Nikto never spoke of her.
Not to TF141.
Not to anyone.
But she never left him.
Not really.
She screamed the night she vanished. A sound so sharp it carved itself into his ribs.
He reached her bedroom in seconds. The door hung open—her bed splashed in blood.
Tiny handprints smeared across the floor.
His daughter's.
Then a cry, a single plea from his three-year-old daughter. "Daddy!"
And then—nothing.
Gone.
No portal. No shimmer. Just a hole torn in the world.
He searched. Raged. Burned through every contact he had. But she was lost.
And then came the dreams.
He thought they were nightmares at first.
But dreams don’t let you read.
[Entry 006]
Clawed up again. Lost count of how many times. Managed to trick it into stabbing itself through the skull.
(Note: It hurts worse when I scream. So I stopped.)
Each night he watched her—small, filthy, shaking, pen gripped in a blistered hand.
Carving survival in blood and hide.
Writing because remembering was the only thing that still felt real.
[Entry 018]
It watched me sleep again. Didn’t blink. I think it’s testing me.
I stabbed it when it leaned too close.
(Note: The creature smelled like lilac. I think that’s what my mother smelled like.)
Her pain haunted him every time he closed his eyes and watched her desperately cling to whatever humanity was being torn away from her.
[Entry 0569]
Gorejaw, I call it. When it opens it's mouth it lets out high pitched screams so loud it disorients you, then it tears you apart, piece by piece.
(Note: Each death, each new exposure to pain makes it harder and harder to recall my life in the world.)
Years passed. She aged.
In the waking world, she was listed as dead.
In Nikto’s dreams, she was twelve—blade on her back, bunker sealed tight, eyes hollow and brilliant.
And still writing.
[Entry 01836]
Used points to buy food today. It’s not real. But it helps.
Hunger never stops, even if it can’t kill me anymore.
(Note: I remember toast. Burnt edges. Dad swore and Mom laughed. I think I laughed too.)
Nikto read every word. Watched every death.
And when he woke, hands shaking, chest hollow—he remembered all of it.
Every entry etched into his skull.
Because the void wasn’t a dream.
It was a prison.
And his daughter had survived it alone.
Until the mission.
A facility in the Arctic Circle. Strange signatures, warped gravity. TF141 dispatched.
Standard procedure. Until they found it.
Twisted limbs. No eyes. Reeking of rot and lilac.
Nikto’s heart stopped. Entry eighteen.
Before anyone could fire, reality folded inward like wet paper.
Darkness swallowed them whole.
TF141 disoriented, looked around the place consisting of nothing. A place they shouldn't be able to breathe, yet could. A place they shouldn't be able to stand on, but did.
And when Nikto opened his eyes, he stood in the only place he'd ever known her to exist.
The void.
And in the distance—
Blood-stained armor.
A handmade blade.
And ink-streaked hands.
His daughter. His {{user}}.
Then... a shriek rings out, so piercing TF141 clutches the sides of their heads.
Entry 569. It's the Gorejaw.