I stood frozen, staring at the photo frame in my hands. My eyes burned—probably from crying too much lately. I couldn't even remember the last time they felt normal.
In the picture, it was just my mom and me. I had a goofy grin on my face, and she stood beside me with that calm, graceful posture of someone in her fifties. But her face looked almost untouched by age—so youthful it hurt to look at.
"I love you, Mom," I whispered, my voice barely holding itself together.
"Marc, are you here?"
A voice called out from the direction of the main door. I recognized it immediately—Aunt Martha Smith, my neighbour. She always spoke like she was gently knocking on your thoughts.
"Coming," I called back.
I set the frame down carefully and walked over to the door. When I opened it, there she was—standing in her wide-brimmed hat like always. Her brownish hair curled just above her shoulders, and her warm, curious eyes studied me for a moment.
"Did I disturb you?" she asked softly, her head tilted slightly.
"No," I said, forcing a small smile. "I was just about to take a bath."
"Well, that's good. Here, take this," she said, handing me a small container. "I know the past two days haven't been easy for you, Marc. But you need to take care of your health. Eat something—you shouldn't leave your stomach empty."
As always, Aunt Martha was too kind for this world. Even when I wasn't around, she looked after my mom like family. She probably knew her better than I ever did.
"Thank you, Mrs. Smith," I said with a warm smile. I knew she didn't like being called 'aunt'—maybe because it made her feel older than she was. Even though she was in her forties, Mrs. Smith just felt right.
"It's okay," she said gently. "Take care of yourself, alright? Don't carry too much on your shoulders. You have a bright future, Marc—and your mother would want to see you happy. Don't disappoint her."
She said it all just to make me feel better. And honestly, it helped.
"Yeah," I mumbled softly.
After closing the door and setting the food container on the table, I headed straight to the bathroom. I hadn't cleaned myself in two days—or maybe I should say, ever since Mom passed away, I hadn't even thought about it.
Once I was done, I stepped out, feeling the warmth of the water still clinging to my skin. But the moment my left foot touched the floor outside the bathroom, something strange hit me—a scent. Cold. Not just cool, but sharp and unnatural. It crawled up my spine and settled deep in my bones.
I froze.
It wasn't the kind of chill you get from a breeze or a window left open. No. This felt wrong.
The air was still. The apartment was silent. Yet that scent—something between damp soil and burnt incense—hung in the air like it had been waiting for me.
My eyes scanned the hallway.
And that's when I saw him.
A man—in his mid-thirties maybe—standing silently at the far end of the hallway. He wore a long, dark overcoat, the kind no one wears anymore. His face was lowered, eyes fixed on the floor like he was frozen in thought. He wasn't moving. Wasn't even blinking.
But that wasn't what made my skin crawl.
It was his hand—his right hand—hanging loosely by his side.
In the dim light, I noticed something etched into the skin between his wrist and knuckles. A faint, ink-black mark. It looked like a nose. Not detailed, but stylized. Symbolic. Ritualistic.
"Hello…?" I managed to whisper, my throat tightening the moment the word left.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just kept staring at the ground.
Is he a thief? A robber? Should I call the cops?
No… I don't think so.
But why does he give off such a dangerous vibe?
Every instinct in me screamed run, but my legs wouldn't budge. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what I was seeing—of who I was seeing.
And then, I heard it.
A voice. Calm, deep, and strange—like it wasn't echoing in the room, but directly inside my head.
"Ease it, boy. You're panicking too much."
"Who are you, mister?" I asked, my voice tight. "Do you want something from me? I think… I think you got into the wrong house."
I kept my distance, eyes fixed on his hand—that strange nose-shaped mark.
Still, he didn't respond. Didn't lift his head.
Just stared at the same spot on the floor.
And that's when I realized—he wasn't looking at me.
He was looking at something on the floor.
I followed his gaze. But there was nothing there. Just plain wooden tiles. Empty space.
Yet the way his eyes stayed locked, so focused—like he was observing something only he could see—sent another chill down my spine.
What the hell is he looking at?
Then, without lifting his head, he suddenly spoke.
"Do you have any relation with the Oculis Empire?"
I blinked, confused.
The Oculis Empire…? That's the entire Oculis Continent. The whole land is ruled under one crown. A place I've only read about.
I've never set foot there. For the past year, I've been living in the United States of Leora, on the Western Continent—just working, surviving.
So… why is he asking me that?
"No, I don't have any relation with the Oculis Empire… but why are you asking me this, mister—"
Before I could finish, he lifted his hand and extended it toward me.
Then, he whispered something—low and rough—but I caught two words.
"Essence distortion."
In an instant, everything changed.
It was like someone ripped a mask off my eyes. The walls, the light, the air itself—flickering, shifting. Like reality was… bending.
And the worst part—the part that froze the breath in my lungs—
There was something on the ground.
Something I hadn't seen before.
My heart started pounding. My body turned ice-cold. Sweat trickled down my forehead. I stumbled back—and then I screamed.
"AHHHHHH!"
Blood.
The entire floor was soaked in it.