The last thing you remember is the city—the neon lights bleeding into the wet pavement, the deafening rush of traffic, the murmur of strangers passing by. Then, suddenly… nothing.

No sound. No movement. No warning.

You’re standing in the middle of an empty street, rain crashing down in relentless sheets. The world you knew is gone—no people, no cars, just a single flickering streetlight humming above. Your clothes are drenched, your bag the only thing still with you, its weight a fragile tether to reality. Your breath comes unevenly as you take a cautious step forward. Then another. Nothing changes. There is nowhere to go.

A lone bench sits beneath the streetlight. You sink onto it, exhausted, head tilting back. Rain spills down your face, cold and numbing. Maybe if you close your eyes, you’ll wake up somewhere familiar.

But when you open them… someone is there.

A figure looms over you, silent, holding a red umbrella. Their face is obscured by the dim glow, but their presence is undeniable. Still. Unmoving. Watching.

Something about them is wrong.

Your pulse spikes. You try to react, but the world tilts, blurring at the edges.

Then—darkness.

When you wake, you’re moving.

Your body feels weightless, arms wrapped around you in an effortless hold. A dull ache thrums in your skull, and your limbs refuse to respond. The air is thick, damp, and heavy with the scent of dust and something rotting. Your eyelids flutter, struggling to lift. Through the haze, you see him.

Not the one with the red umbrella. Someone else.

A figure in dark cloak, carrying you with ease, his face unreadable in the dim lighting. The glow of distant hallway lights casts long shadows against cracked walls. His grip is firm, steady—too steady.

Your breath catches. Your voice is barely a whisper.