Rigel's eyes fluttered open, and he was met with the familiar sight of his room's ceiling. But something felt off. The room seemed... different. The shadows cast by the moonlight streaming through the window twisted and writhed like living things, undulating as if they were alive.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes in a futile attempt to shake off the unease creeping into his mind. But as he looked around the room, a chilling realization settled over him: he was not alone.
A figure stood in the corner, watching him with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine. Tall and imposing, it was shrouded in shadows that seemed to pulse and breathe.
He was having the dream again. It always started like this—he'd find himself in his room, the place he thought he knew so well. Yet, deep down, he understood that this wasn't truly his sanctuary; he wasn't in his home anymore.
"Who are you?" Rigel demanded, forcing himself to keep his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at him.
The figure remained silent, as it had on every other night. Instead, it raised a hand slowly, and Rigel felt a strange sensation wash over him—an overwhelming feeling as if he were being pulled apart and put back together again, like a puzzle being rearranged against his will.
When the sensation faded away, Rigel found himself standing in a vast, open plain. The sky above blazed with a deep, burning crimson, casting an eerie glow over everything beneath it. The air was thick with the sweet scent of blooming flowers that danced in an unseen breeze.
But something was terribly wrong. The plain stretched on endlessly, with no horizon in sight—a boundless expanse that felt both inviting and terrifying. And those flowers... they seemed to watch him with unblinking eyes.
"Welcome, Rigel," a voice echoed across the plain, reverberating through the air like a distant thunderclap. "I've been waiting for you."
"That's all you do—wait," Rigel panted, trying to catch his breath amidst the growing tension. "You never answer my question. Who are you?"
The figure ignored him once more, its presence heavy in the air as it continued to loom over him. "I want you to join me. I can help you become who you were always destined to be."
"I will tell you the same thing I've been telling you since the first night you appeared to me." Two months ago. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You don't understand what you can do," the voice became high-pitched and tense—aggressive and desperate. "You possess power beyond your imagination! If you join me, I can help you uncover it. I can show you."
This... This is where everything disappears—the part where this all goes up in smoke like ashes in the wind. He had never had to answer that question before; but now it felt different—like a weight pressing down on him from every side as the figure continued to stare at him with unyielding intensity.
"I—" He struggled for words; confusion clouded his mind like fog rolling through an abandoned street at dusk. But deep down, one truth rang loud and clear: he couldn't agree to this twisted proposal. The niggling feeling nestled deep within warned him that this was wrong; whatever this was, whatever this figure represented—its not right and he can't be apart of it.
"No," Rigel said firmly, determination flooding his veins despite the fear he could feel underneath his facade. "I don't know what's going on or what you think I am but I'm not that! Leave me alone!"
The figure remained silent for a moment; for an instant, Rigel thought perhaps he had won—but then everything changed. The world beneath his feet began to tremble violently.
"What—"
"If you won't join me," it hissed with venomous disdain, "then I can't allow you to stand against me." Its voice dripped with malice as it added ominously, "I can't let them get to you."
The crimson sky began bleeding into the ground beneath him; the sweet fragrance of flowers vanished abruptly and was replaced by an overwhelming stench of decay—the smell of dead bodies long forgotten.
"So sad that such power and potential must be destroyed," the voice taunted cruelly as if savoring every syllable. With a snap of its fingers, it commanded mercilessly: "Kill him."
Suddenly, the flowers around Rigel transformed into towering vines adorned with vicious thorns—a menacing tangle ready to ensnare him.
"Fuck," he cursed under his breath as adrenaline surged through him like wildfire. Rigel spun around and took off running down the endless field without looking back; he didn't know where he was going, but he knew one thing for certain: he couldn't stay here—not for another second. The vines thrummed with energy behind him like scorpions poised to strike with their deadly tails; escape felt impossible.
As Rigel ran down the field at breakneck speed, an unsettling awareness settled over him—cold eyes were upon him from every direction: dark, unfeeling eyes filled with malice and intent. He knew that figure still watched from afar; still loomed over him like a storm cloud ready to unleash chaos upon his world—but there was no time for confirmation or hesitation; all he wanted was for this nightmare to end.
"You can't escape, child," came the echoing voice again—it felt impossibly close now despite how far he had run. And suddenly there was nowhere left to run; a colossal wall materialized from the ground before him—a barrier rising infinitely high into that dreadful crimson sky.
Rigel tried desperately to go around it but found himself trapped as it spread out further than he could see—an endless expanse blocking any chance of flight.
With no escape route available and panic clawing at his insides like wild animals fighting for freedom, Rigel turned around slowly to face those advancing vines that slithered toward him at full speed—their thorns glinting menacingly in the strange light of this twisted dreamscape.
He gulped hard as bone-chilling fear paralyzed him completely; instinctively he took a step back until his back hit against the unforgiving wall behind him.
This is it then… If I die here… will I die out there too?
But just when those deadly vines reached for him with malicious intent—a sword flew through the air like lightning itself—slicing cleanly through one of them before crashing into the ground beside Rigel.
He gasped in surprise and turned toward where the sword had come from just in time to catch a glimpse of two figures charging toward the vines: teenagers—a boy with short-cropped blonde hair and a girl with straight black hair—both wielding swords gleaming under that crimson sky as they fought valiantly against those monstrous vines.
This—this has also never happened before.
Rigel doesn't have much time to think about that because, out of nowhere, a girl with curly auburn hair dashes toward him with a sense of urgency.
"Hello," she whispers softly, but Rigel doesn't respond. The whole situation feels overwhelmingly surreal, like a scene pulled from a movie.
"It's okay," she smiles gently at him, her eyes warm and reassuring as she takes his clammy hand in hers. The sweat clings to his palm, a testament to the fear and anxiety coursing through him, along with the weight of everything happening around them. "Just calm down. It's going to be okay."
She meets his eyes dead on and it maybe a trick of the light but Rigel swears he sees her eyes glow, then her melodious voice drifts into his ears; enveloping his senses. "Calm down."
Like a wave washing over the shore, the fear and anxiousness begin to ebb away, replaced by an unexpected serenity that envelops him, making him feel drowsy and inviting him to drift off into sleep right there on the spot.
The girl's smile widens as if she knows the power she holds over him. "That's it, go to sleep."
His gaze lazily drifts past her to where two figures are still locked in battle with the relentless vines, moving with an expert ease that seems like they've done this a million other times.
"Forget about that," the girl's soothing voice draws him back into her orbit. "Just go to sleep."
He feels an overwhelming urge to ask her questions—so many things swirl in his mind that he yearns to understand.
What is happening? Who is she? Who are they?
But the questions seem to slip away like grains of sand through his fingers.
His body feels heavy as if it were made of lead, and all he truly wants is to surrender to the comforting call of sleep.
"Don't worry," the girl's voice rings out like a lullaby as his eyelids grow heavier, drifting close. "When you wake up in the morning, you won't remember a thing."
But still, he doesn't want to just go to sleep; he wants answers—questions pressing against his consciousness like waves crashing against a rocky shore.
Yet even as he struggles against it, he can feel himself succumbing. His thoughts become muddled and indistinct as darkness begins to wrap around him like a soft blanket.
༻ ༺
Rigel shot up from his bed in the morning, jolted awake by the bright rays of sunlight streaming through his window rather than the blaring sound of his alarm clock. The girls was wrong because the remnants of the dream cling tightly to his mind, vivid and alive, swirling around like mist in the early morning light.