In the dark, he stirs in his sleep, his body caught in the grasp of something beyond his control. His chest tight. A suffocating weight pressing down on him, but it's not just the sleep that's heavy. It's the nightmare. He doesn't know when it started, or how it crept up on him, but now, it's all he knows.
His heart races as the world around him distorts, turning into a haze of shadows and unfamiliar shapes. He's desperately trying to escape from something, but he can't. The feeling of dread claws at him, the air thick with a sense of impending doom. And then, he sees it. Death.
It's not a figure—no hooded skeleton or reaper—but something worse: the sensation. His body is growing colder, growing weaker, each breath an effort. He severely wounded and feels his body failing him, his pulse slowing, the world around him darkening, the edges of his vision crumbling. And the worst part? He can't stop it. He knows this is how it ends.
But then, there's a shift. A presence. Warmth that shouldn't belong in a nightmare, a gentle hand gripping his arm tightly, as though trying to pull him away from the abyss. A voice—urgent, desperate, pleading—calls out to him.
"Don't let go. Stay with me. You have to survive... Doctor."
The words come to him like a distant echo, foreign yet strangely familiar, like a secret buried deep in his mind, something he's heard before but can't quite place. Her hands—her trembling, bloodied hands—grip him tightly, dragging him forward, refusing to let him go. She's hurt, too, but she won't stop, won't let him slip away. Despite her strength, the pull of the darkness is overwhelming, dragging him down, pulling him closer to the void. It's inevitable. Death is close, and he feels himself fading, like he's slipping through her fingers.
Then, the deafening sound of a gunshot rips through the air.
The world shifts, warping before his eyes, and to his horror, he watches the woman who had been fighting so desperately to save him collapse, lifeless, to the ground. The sight is too much to bear. Her body crumples with the weight of the shot, and for a brief moment, everything falls silent. The desperation, the raw emotion, fills him with guilt and confusion. What just happened? Was she... gone?
Before he can process it, something cold presses against his temple. A figure stands before him, tall and dark, like a shadow in the fading light. The gun is steady in their hand, aimed directly at him. And then, in a voice as cold as the steel pressed to his head, they speak:
"It's your turn now... doctor."
Bang!
His eyes snap open. The cold sweat clings to his skin. His breath is ragged, uneven. He's back in his room, the reality of his bedroom suffocating him with its familiarity. But the nightmare lingers, crawling under his skin, leaving him with a cold, gnawing emptiness. The sensation of dying, of being pulled into the dark, and the person who was trying so desperately to protect him even by sacrificing her own life...Â
But who was it? Who was that voice? Why did it feel like it was someone he was meant to know?
And as the remnants of the dream fade, he's left with one haunting question: What if he didn't wake up at all?