, rising just enough to set his teeth on edge.
He set the glass down with a clink, leaning against the counter. His thoughts churned, dragging him back to the forum, the threads, and the useless explanations from strangers who didn't understand.
"Why am I even looking there?" he thought bitterly. But where else could he turn?
Lucas returned to his room, settling into the creaking chair at his desk. The computer screen flickered back to life, the words he had searched for last night still glaring at him:
"Ancient myths about internal power."
Scrolling through the archived text again, he stopped at the same passage that had caught his attention before.
"A storm born within the chosen, their veins coursing with the rage of the gods. This storm may create, destroy, or consume, depending on the bearer's will—or their lack of it."
The phrase felt… wrong, as if the translation was incomplete. He stared at the sentence, willing it to give up some hidden meaning, but none came.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, and he typed a new query:
"Uncontrolled energy anomalies in humans."
The results were shit. Most of the links were useless—articles about rare neurological conditions, pseudoscientific nonsense about energy healing, and conspiracy theories involving electromagnetic pulses.
Then, at the bottom of the page, he spotted a government document with a title that caught his eye:
"[REDACTED]: Incident Reports on Unexplained Phenomena in Biological Subjects."
Lucas clicked the link, his pulse quickening. The document was old, scanned from what looked like yellowing paper. Most of it was heavily redacted, entire paragraphs blacked out.
But a few lines stood out:
"Subjects exhibiting anomalous energy surges present [redacted] symptoms, including increased [redacted] activity and disruptions to [redacted]. Classified under [redacted] protocol, access restricted."
The text was maddeningly vague, but Lucas couldn't tear his eyes away. The pattern of the redactions felt deliberate, as if someone had tried to erase the truth but left just enough to hint at it.
He scrolled further, his heart pounding.
Another passage read:
"The phenomenon, unofficially referred to as 'Vortex Syndrome,' is considered extremely rare, with fewer than [redacted] cases documented worldwide. Detailed studies remain inconclusive due to [redacted]. Further investigation suspended under orders of [redacted] Division."
"Vortex Syndrome…" Lucas whispered, the name sending a chill down his spine.
The hum in the air seemed to respond, growing louder for a moment before fading again.
Lucas leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. This wasn't just something strange happening to him. It was something that had happened before—but only rarely, so rarely that it had been buried under layers of secrecy.
The document provided no answers, only more questions.
Why was it classified? What was the [redacted] Division, and why had they suspended their investigations?
And most importantly—what did it mean for him?
But then there was the other detail he couldn't ignore:
The creatures
He had seen them directly. But there had been stories, rumored in online forum that he'd dismissed as paranoid ramblings.
People talking about shadows, shapes that moved unnaturally, things that came and went like phantoms.
"What? What are they talking about? It's clearly a just goblin" he said to himself
And the rumors about those who vanished.
{ During this time, I was too proud of myself for taking out a mere goblin and I dismissed the existence of other creatures. }
The connections weren't clear, but Lucas couldn't shake the feeling that the mark on his chest and the creatures were linked. Whatever the vortex was, it wasn't just a storm inside him. It was something far older, far deadlier.
He closed the document and stared at the darkened screen. The hum in the air pulsed faintly, an ever-present reminder of what he carried.
Lucas's hands tightened into fists. He didn't know what was coming, but he was sure of one thing:
The vortex wasn't a gift.
It was a curse.
Something that had been buried for a reason, something that shouldn't have existed in this world.
And now that it was here, it wouldn't stop.
It would hunt him.
Or worse—use him.
The thought chilled him, but he pushed it aside, forcing himself to focus. He grabbed his notebook again and began writing furiously, trying to piece together anything he could.
This wasn't over. Not yet.