The door groaned as it shut behind Aira.
She stood at the threshold of the abandoned building, her boots sinking into the soft, mold-ridden floor. The stench hit her immediately—thick, putrid air clung to the walls like something alive, breathing from cracks in the rotting stone. Dampness hung heavy. Every breath tasted like mildew, metal, and decay.
The hallway stretched ahead like the throat of a beast. Long. Dark. Wet.
She hesitated.
This place had once been a healer's ward, she guessed—now reduced to rubble and shadow. Iron hooks hung empty from the ceiling. Broken shelves lay scattered across the floor. Bandages stained black with age lay curled like old skin. She stepped forward, slowly, careful not to make noise.
There were no birds outside. No crickets.Even the wind had abandoned this place.
Aira's throat tightened.
She had heard stories about buildings like this—places the disease had touched. Places it had devoured.
The sickness. That thing without a name.
Some said it wasn't even natural. That it wasn't a virus or plague, but a curse—a darkness that crept inside the lungs and behind the eyes and waited. Villages that once thrived became whispers. People disappeared overnight. Survivors were said to wander aimlessly, speaking in tongues and carving strange runes into trees.
She wanted to believe those were just stories.
But as she stepped further inside and heard the echo of her own breath bouncing off the walls, something deep inside her whispered:
You've made a mistake.
Still, she pressed on. Her boots found the edge of a crooked door at the end of the hall. The wood was warped and swollen, barely hanging on its rusted hinges. A dark smear ran down its center—blood, or something older.
She pushed it open.
The room inside was worse than the hallway. Cold and damp. A faint buzzing filled the air—flies, trapped for days, feasting on rot.
A single bed sat in the corner of the room, its sheets crumpled and yellowed.
And on that bed—
Aira froze.
There was a girl.
Thin. Barely more than bones and skin stretched too tightly. Her cheeks were hollow. Her lips cracked. Her hair, once a dark chestnut, now hung like greasy straw around her face. Her arms twitched weakly.
Aira's stomach turned.
She had the sickness.
And Aira had just walked into the same room.
She took a step back. Then another.
Ice poured down her spine. Her throat closed.
She could almost feel it already—spores in the air, the taint slipping under her skin. What if she breathed too deeply? What if the disease had already taken root?
"Idiot," she whispered to herself. "You shouldn't be here."
Her fingers twitched near the dagger at her side, but what good would a blade do against death itself?
The girl stirred. Her eyes—milky and unfocused—fluttered open. She stared somewhere past Aira, as though seeing something else entirely.
"…Please…"
The voice was so quiet Aira thought she'd imagined it.
Aira bit her lip hard enough to taste blood.
No. I can't get involved. I'm not some saint. I'm not here to save anyone.
She was just trying to survive in this cursed world.
And yet… that pendant around the girl's neck glimmered faintly.
Aira squinted.
It wasn't just any trinket. The chain was thick, foreign-looking—clearly crafted with care. At its center, a round silver charm glinted with strange etchings. The metal pulsed faintly in the gloom. She stepped closer. Her breath caught.
A name.
Carved into the back of the pendant. Familiar.
Too familiar.
Her name.
Not "Aira"—but her true name. The one she hadn't heard since waking in this cursed land. The one from before.
Someone from her world had been here.
She didn't breathe.
Who gave her that? How? What did it mean?
Suddenly, this girl wasn't just another dying stranger. She was a thread—a connection to the mystery that had haunted Aira since her arrival.
She stepped closer despite herself, crouching low, but careful to keep her distance. "Who gave you that name?" she asked, her voice tense.
The girl's lips moved, but her voice failed. Her body trembled with the effort of staying alive.
"She's fading," Aira whispered.
She looked terrible. Veins beneath her skin had turned dark. Her fingers twitched uncontrollably.
Aira's instincts screamed. This place was death. Staying too long would make her part of the rot.
She turned to go.
But the girl's hand shot out—frail, shaking—and latched onto her wrist.
Aira nearly screamed.
The grip was weak but unrelenting. The girl's fevered skin was cold. Not warm, cold. Like the blood had stopped flowing.
Her lips parted again. Barely a whisper.
"…Run…"
The word escaped like a breath from the grave.
Aira's heart stopped.
Then the girl went still.
Her hand slipped from Aira's wrist and hit the mattress with a dull thud.
Dead.
Aira staggered back. Her legs shook.
Then—above her.A sound.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Slow.
Someone was coming.
Her eyes widened. No.
Not now. Not here.
She turned to the door—but it was too late.
The steps were descending. Fast.
Aira spun, searching.
The room had no other exit. No windows.
Her eyes locked on a stack of old, rotting crates in the far corner—half-swallowed by shadow.
She ran.
Diving behind the largest crate, she pressed her body into the wall. Her breath came in ragged gasps, but she forced herself still.
Don't breathe. Don't move. Don't think.
The door slammed open.
Torchlight flooded the room.
Boots stomped on stone.
Aira squeezed her eyes shut.
Then—voices.
"She dead yet?"
"Probably. She looked like death yesterday. Don't see her getting better."
A pause. Then something thudded—hard.
Aira winced.
"Disgusting," one man muttered. "Lord Varlen says we're to burn her by morning. Can't risk her talking."
Talking?
Aira's blood turned to ice.
So they weren't just abandoning her. They were silencing her.
For what?
"Wait."
That word again.
A different tone this time. Alert.
"Something's… wrong."
Aira's stomach twisted. Don't come this way. Please.
Footsteps.
Coming closer.
The boots stopped—right in front of her.
She could see the tip of one, just past the corner of the crate. Her whole body tensed. Muscles locked. She bit down on her tongue to keep from gasping.
The silence stretched.
Too long.
Then—
"Tch. Probably just rats."
The boot turned. Moved away.
Seconds later, the door slammed again.
Gone.
But she didn't move. Not yet.
She counted. One. Two. Three…
Then she sagged forward, barely able to stay upright.
She had to go.
She stepped past the bed—but stopped.
The girl's face had changed.
Aira froze.
Her mouth… was smiling.
Not a kind smile.
A terrible one. Wide. Crooked. Unnatural.
Her eyelids fluttered slightly.
No. She was dead. She was—Aira stepped back.
From beneath the bed came a sound.
A scraping. Wet.
Like fingernails dragging across stone.
Then—a whisper.
Not from the girl.
From under her.
Aira's blood turned to ice.
She bolted.
Slamming the door behind her, she ran through the hallway, the shadows reaching like fingers behind her.
She didn't look back.
Even as the walls seemed to pulse with breath.
Even as whispers echoed her name—
Her real name.
And as she vanished into the night, her lungs burning, her mind racing—she didn't notice the faint black mark forming just below her wrist.
A mark in the shape of a name.
A name she had forgotten.
A name that would cost her everything.