Silence...

...faint, creeping noises begin to intrude upon the silence. Obinai hears shrill, distant screams, piercing yet eerily familiar. The sounds press against his consciousness, but he doesn't react. His mind, heavy and sluggish, struggles to process the noise. "What is that sound?" he wonders, his thoughts disjointed. "Can't everyone just… be quiet?" Then he remembers...

Back to reality...

With a sudden jolt, Obinai's eyes snap open, and he screams. His body lurches forward as he sits upright, his chest heaving as though he had been suffocating. Sweat clings to his skin, cold and damp, making his shirt stick uncomfortably to his back.

His hands instinctively move to his face, rubbing at his forehead as he squeezes his eyes shut. "Just a dream," he mutters to himself, his voice shaky. "It was just a dream." He exhales slowly, trying to calm his racing heart. The wetness on his forehead feels cool against his fingertips, and for a fleeting moment, he allows himself to relax, leaning back onto his bed.

But then, something feels off. His bed is too hard. The soft give of his mattress is replaced by an cold surface. His brows furrow, and he opens his eyes slowly, expecting to see the familiar ceiling of his room—but what greets him leaves him speechless.

The stars stretch endlessly above him, a breathtaking canvas. Each pinprick of light shimmers like a diamond, scattered across a vast expanse of inky black. Constellations Mya once pointed out him on quiet, clear nights now blaze more vividly than he ever remembered.

Obinai stares, his breath caught in his throat. Tears well up in his eyes, spilling over as awe mixes with an ache so deep it feels like his chest might cave in. He reaches up to wipe his face, but his hands stop halfway. He looks down, and his stomach churns. His palms, trembling in the dim light, are slick with a dark, crimson liquid. Blood. Familiar, sticky, and undeniably real.

He scrambles upright. His desk—the one covered in half-finished homework and energy drink stains—lies splintered against the wall. His favorite band poster flaps in a nonexistent wind, one corner still pinned, the rest dangling over oblivion.

"No no no..." He presses his palms to his temples. Think. Breathe. Fucking THINK.

A gust of wind howls through the gaping hole above, sending loose papers spiraling. His math homework. A doodle of a dragon Mya drew for him. Gone. Just—gone.

"This isn't—" His throat closes. He kicks a crumpled soda can, sending it clattering into the dark. "We're on the seventh floor. Where's the—where's the rest of the building?"

His foot catches on something soft. His laundry, which he always promised to clean, lies in a crumpled heap. The shirt on top—the one with the stupid meme Mya bought him—is shredded, speckled with glass and something darker.

Obinai's stomach heaves.

"Okay. Okayokayokay—" He staggers away.

And then he looks up again. Where there should have been a ceiling, there is nothing but the endless sky, beautiful but still barely visible behind the clouds that never move. The sight sends a fresh wave of confusion and dread coursing through him.

"This doesn't make sense," he mutters to himself, his voice shaky as his mind reels. "We're on the middle floor… where's the rest of the building?"

He looks around the room again, his eyes scanning the familiar chaos of his belongings—but his initial gaze missed something as this time his eyes catches on something that stops him cold. A wave of nausea washes over him. Blood. It's everywhere. Thick, dark smears streak the walls, pooling ominously on the floor. His heart thuds painfully in his chest, his pulse loud in his ears as he takes a shaky step forward.

"No…" he whispers. His feet feel leaden as he moves closer to the nearest streak of blood, his hand brushing against the wall for support. The crimson handprints are unmistakable, dragged down the plaster. His legs tremble, threatening to give out beneath him.

"Mom?" he calls out. The word barely escapes his lips. "Mya? Dad?" The silence that answers him is suffocating...

He takes another hesitant step forward. "Is everything okay?" he asks the void, his voice breaking as he speaks.

As he moves around the corner of his bed, his foot catches on something, and he stumbles slightly. Looking down, he sees a pool of blood soaking into the carpet, the dark stain spreading outward like an ominous shadow. He freezes, his body stiff as he slowly lifts his gaze to take in the rest of the room.

The sheets on his bed are torn and stained with blood, the mattress split open and soaked through. It takes him a moment to realize that the spot he woke up in—the spot he thought was his bed—is actually the middle of the room.

"Mom?" he calls again, louder this time. "Mya? Dad?" The silence calls back to him, the absence of any response amplifying his growing terror. Tears blur his vision as he steps cautiously toward the doorway, his hands shaking so violently that he has to clutch at the wall to steady himself.

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He rounds the corner.

"Please…" Obinai whispers, his voice trembling and barely audible as he forces himself forward. His entire body screams at him to turn back, to retreat into the comforting denial that nothing is wrong. But his heart drives him forward, each shaky breath a prayer, "Please be okay. Please."

When he finally steps into the hallway, his breath catches in his throat. His legs freeze, and his mind reels.

Scattered across the blood-soaked floor, partially obscured by overturned furniture and crumpled papers, are the bodies of his family. His mother lies closest to the wall, her once-soft features frozen in a mask of horror. Her wide-open eyes stare vacantly at the ceiling, her hand outstretched toward the dining table as if she had been reaching for something—or someone. Blood streaks down her face, pooling beneath her head and staining her favorite floral dress a deep crimson.

Beside her, Amos—his father—lies in a grotesque heap, his body twisted at unnatural angles. His right arm is bent backward, the bone protruding from his elbow, white against the dark red. His glasses are shattered, one lens missing, and his jaw hangs slack and broken, his lips parted as though he had been mid-shout. Blood has soaked through his shirt, the fabric torn in jagged lines across his chest.

Obinai's gaze shifts, and his stomach churns violently. Mya's small form is crumpled near the hallway's far corner. Her face is turned away from him, her tiny body almost blending into the debris and blood that surrounds her. The bright pink shirt she loved to show off is now soaked through, the cheerful color swallowed by deep, seeping red.

"No…" Obinai breathes, the word barely audible as the strength leaves his legs. He collapses to the floor with a dull thud, his knees striking the cold, blood-slick floor. His chest tightens painfully. "No, no, NO!" he screams, his voice cracking as he drags himself forward on trembling hands and knees, the sticky blood clinging to his skin.

He reaches his mother first. Her hand, cool and stiff, sends a shiver down his spine as he grips it tightly. "Mom…" he chokes out, shaking her limp arm. "Please… wake up. Please." But her empty gaze offers no comfort, no recognition.

He turns to his father next, his tears falling in heavy drops onto Amos's bloodstained shirt. "Dad…" His voice wavers as he grips his father's shoulder, trying to shake him gently despite the unnatural angle of his arm. "Don't leave me. Please, Dad. Wake up. Tell me this isn't real!" His sobs deepen, wracking his body as he buries his face against Amos's chest, the familiar scent of his cologne now mingled with the sharp tang of blood.

Then his gaze falls on her...

Obinai's fingers twitch toward Mya's shoulder, hovering for a fractured second before making contact. That damn pink shirt of hers—the one that was almost impossible to have her let go of—is stiff with dried blood. He turns her over, hands shaking so badly he almost drops her.

No no no—

Her face is pale. Too pale. Her eyes—always so bright, always rolling at his stupid jokes—are open. Empty. A thin line of blood trickles from the corner of her mouth, cutting a dark path down her cheek.

"Mya?" His voice cracks. He brushes his thumb across her cheekbone, smearing the blood. "Hey. Wake up. This was supposed to be fake damnit. This isn't funny."

Silence.

A fly lands on her eyelid.

Obinai's stomach heaves. He gags, acid burning his throat, but nothing comes up.

"I thought—" He presses his forehead to hers. Her skin is cold. "It was a dream. Had to be. But this..."

His gaze drops.

Oh god.

Her right side is—gone. Torn open in a ragged mess of shredded fabric and—is that her lung. Rib bones peek through the ruin, white against the dark red.

Obinai scrambles backward, hands slipping in blood. His elbow cracks against the floor. Pain shoots up his arm. He doesn't care.

"NO!" It echoes off the broken walls, too loud in the silence.

He lunges forward, gathering her up. Blood—so much blood—soaks into his jeans, hot and sticky.

"I'm sorry," he chokes, rocking her. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—"

His tears drip onto her face...

Then—

In the distance, faint laughter ripples through the oppressive silence. Obinai's body stiffens as the surreal sound reaches his ears. It's his family's laughter—light, familiar, and hauntingly out of place. The laughter twists and morphs into screams, echoing in his mind, each one clawing at the edges of his sanity.

Clutching Mya's lifeless body closer, he rocks back and forth. "It's not real," he whispers, trying to convince himself. "This isn't happening. It can't be happening."

Over the pounding of his heart, another sound emerges—footsteps. Faint at first, distant and almost dismissible, but they grow louder, more distinct. Obinai freezes, his body tensing as the rhythmic sound of boots and lighter footfalls echo through the hallway outside. His head jerks toward the door, his breath caught in his throat.

The footsteps are purposeful. A group. Each step reverberates ominously in the suffocating quiet. Who are they? he wonders, his thoughts racing. Are they here to help? To finish what they started?

The room is deathly still except for his uneven breaths and the relentless approach of the footsteps. He can't stop shaking. His hands tremble uncontrollably as he tries to wipe his tears away, smearing blood across his face.

He looks down at his sister again, the sight of her torn body making bile rise in his throat. He tries to hold her closer, but his hands are slick with blood, and the sensation makes him recoil, his stomach churning more as he scrambles backward on his hands and knees. "I… I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice breaking as he collapses to the floor. His chest heaves, and a guttural retch tears through him. He doubles over, his body convulsing as he vomits finally, the acidic burn in his throat barely registering.

Wiping his mouth with a trembling hand, he collapses onto his side, curling into himself. Sobs wrack his body as he lays in the cold, sticky puddle of blood, the world spinning around him. "This isn't real," he mutters to himself, his voice muffled against the floor. "It can't be real. It can't."

The footsteps grow louder, closer. He hears the faint murmur of voices now, low and urgent, their tone impossible to decipher through the pounding of his heart. Panic claws at his chest. What do they want? he thinks, his mind spiraling. What are they doing here?

His body trembles as he hugs his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible, as if the world might forget him if he could only disappear into the shadows. "Please…" he whispers. "Please just go away."

The murmurs grow louder, the voices coming closer. He still can't make out the words, but the urgency in their tone chills him. The footsteps stop just outside the door, and the silence that follows is deafening, more oppressive than the noise.

Then, with a loud crash, the door slams open, the sound splitting the silence like a gunshot. Obinai flinches violently, his body curling tighter as the blood-stained air rushes in around him. The footsteps advance quickly, closing the distance in seconds.

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