The acrid scent of burning wood and tobacco poisons the air, seeping into my skin, slowly suffocating me.
Each breath is torture, every inhalation a venom eating me from the inside out.
The air thickens, almost viscous, as if the atmosphere itself is trying to swallow me whole.
I struggle to stay calm, but my heart beats too fast.
My mind races.
Roch, a living shadow of himself, stands in a corner of the room.
His gaze, sharp as a blade, cuts through the silence, piercing with a palpable tension.
He weighs every word, every movement.
He smiles. But it's not a friendly smile.
No.
It's a cruel smirk, a grin that amplifies the unease.
Every tooth has a warning, every corner of his mouth drawn downward, as if he savors my discomfort.
He enjoys my unease.
And the discomfort intensifies, tightening around me like an invisible hand squeezing my throat.
He takes his time.
Every word he speaks, every glance he throws, is aimed at destabilizing me further.
He knows his words hit their mark.
— Roch (smirking): Slept well, Pablo?
The name strikes me like a slap.
Pablo.
A sharp breath, my heart skips a beat.
He can't know.
He mustn't know.
But the anxiety grips me.
My throat tightens.
The world around me stifles.
I stay frozen, searching for words.
— Me (icy tone): It's William. Or Nation. Not Pablo.
Roch laughs. A rough, unsettling laugh that worms its way into my gut.
He doesn't hold back; he revels in it.
It's a game for him.
And me… I'm his prey.
His eyes gleam with malice he doesn't even bother to hide.
— Roch: If you say so, Rasta! You've been out for three days, brother.
Three days…
Three days?!
Like I've been on some damn vacation.
Nausea grips me. I try to recall.
Three days, really?
I remember closing my eyes, just for a moment.
But three days?
No.
Impossible.
— Me (wide-eyed, incredulous): Three days… ?
Roch doesn't let me breathe.
He drives the nail in deeper with that sick grin.
Every second feels heavier.
— Roch: In this cabin, time moves twice as fast.
I blink, dizziness washes over me.
Everything around me blurs, distorts.
The ground sways under my feet.
It's as if the air has become too dense to breathe.
— Me (stunned): What do you mean… twice as fast?
Roch points to the door we entered through, a black door adorned with strange symbols.
— Roch: That door sends you to the opposite world, a negative dimension. Over there, time slows down.
Then he points to another door, nearly invisible in the shadows, a simple glowing frame.
— Roch: That one leads to the present moment. Over there, everything moves as it should. But time feels different depending on where you come from.
My brain struggles to keep up.
The words float around me, slipping away before I can grasp them.
A heavy, cold weight presses on my chest.
I clench my teeth, force a smile, but it's nothing but a nervous mask.
— Me: So, if I get this straight… The front door is slow mode, the back door is the exit, and here it is fast-forward mode.
I throw in an internal joke to ease the tension, but it doesn't work.
— Me (thinking): This is like some haunted VHS player… What the hell!
Roch burst into laughter.
A deep, almost warm laugh, but disturbingly unsettling.
He laughs at the situation, like he sees an absurdity I haven't grasped yet.
— Roch: At least you get it.
But I'm not laughing.
The chill running down my spine tells me this is no joke.
It's something much bigger.
It's about time, reality, and existence itself.
— Iris (mocking yet professional voice in my head): Congratulations, Master William. New objective added: find the exit without losing three centuries.
— Me (grimly): Or my life.
I closed my eyes for a moment, dizziness returning.
Time becomes an illusion, a tangible pressure.
Reality warps around me, as if space and time are slipping from my grasp.
I clench my fists, pushing down the rising panic.
Roch inhales deeply, his gaze fixed on me.
He exhales a cloud of smoke.
Then, he speaks, his tone calmer, almost indifferent.
— Roch (casual, almost disinterested): I'll make it short. While you were out, a hundred-year-old prophecy came true.
The words hit like a thunderclap.
A prophecy.
A cold mist fills my veins.
I am frozen.
— Me (tight-throated): What prophecy?
Roch straightens slowly, every movement measured, calculated.
The silence around him thickens, nearly suffocating.
— Roch (serious, almost cold): The Eighth Cycle. The one that resets everything.
He raises his hands.
— Roch (continuing, raising first his right hand, then his left, each gesture emphasizing the weight of his words): A traveler predicted a major upheaval. Three events. Three anomalies, happening simultaneously.
His words strike like a hammer.
Dizziness overtakes me.
Flashes flood my mind.
Shadows, images, echoes of moments I've lived before… before even waking up here.
Visions suffocate me.
— Roch (listing, each word a verdict): First, in the negative dimension, an assassin struck down the Shadow King mid-ritual. Took his place in front of everyone. No scream. No words. Just one fatal blow.
BAM.
The words knock the breath out of me. My heart stops for an instant.
— Roch (continuing, listing): Second, that same night, near the Tower of Shadows, a Slayer was unleashed upon the Antithesis creatures. A massacre. An entire bloodline was wiped out in one night.
BOOM.
It's more than words. It's vision.
Shadows. Silent screams battling in my mind.
— Roch (finishing with a satisfied smile): And finally, the first rebellion erupted after a bomb exploded. The Knights retreated for the first time in sixty years.
— Me (thinking): Shit! He thinks this is about a prophecy, but this has William written all over it!
I shake my thoughts, but it clings.
It follows me like a shadow.
— Me (whispering, almost trembling): And me? What about me in all this?
Roch fixes me with that sharp gaze.
Each syllable weighs on me like lead.
— Roch (grinning): That's for you to decide.
His words are a hammer blow.
Silence thickens.
A pressure indescribable.
— Roch (slowly, savoring every syllable): But make no mistake… you're not alone.
I freeze.
My lungs are full of his words, too full.
I exhale.
— Me (troubled): There are others…?
— Roch (nods): Exactly. Some just want to survive. Others… want to rule.
The word hits me.
Rule.
— Roch (piercing gaze): When you step through a door, be ready to play.
The vertigo intensifies.
My mind tears.
A fire ignites.
I won't be a spectator.
— Me (determined): I will be the architect of my own destiny.