The streets lay deserted, bathed in the pale, ghostly glow of the winter moon. Not a soul stirred; the world felt frozen in time.
Then came the sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate—echoing through the silence. A lone figure emerged from the shadows. Nito, a weary youth with a gym bag slung over one shoulder, trudged forward. Each step seemed heavier than the last.
It had been an ordinary day: lectures, part-time work, a gym session. Yet, he felt utterly drained, far beyond what his routine should have demanded. Keeping his eyes open felt like a battle he was slowly losing.
He rubbed his eyes and turned the corner, entering the stairwell of his apartment complex. More than once, he stumbled, swaying like a man on the edge of collapse. The stairs felt endless, his exhaustion sharpening with every step.
By some miracle—or stubborn will—he made it to his door without collapsing in the stairwell.
As he fumbled with his keys, he muttered under his breath,
"Just a few more weeks. I just need to hold on a little longer so I can graduate."
Dropping his gym bag on the floor, Nito collapsed into his warm bed without a second thought. He didn't even bother changing out of his damp gym clothes. The moment his eyes shut, sleep took him.
A sudden dull ache throbbed in his head as Nito stirred. The room was still cloaked in darkness. Blinking
at the ceiling, he shifted and frowned. Something was wrong.
The bed felt... off
He jolted upright, heart skipping a beat. This wasn't his bed at all—it was a cold, hard floor.
Darkness pressed in from all sides. Nito scrambled to his feet, breath quickening. He stood in a narrow hallway, dimly lit by an unseen source.
Ba-thump!
His heart hammered in his chest, cold sweat beading on his forehead. He rubbed his eyes furiously, half-expecting to snap out of some strange dream.
But nothing changed.
Am I lucid dreaming? he wondered, trying to ground himself.
He reached out to touch the nearest wall. The surface was pitch black, yet it emitted a faint, eerie glow. Under his fingertips, the texture was rough—abrasive, almost like sandpaper. He instinctively recoiled. Pressing his palm too hard might tear the skin.
He continued down the hallway. The windows along the corridor were oddly placed—far too high to see through. despite being 188 cm tall, even if he jumped, he wouldn't get a glimpse outside.
Was this place built for giants? he thought uneasily.
The hallway stretched on, silent and strange. Finally, at the far end, he saw a massive door, towering and carved from what looked like dark, ancient wood. It stood slightly ajar, as if waiting.
Nito approached cautiously, dread pooling in his stomach.
As Nito stepped closer to the door, his heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst from his chest. But before he could peer inside, a vile stench wafted out, thick and unmistakable.
The smell of rotting flesh.
"Bleughh!"
He doubled over and vomited onto the cold floor, retching uncontrollably.
The moment his stomach settled, realization struck him like a blow.
This isn't just a dream.
The smell, the nausea, the burning sensation in his throat—it all felt too real.
His breathing grew hoarse, shallow. Cold sweat trickled down his face as his vision blurred at the edges. Panic gripped him like a vice, and his knees gave out. He collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air, clutching his chest.
One thought echoed in his mind, over and over:
I don't want to die.
Ever since he was a child, death had followed him like a shadow. First his grandparents, then his parents... and finally, his older brother. One by one, they all vanished from his life.
He thought he'd grown numb to it. That he'd come to accept the idea of dying himself.
But now, staring into the unknown, death staring back—he realized that was a lie. The mask of strength he'd worn for so long cracked. Beneath it was the same terrified boy, powerless, vulnerable.
He stayed there, motionless on the cold floor, paralyzed by fear.
Behind him stretched an endless hallway swallowed by darkness.
Ahead, the half-open door and the stench of death.
Neither direction offered comfort.
But after what felt like an eternity, Nito forced himself to breathe. Deep, shaky breaths. Slowly, he steadied his nerves.
He had to move forward.
Step by step, he entered the room.
It was vast—almost impossibly so. Darkness pooled in the corners, and a faint glow from the strange black walls was the only source of light. Towering pillars rose into the gloom like the trunks of ancient trees, supporting a ceiling he couldn't even see.
The floor was littered with oversized books, each nearly as tall as he was. Shattered furniture—massive tables, toppled chairs—lay in splinters across the floor. Everything was grotesquely upscaled, as though the room had been built for giants.
Was this a library? Nito wondered, glancing at the debris.
He took a few cautious steps forward, eyes scanning the wreckage.
Then he froze.
In the far corner of the room, slouched in a decaying, ornate chair, loomed the corpse of a giant—massive, withered, and unsettlingly still. Its pale, leathery skin clung to a bony frame, ribs jutting out like prison bars beneath the flesh. Long strands of white hair hung like cobwebs over its sunken face, and though its eyes were closed, the air around it pulsed with the sense that it was only pretending to sleep.
A surge of primal fear surged through Nito's body.