The protagonist stood frozen, unable to move, unable even to think.
That creature... that thing that emerged from the wall... did not belong to this world.
His heart was pounding violently, yet his body remained still, as if time itself had stopped. He tried to scream, to move, to run, but his eyes stayed locked on that strange being.
And then... the eyes appeared.
Pure white eyes. No eyelids, no pupils, no features-just deadly whiteness.
Dozens of them, surrounding him from every direction, watching him intently, staring into the depths of his shadowed soul.
The ground began to tremble. The walls pulsed as if breathing. The air grew heavier, and even the dust seemed to float in the void.
The creature slowly raised its right hand... to the side.
And from nothingness... a scythe appeared.
Not an ordinary scythe, but one forged from thick shadows, black as the void, dripping with something that resembled blood-or perhaps something far worse.
Then... one strike.
Just a single moment-and the head fell.
The body dropped first, limp like a discarded puppet.
Then the head rolled slowly, settling on the cold, dust-covered floor.
But the strange part... was that the protagonist still felt everything.
He could see, hear, and feel.
He saw his body lying there, saw the blood pouring around him.
He saw the creature bending toward him, approaching his severed head-whispering.
He couldn't understand the words, but the tone was strange-a mixture of sorrow... and threat.
He wanted to ask, but couldn't speak.
Then something even stranger happened... he saw the creature's face.
But his vision was blurred, distorted, as if a fog had covered his eyes. All he could make out was a human-like face... a wide grin, and wet hair tied in a ponytail.
He tried to focus, to hear the words... but the creature vanished.
Suddenly, as if time rejected its existence, it evaporated-leaving the protagonist alone, his head still severed.
Then the blood began to move.
It stretched... like living threads, weaving between the neck and the head, stitching together what should not be stitched.
And in a scene like a dream... or a nightmare... the head returned to its place.
The protagonist opened his eyes, sitting on the ground, breathing heavily.
He touched his neck... nothing. No wound, no pain.
But the memory was still etched deep inside.
"My head... was cut off... I'm sure of it," he muttered, his voice trembling.
But he forgot-quickly.
As if his memory betrayed him on purpose. He convinced himself it was just a dream, a nightmare... nothing more.
Except for one thing that disturbed him deeply:
The food plate... was gone.
It hadn't returned. It hadn't been replaced.
And from that day on, no food came.
A full week passed-no meals, no sound, no one behind the door.
His body ached, his strength collapsed.
But in a strange moment, he stood up.
He approached the rotting black door.
He slowly extended his hand-his hand that hadn't touched the handle in years.
He opened the door.
This time, the creaking sound... was unlike any before.
And for the first time in a long, long while...
He stepped out into the world again.