The night sky was already dark, but now it was absolute black.
Thousands of churning clouds blanketed the entire city, completely shutting out the silver moonlight and the dim visibility it usually gave. Thunder rumbled behind them with each passing second, and the lightning that split the sky every few moments only made it worse, all of it driven by heavy rainfall.
FWOOOOSH!
A streak of light flashed across a certain balcony. It was a narrow, rectangular thing, its windows and door left wide open to the downpour. Strange, yes. Because of that, rainwater poured freely into the room beyond.
Standing on the balcony was a woman with long, flowing silver-gold hair, soaked through by the heavy rain along with her clothes, as if she didn't care about any of it. Not the rain, not getting sick. Nothing.
Her eyes were narrowed, her gaze cold and indifferent, fixed on the man lying on the dark marble floor below her.
His clothes, a dark charcoal-gray noble suit, were stained with blood from a wound in his abdomen. One hand pressed against it, slowing the bleeding.
His chin was raised, his eyes wide open, his gaze full of disbelief and confusion as he looked up at her. His lips were cracked and pale, from the cold and from the blood loss both.
He could smell it, too. The heavy metallic scent of his own blood, mixing with the rain pouring in from outside.
"Your time is up," the woman said. Her voice was soft and pleasant, aside from the small detail of the knife in her hand, blood still dripping from the blade.
"Hehe." The wounded man laughed at that, a harsh, broken sound. He coughed up more blood, then looked at her again.
Sharp jawline. Pale rose lips. Tall enough that her shadow fell across him where he lay on the floor.
A goddess among men, especially when those pale rose lips curved into her usual gentle smile.
"Ohhh, my beautiful consort." The man smirked. The disbelief and confusion in his eyes had given way to mockery, aimed squarely at his beautiful fiancée. No. His former fiancée. "Tell me, what sin of mine was worthy of such a lovely betrayal?"
Then, as if she could hear his thoughts, her thin, pressed lips slowly formed that same gentle smile, and her narrow gaze on him became a squint.
He felt no joy at it. No appreciation, the way he once had.
She spoke then, her lips moving, but no sound came out, until the whole scene was swallowed by one last crack of thunder.
SNAP!
...
"Haaah!" A sharp gasp rang out as a man jolted awake. His lips parted as he caught his breath.
Sweat ran down his forehead. His eyes darted around the room.
A cheap, wobbly white particleboard desk stood in front of him, faintly stained with old coffee rings. On it sat a laptop with a black screen and a phone with an app open, showing the title: The Dawn of the Sword.
Looked like he had fallen asleep at the desk.
He leaned back, dragged his palm slowly down his face, then lowered it and started rubbing his forehead, getting his breathing under control, taking another look around.
A single-room studio. Nothing but a compact bathroom and one main living area.
One corner of his mouth pulled up in annoyance. "What a terrible dream."
His eyes went back to the phone. Looking closer, he caught the specific label: "Chapter 3 - The Unforgettable Passing of Lucien Croft."
He went quiet for a moment, then pushed up from the chair, grabbed a nearby water bottle, and drained the whole thing where he stood.
"What time is it?" He looked at the phone again.
3:00 AM.
He was twenty-seven years old, and still a low-level logistics worker, spending his days buried in spreadsheets, warehouse schedules, and endless emails.
At this point in his life, what was left to chase?
He was still young, technically. But the dreams he had stacked up, the plans he had written out in college and high school, those weren't coming back. In the end, he had traded all of it to become a 9-6-6 worker: nine in the morning until six in the evening, six days a week.
Just looking at the time gave him a small headache. A vein ticked in his forehead. "Damn, I have to work tomorrow."
He started rubbing his wrist, sore from sleeping at the desk, then glanced at the phone screen once more.
He had just binged the entire novel, then gone back to chapter 3 to read it again carefully.
The result?
"Quite disappointing," he said. "A sickly noble fiancé, killed off by his own fiancée, and no one would even remember the side character's name if not for her."
The words died in his mouth. His gaze went still.
For some reason he was thinking about the dream again. Maybe his imagination had been vivid enough to build the whole scene while he slept.
But it was a strange dream.
His lips pressed together, then twitched. His expression shifted into something complicated. "It felt too real."
And it had. He could feel the pain in it, yet couldn't speak. His mouth had moved on its own and he could only watch.
That thought lingered for a moment, then faded. "Whatever."
He turned off the phone, walked over, and dropped onto the soft, fluffy mattress. His body sank into it. He smiled as his eyes closed, unaware that his consciousness was already going dark.
BANG!
The sound of his own heartbeat exploded through him, his whole body shaking with it, but the smile stayed on his face as he fell asleep.
...
His consciousness drifted in comfort for a long time.
The feeling was soft and pleasant, until at some point it made him frown. His brows drew together, creasing his forehead, because a thought surfaced.
When did my bed get this comfortable?
It felt like one of those king-sized hotel beds he had slept in once. That kind of comfortable.
There was a smell too, something expensive, the kind of scent hotels used to help guests relax. But when he focused on it again, it shifted into something more familiar.
Alcohol and disinfectant.
The smell of a hospital. And along with it, somehow, warmth and light, as if sunlight was falling on him, which made no sense given his rented apartment, where the window didn't even face the sun.
He decided to wake up.
His eyelids twitched. They were heavy, heavier than they should have been.
When he finally got them open, the first thing he saw was light. Blinding white.
Goddamn, which one of you is shining a flashlight directly into my eyes?! He was ready to shout at whoever it was, but then the light moved away, and instead he saw something strange.
A woman.
Long silver-gold hair. A face like those Korean K-pop idols, all sharp jawline and serene beauty.
But when he looked at her eyes, they were pale blue, half-lidded. Her lips were curved in a soft, gentle smile aimed straight at him.
His first thought was: am I dreaming again? Because something about her felt familiar in a way he couldn't quite pin down.
Until, wait.
Isn't this the same woman from my dream?