The doorknob turned, pressed down by a man in his 20s with short brown hair and a muscular frame.
Creak.
Victor glanced to his right, spotting the man entering the café and immediately stepping to the side to hold the door open.
Igor, seated nearby, coughed up smoke he'd been about to inhale, hurriedly stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray as he stood.
Three more men appeared at the doorway.
The one leading the group was tall, with voluminous black hair and a face tattoo. He wore a sleek black suit, its material gleaming faintly under the café's exterior lights. Subtle patterns adorned the fabric, the kind you'd miss at first glance but couldn't unsee once noticed. His face, though not handsome, held an undeniable presence.
Behind him stood two bald men, their suits cheaper and ill-fitted by comparison.
Tk. Tk. Tk.
The leader's polished black shoes clicked against the floor as he entered, followed by his companions. The doorman closed the door behind them.
"Igorr! Long time no see, brother," the leader called out, arms wide in mock camaraderie as he approached casually for a hug.
Victor looked down immediately, out of respect—or was it fear? He had always suspected Igor's "friends" were dangerous men.
Igor didn't return the embrace, standing stiff as the man clapped his back. They exchanged words in Ruddian, the man looking at Victor from time to time, with Igor growing visibly defensive, repeating the phrase "Brat Domag" as if pleading.
The man, Domag, chuckled, his gaze sliding to Victor once more. With a single word and a pointed gesture at the exit, he dismissed him.
Victor obeyed, keeping his head down and his steps cautious as he exited the café.
Closing the door behind him, he muttered venomously, "I should've left earlier."
It was his own fault, he realized bitterly. He'd wasted too much time watching the news instead of simply heading home, though he had no real home to speak of.
Were it not for Igor, that boy would've ended up in a grinder just for taking a singular look at the man's, Brat Domag's, face.
He took a step forward, but something caught his eye. The bulb above him flickered erratically. At first, it seemed like a dying light, nothing unusual. But then the streetlights followed suit, blinking on and off.
A cacophony of car alarms erupted in unison, filling the street. The wind picked up, tugging at loose dirt and trash, swirling it in a linear pattern. From point A of any angle to point B keeping the angle.
Victor's gaze darted from the flickering bulb to the café's glass-paneled door. Inside, the men were on high alert. The doorman reached for the handle, while the two suited men moved Domag toward a corner. Igor stood frozen.
Victor turned back to the street, his unease growing. Was this about to become a gang fight? Or a coincidence? He wasn't sure. The timing of everything—the lights, the wind, the alarms—felt too coincidental.
Eight feet ahead of him, white lines began to snake up from the ground. At first, they appeared random, meaningless scribbles, but they quickly morphed into erratic shapes and patterns. The lines climbed higher, forming a towering structure with gaps that filled in rapidly, creating a textured, paper-like surface.
All of this happened in seconds. He didn't even have time to think about escaping. Hesitation had cost him dearly.
His legs trembled as the wind grew stronger, pulling everything into the strange mass. Dirt, trash, even the air itself was being consumed.
Victor stumbled backward toward the café door, his mind racing. He could have gone back inside, away from the pull. He could have run while he still had the chance. But he didn't. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was... Or maybe, deep down, he had given up long ago.
He slid his hands into his pockets, a hollow yet satisfied laugh escaping his lips. "Better than dying some other way, I guess..." he muttered, his voice laced with bitter acceptance.
The pull became inescapable, drawing him closer to the mass.
BAM!
The café windows shattered, glass shards flying in every direction. The door splintered, and black smoke burst out in fiery plumes, consuming everything in its path. The sound was deafening, leaving his ears ringing with a high-pitched whine.
Victor blinked, his vision fading.
Then there was nothing. No sound, no light, no sensation. Only darkness.
His voice echoed in the void, trembling. "What. Where am I? Am I... dead?"
The silence answered him, reverberating his words back as if mocking him.
Then a voice broke through, calm and resonant with apparently no gender to it, speaking directly into his mind.
[Welcome, human.]
[Your story has potential.]
Victor froze, unable to respond, as the blackness shifted around him.