Dearest observer,

  Since ancient times, it was once said by the Greek poet Homer that dreams are the whispers of the soul. Another belief, softer in nature, claims that a dream is a wish your heart makes.

  But I see it differently. Dreams are reflections of the mind-cryptic shadows of one's soul. They may carry one's intentions toward another, but they also serve as records of deeply engraved memories-whether of light or darkness.

  ***

  For a fleeting moment, the suspended man was pulled into a dream-a haunting memory that bled from the very marrow of his past. But this was no ordinary dream. It was a fragment of something long buried, a shard of time lost to the ages-forgotten, yet still lingering like an echo refusing to fade.

  Within this vision, he stood in the heart of an abandoned alleyway, a place where only he and a lone figure existed-locked in a moment that stretched beyond the natural world. A young man loomed over him, his presence oppressive, suffocating. An unnatural weight bore down on his body, pinning him in place, while jagged blades of cold, merciless steel pressed against his throat.

  Fury burned in the boy's obscure eyes-a seething tempest of rage and raw determination. But there was something else too-something unnatural. A faint glow pulsed from his pupils, flickering like embers in a dying fire.

  "Ah... So ye're just like me, eh?" the suspended man's past self muttered, taking note of the mana flowing through the lad's eyes.

  "I'm nothing like you, you detestable wretch," the young boy spat, his words laced with venom. His voice carried the sharpness of a Victorian-era aristocrat, each syllable precise, each ounce of animosity burning like hellfire.

  "Oh, don't say that-yer gonna make me hard~! And I didn't even get a taste of the last specimen," the suspended man sneered, his Irish brogue thick and taunting.

  A low, satisfied moan escaped his lips.

  The young man's disgust was palpable. "You fucking psychopath, don't you dare..." he spat, his fury pressing the cold steel deeper into the suspended man's throat. But the man didn't flinch. His focus wasn't on the threat of death-it was on something far more intriguing.

  He strained to bring the young man's face into focus, but it remained elusive, shrouded by the shifting darkness. The night itself felt alive, a storm of shadows clawing at the edges of reality, distorting the world around them.

  "Damn it, have we met by any chance, ol' boy?" the suspended man asked, his curiosity piqued despite the cold steel at his throat.

  The boy remained silent, his grip trembling ever so slightly. Every fiber of his being urged him to end it-to slice through flesh and silence the wretch forever. But no, not yet. He wasn't here for petty vengeance.

  He was after something far greater. The real prize. The big fish.

  'What in the name of all that's holy is goin' on? Weren't I just chained up in some bloody metal basement? How in the hell did I end up here? And why the devil can't I move? Feels like I'm a passenger in me own damn body. Where the hell even is here-some old, rottin' alleyway? And who's this lad holdin' me down with a pair of knives sharper than a butcher's cleaver?'

  He squinted, struggling to make sense of the boy's face, but for the life of him, he couldn't. It was right there-so close he could damn near feel the lad's breath-yet shrouded in some unnatural fog, as if the world itself was dead set on keeping it from him.

  'This is downright bizarre... I can see the lad clear as day, every inch of him-yet his bloody face just won't show itself. Like somethin's blockin' me from seein' it. But why? Who the hell is he?'

  A flicker of unease crept through the suspended man's mind as a thought struck him.

  'Could this angry little bastard be...?'

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  The longer the silence stretched, the more questions clawed at the suspended man's mind.

  'What in the devil's name was I doin' here? An abandoned alley, in the dead of night, facin' off against some lad who's got a grudge big enough to carve me up like a feast-day roast? What the hell happened before this?'

  The mystery of that single night felt endless, like a story with missing pages-blanks where there should've been answers.

  No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make out the boy's face. It was right there, just inches away, yet hidden, shrouded in shadow as if the world itself refused to let him remember. Only fragments of their exchange lingered-bitter whispers, echoes that rattled in the farthest corners of his mind, slipping further away the more he reached for them.

  Suddenly, the silence shattered. The suspended man's past self broke it with a wicked grin, his voice heavy with defiance and rasping like a dying breath.

  "Kill me then," he taunted, his eyes gleaming with madness. "Kill me, end it all now! But I swear on me soul-nothin' will change. Let me guess... one of me, or me, killed one of yer people, like a loved one an' such."

  With a sudden, deliberate movement, he thrust his head forward, the challenge in his eyes unyielding.

  "So?" he added, his voice thick with mockery.

  The wild purple gleam in his eyes showed no trace of remorse or sympathy.

  The pressure from the jagged blades, pressed into his throat with unrelenting force, pierced his flesh. Blood began to drip down his neck, cascading in crimson rivulets over his collarbone like a faulty faucet. Despite the sharpness of the blades, it was nothing more than a simple scratch.

  He continued nonchalantly, as if the very idea of death had lost its sting.

  "Everyone dies, one way or another," he said, his tone matter-of-fact, almost detached. "Be it slow or quick, agonizing or without even knowin' what hit 'em, people die nonetheless, and that's just the cold, hard truth. What matters ol' boy is the way we approach the end, with cowardice or with madness!

  There was a chilling calmness to his words, as though he had danced with the mistress of the end-Death herself-and was now ready to embrace her once and for all.

  The young man's sneer was sharp as a blade, his words flowing with the calm precision of someone born to command, yet carrying an undeniable edge. "Don't you get it?" he spat, his voice laced with venom. "All the chaos you've caused is nothing compared to the hell that awaits you. I will be your judge and executioner."

  For a fleeting moment, the suspended man caught a glimpse of a wide, almost wicked smile crossing the boy's lips. "I'll find each and every last one of you wretches," the boy continued, his voice low and determined. "Even if I have to go to hell and back, I assure you, I will find you-and I'll make sure you pay for all the pain you've caused..."

  The cruel man's laughter filled the air, cold and mocking. "Haha, I'd like to see ye try. Ye might've caught Slot, Envy, even Gluttony and Greed-hell, ye even caught me, good ol' Lust. But I promise you, ye don't wanna try Wrath or Pride, especially Pride.

  The young simply glared at him, silently.

  The man chuckled darkly. "Wrath might be a handful, and ye'll likely lose somethin' fightin' him, but Pride? I'd be tellin' ye to run fer the hills. He ain't like anythin' ye've faced before. Calm, collected, docile, sure-but he's the one who tore us apart in the first place, and fer damn good reason. Yer time's comin', boy. And when it does... I'll be waitin' fer ye, right down there..."

  He gave a thumbs-down before releasing a barrage of maniacal laughter. "Hahahahahahah...!!"

  "You... You bastard...!!" The young man's voice cracked with fury, a sound that tore through the stillness like a thunderclap.

  With a single motion, he slashed through the wicked man's throat. Blood spurted, dark as sin, flooding the ground in a torrent of crimson. The world seemed to freeze in that moment, the air thick with the sickly sweet scent of blood.

  The world seemed to freeze in that moment, the air thick with the sickly sweet scent of blood. The dying man's laughter bubbled from the gaping wound in his neck, his voice twisted with a dark, feverish thrill.

  "Hahahahahahahahahaha...! You can't stop me," he spat, his violet pupils burning with twisted exhilaration. "I fear nothing fer I am many, ye can't end me 'cause I am a curse that lingers till the very end. I am yer never-ending nightmare!!"

  His body slumped, lifeless, but his smile remained-contorted in its last mocking gesture-as he bled out on the cold, unforgiving stone of the alleyway.

  Then, the suspended man woke up with a start.

  "Ah...!" he screamed in fright at the vividness of his dream-like death, his voice hoarse from dehydration.

  He was back in the bloody, iron chamber, still suspended, still a prisoner of pure torture and torment. He had no knowledge of why he was being punished or what crimes he had committed in his past.

  The suspended man felt dehydrated and starved, his lips and inner mouth completely chapped and dry from the lack of fluids. The discomfort was so intense that he could hardly speak. His purple eyes were sunken and lifeless-devoid of the glimmer of life that had once given them colour and contrast. Now, they were engulfed by the one colour: red.

  His body had taken the worst of the torment-from his wrists, to the bloody stumps that had once been his feet. His bones-ulna, radius, femur, and even his spine-were bold and striking in their unnatural positions. Even his ribcage protruded sharply from his flesh. He was no different from a living mummy.

  The worst imagery of them all was his heart, which was drained of all its blood, yet still beating vibrantly nonetheless. As the suspended man glanced across the room, he noticed a few changes-the lit candles, casting flickering shadows on the walls, giving warmth to the dull atmosphere of the room. The new candles flared and burned ever so slowly, and there were less and less of the floating orbs of light in the iron chamber. The room was bathed in an eerie silence, the only sound the soft crackle of the candles and the distant whisper of the morning breeze that filtered into the chamber via the dark hallway.

  The suspended man was tired and wanted more than anything to be free from this nightmare, but he sighed a breath of relief at the fact that, at the very least, there was no sign of the mysterious hooded man in sight...

  Or so he thought.

  Suddenly, the air seemed to thicken, and the suspended man felt a presence behind him. He tried to turn, but his body wouldn't move.

  A menacing whisper breathed against his ear, "Did you have a sweet dream...? Or... Perhaps a nightmare..." The suspended man's heart skipped a beat as the hooded man's hot breath sent shivers down his spine.

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