The cold hit me first. A deep, bone-aching cold that felt wrong. It wasn't the icy bite of Moscow's snow. That cold had teeth, it screamed. This was… quiet. Empty. Like the cold inside a tomb. Then came the smell. Sharp chemicals burned my nose – bleach, maybe something stronger. Underneath that, something old and dry, like dust caught in forgotten corners, and… something else. Something faintly sweet and rotten, like old flowers left too long in water. It made my stomach twist.
I opened my eyes.
White. Blinding, painful white. It stabbed into my head like needles. I squeezed my eyes shut, groaning. The sound was rough, unfamiliar. My throat felt raw, scraped. When I tried again, blinking slowly, the white resolved into shapes. A ceiling. Plain, smooth, too clean. Bright electric lights buzzed overhead, trapped inside metal cages. Like prison lights.
Where…?
The question died before it fully formed. My head felt thick, stuffed with wool. Memories swam – jagged pieces that cut when I touched them. Snow. So much snow, stained red. Gunfire cracking like ice. Pain. Terrible pain… my arm… tearing… Mark Velics' face, hard and furious, looming over me… and the Door. The impossible Door made of bodies… the voice calling… the freezing burn as I touched it…
*I died.*
The thought landed with a heavy thud in my silent mind. Not a question. A fact. I had crawled towards that horror, pressed my ruined body against it, and… stopped. Everything stopped.
So why was I seeing this white ceiling? Why did I feel this crushing cold? Why did my *left* arm… I looked down.
My breath caught. Stuck. Vanished.
It wasn't my arm. Not the arm I remembered. That arm… it ended in screaming pain and darkness on a mountain. This arm was whole. Long. Pale. So pale it looked almost blue under the harsh light. The skin was smooth, tight over muscle that stood out sharply, like cords of wire. My hand lay limp on a thin, grey blanket. The fingers were long, the nails clean but strangely sharp-looking. I tried to wiggle the fingers. They moved stiffly, like they didn't quite belong to me.
Panic, cold and sharp, started to prickle under my skin. I pushed myself up. Or tried to. My body felt impossibly heavy, drained. Every movement was a huge effort. My muscles screamed weakly in protest, not with pain, but with a deep, utter exhaustion. Like I hadn't moved in years. Like all my strength had been sucked out.
Finally, I managed to sit up. My head swam, the white room tilting. I gripped the thin blanket, my knuckles standing out white on the pale skin. I was on a narrow metal bed, bolted to the floor. The mattress was thin and hard. The grey blanket was rough against my skin. I looked down at myself.
I was naked. Completely. And this body… it wasn't mine. The muscles were too defined, carved like stone beneath the unnaturally white skin. My chest was broad, ribs visible, stomach flat and hard. My legs were long and lean, ending in large, pale feet. I raised my hands, turning them slowly. Young hands. Strong hands. But not *my* hands. The hands of a stranger. A powerful stranger who felt weak as a newborn kitten.
*Three years later… in the body of a Russian immigrant…*
The words floated up from the fog, not my own memory, but something told, something *known*. Three years? Russian immigrant? France? It made no sense. The last thing I knew was the snow of Moscow, the blood, the Door.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The cold metal floor shocked my bare feet. I stood up. Or rather, my legs buckled. I crashed hard onto my knees, the impact jarring up my spine. I gasped, clutching the edge of the bed for support. My whole body trembled. Not just weakness. Hunger. A gnawing emptiness deep inside my gut, so intense it felt like a physical pain. But not for food. The thought of bread, meat, anything normal… it made my stomach churn violently. What did I want? I didn't know. The emptiness just screamed.
*Creature of the night.*
The phrase echoed, cold and final. I looked down at my pale skin, my trembling, strangely strong limbs. What did that mean? What *was* I?
A sound. Small. Close. A rustle of fabric.
My head snapped up. Instinct. Old soldier instinct, buried deep but not dead. My eyes scanned the room. It was small, maybe ten feet by ten feet. White walls, white ceiling, white floor – all smooth, seamless, like polished stone or poured concrete. No windows. One heavy metal door, painted grey, with a small, thick glass window set high up. No handle on this side. Just a blank metal plate where a lock would be. Prison cell. That's what it was.
But I wasn't alone.
Across the small room, against the opposite wall, sat a woman. She was perched on an identical metal bed, her back very straight. She wore a simple grey shift dress, shapeless and coarse. Her hair was long and dark, tangled, falling around a face that was… blank. Empty. Her eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking, fixed on nothing. She didn't react to my fall, to my movement. She just sat, perfectly still, like a doll propped up.
*Melin. An undying woman.*
The knowledge clicked into place. Another piece of the strange information floating in my head. Was this her? Was she undying? She looked… dead. Or beyond caring.
"Hey," I croaked. My voice was rough, unused. It sounded different. Deeper? "Hey, you."
No reaction. Not a flicker in her dark, staring eyes. Not a twitch of her fingers resting limply on her lap. She was breathing, I saw the slight rise and fall of her chest under the grey dress, but it was slow, shallow. Like breathing was just a habit her body remembered.
Frustration bubbled up, mixing with the panic and the gnawing hunger. Where was I? What was happening?
I forced myself back onto my feet, using the bed for support. My legs shook, but held. Barely. I shuffled towards the door. Three steps. Each one an effort. I reached the cold metal. It felt solid, immovable. I pressed my eye to the small, thick window.
A corridor. Just as white, just as brightly lit. Empty. It stretched left and right, disappearing into the harsh light. The walls were the same smooth white material. Doors, identical to mine, spaced evenly down the hallway. More cells.
I pounded a fist weakly against the metal. The sound was dull, muffled. "Hey!" I shouted, my voice rasping. "Is anyone there? Let me out!"
Silence. Only the faint, constant buzz of the lights overhead answered me. I pounded again, harder this time, putting what little strength I had into it. *Boom. Boom. Boom.* The metal vibrated under my fist. Still nothing. No footsteps. No voices. Just the buzz and the silence pressing in.
I slumped against the door, the cold metal chilling my bare skin. The exhaustion washed over me again, heavier this time. The hunger twisted inside me. I slid down the door until I was sitting on the cold floor, my back against the unyielding metal. I looked at Melin. She hadn't moved. She hadn't even looked towards the noise.
"What is this place?" I whispered, more to myself than to her. "Who put us here?"
No answer. The silence was its own answer. It was heavy, watchful. I felt eyes on me, though I saw no one. It made the skin on the back of my neck prickle. I wrapped my arms around my knees, trying to conserve what little warmth I had. My body felt cold, but not dangerously cold. Just… unnaturally cool. Like stone left in the shade.
Time passed. It was hard to tell how much. There were no clocks, no changes in the light. Just the endless white and the constant buzz. My thoughts chased each other, frantic and useless. The war. The mountain. Mark Velics. The Door. The voice. Death. Then… this. This pale, strong, weak body. This white room. This silent woman who might never die.
*Orphanage.* The word felt like a sick joke. This was no place for children. This was a cage. A laboratory cage. *The Court of Doom.* The name sent a different kind of chill through me. Who were they? What did they want with me? With Melin? With… others?
As if thinking it summoned him, a sound came from the cell next to mine. Not a shout. Not a bang. A low moan. Then a thrashing sound, like someone wrestling with their bedsheets. Then… a choked gasp, followed by rapid, panicked breathing.
Someone else was awake.
I pushed myself up, ignoring the weakness, and pressed my ear against the wall separating my cell from the next one. The material was thick, dense. Sound was muffled, but I could hear it clearly enough.
"No… no, get off! Get away!" A man's voice, thick with sleep or terror. "The fire… it's everywhere! Don't touch her!" His voice rose to a ragged shout. "LEAVE HER ALONE!"
Then came the sound of a body hitting the floor. Hard. A groan of pain. More ragged breathing, turning into sobs. Deep, wracking sobs that sounded like they were being torn from his chest.
*Jark. A man who is capable of entering the dreams of others.*
So, the third one. He sounded young. Terrified. Trapped, like me. Trapped in nightmares, maybe?
"Hey!" I called out, pressing my mouth closer to the wall. "Hey! You! Jark? Are you alright?"
The sobbing hitched. Silence for a beat. Then, his voice, shaky and close, as if he'd pressed himself against the wall too. "Who… who's there? Who are you?"
"I'm in the next cell," I said, keeping my voice low. "My name is…" I hesitated. What *was* my name? The soldier? The Right Hand? That man died on the mountain. The Russian immigrant? I didn't know his name. The word came out, simple, stark. "O. Call me O. Are you hurt?"
A shaky breath. "Hurt? I… I don't know. I fell. The fire… it was so real." His voice trembled. "Where are we? What is this place? It smells… wrong."
"I don't know," I admitted. The hunger twisted again, sharper. Talking seemed to make it worse. "A prison. White rooms. No windows. There's a woman here with me. Melin. She doesn't speak."
"Melin?" Jark sounded confused, then a spark of recognition. "Oh. The quiet one. She's… always like that. Since they brought her in." He paused. "How long have you been here? I… I lose track. The dreams… they bleed into everything."
"I just woke up," I said. "Feels like minutes ago. Hours? I don't know." A thought struck me. "Jark, can you… can you do anything? Your… ability?"
A bitter, shaky laugh came through the wall. "My curse, you mean? Enter dreams? Right now, I can barely tell if I'm awake or still trapped in that burning barn. Trying to focus… it's like trying to grab smoke. Everything feels thin. Weak. Like I'm made of paper." He paused. "You? What are you? They whisper about you. The new one. The pale one who sleeps like the dead."
*Creature of the night.* "I don't know what I am," I said, looking down at my pale hands. The sharp nails seemed longer. "But I feel… wrong. Hungry. Weak."
"We all feel weak," Jark muttered. "Except maybe her." I knew he meant Melin. "They drain us. Or this place does."
Before I could ask what he meant, a new sound cut through the quiet buzz of the lights. A soft, rhythmic clicking. Getting closer. Footsteps. Light, precise footsteps coming down the corridor outside.
My body tensed. Adrenaline, thin and weak but present, shot through me. I pushed away from the wall and scrambled back towards my bed, trying to look as I had when I woke – lying down, maybe still unconscious. I risked a glance at Melin. She hadn't moved. Still staring at nothing.
The footsteps stopped outside my door. I lay on my side, facing the wall, eyes slitted, watching the door through my lashes. I heard the scrape of metal – a key? A bolt being drawn? Then a heavy *clunk*.
The door swung open silently, inward.
Two figures stood in the doorway. Women. They wore identical uniforms: stark white, high-collared dresses that fell to mid-calf, plain and severe. White caps covered their hair completely. Their faces… were smooth. Expressionless. Like masks. Their eyes were large, dark, and utterly empty. No curiosity. No anger. No life. They looked like dolls made of wax. Each carried a simple metal tray.
*The Succubis.*
They moved into the room with unnerving silence, their steps making no sound on the hard floor. One went to Melin's bed. She placed the tray on the small metal table beside it. On the tray was a plain white bowl filled with a grey, lumpy porridge-like substance, and a metal cup of water. The Succubus didn't look at Melin, didn't speak. She just placed the tray and turned away.
The other Succubus approached my bed. I kept my breathing slow, my eyes mostly closed. I felt her presence, a coolness in the air. She placed a similar tray on the small table beside my bed. Grey sludge in a bowl. Water in a metal cup. The smell hit me – bland, starchy, utterly repulsive. My stomach clenched violently, not with hunger for it, but with disgust. The emptiness inside me recoiled.
The Succubus straightened. Her dark, empty eyes swept over me. They lingered for a second on my face. Did she know I was awake? Her gaze held no intelligence, no recognition. It was like being looked at by a camera. Cold. Recording. Then, without a sound, she turned and walked back towards the door. The other Succubus was already waiting there.
They stepped out into the corridor. The heavy door swung shut behind them with a soft, final *thud*. The lock clunked back into place.
Silence returned. Only the buzz. And the smell of that awful grey sludge.
I sat up slowly. Melin hadn't moved. The tray sat beside her, untouched. She didn't even glance at it.
I looked at my own tray. The porridge looked cold, congealed. The water was clear. The hunger inside me screamed, but the sight and smell of the food made me want to vomit. It wasn't *food*. Not for whatever I was now.
*Creature of the night.*
The phrase whispered again. What did creatures of the night eat?
A wave of dizziness hit me. The weakness was back, stronger. The effort of talking, of moving, of the brief adrenaline rush had drained me further. I lay back down on the thin mattress, staring up at the caged lights. The buzzing seemed louder now, drilling into my skull.
Mark Velics. His face flashed in my mind. Hard. Determined. Filled with hate. *His mission is to kill him.* He'd chased me. He'd taken my arm. He'd been the last thing I saw before the Door. He was alive. Out there. While I was trapped in this white tomb, weak and starving in a stranger's body.
A slow, cold fire began to burn in my chest, cutting through the weakness and the hunger. Hatred. Pure, undiluted hatred. It felt familiar. Stronger than the exhaustion.
*Find Mark. Kill him.*
That was the only thought that mattered. The only thing left from the man who died on the mountain. But to do that, I had to get out of here. Out of this white room, past the silent Succubis, away from the Court of Doom.
I looked at the locked door. Solid metal. No handle. I looked at my pale hands. Strong-looking, but shaking with weakness. I looked at the grey sludge, mocking me. How? How could I escape when I could barely stand?
The hunger twisted, sharp and urgent. It wasn't for the sludge. It was a thirst. A deep, burning thirst that seemed to come from the very center of my being. My mouth felt parched, my throat dry as sand. But the water in the cup held no appeal. It wasn't water I craved.
I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the buzzing lights, the white walls, the smell. Trying to ignore the gnawing emptiness and the cold fire of hate. Trying to think.
*Three years.* Three years since I died. Since I fused with that monstrous Door. What happened in that time? How did I end up here, in France, in this body? Who was the Russian immigrant whose life I had stolen? Had he been kidnapped too? Brought to this "orphanage"?
And the others. Melin, the undying woman. What horrors had she seen to make her retreat so completely inside herself? Jark, the dreamwalker, drowning in nightmares. What were they? Like me? Or something else?
*The Court of Doom.* The name alone sounded like a death sentence. They owned this place. They studied things like us. Were they scientists? Sorcerers? Something worse? And the Succubis… silent, empty-eyed maids. Were they human? Or something… supernatural themselves? Tools of the Court?
So many questions. No answers. Only the white walls, the locked door, the weakness, and the terrible, growing thirst.
I must have drifted off. Not sleep, not really. More like falling into a pit of exhaustion. The buzzing light was still there, stabbing my eyelids. The cold floor seeped into my bones. The thirst was a constant ache.
A sound pulled me back. Not loud. A soft sniffle. Then a choked sob. From Jark's cell next door.
"Jark?" I whispered, rolling onto my side to face the wall. My voice was a dry rasp.
Silence for a moment. Then, a shaky whisper. "O? Are you awake?"
"Yes," I croaked. "What's wrong?"
"The dream… it came back." His voice trembled. "The barn. The fire. My sister… she was screaming. I tried to reach her, but the flames… they were like hands, pulling me back. And then… *he* was there. In the dream. Watching. Smiling."
"Who?" I asked, though a cold suspicion formed in my gut.
"Him," Jark whispered, terror thick in his voice. "The one who watches. The tall one with the cold eyes. He's always watching in the dreams now. Like he knows I'm there. Like he's waiting." He took a shuddering breath. "He feels… wrong. Like this place feels wrong."
The tall one with cold eyes. A member of the Court? Their leader? Whoever he was, he was watching Jark's dreams. Spying on his nightmares. The thought made my skin crawl. Were they watching me too? Somehow? The empty eyes of the Succubis flashed in my mind.
"You have to fight it, Jark," I said, though I didn't know how. "Don't let him in."
"I try," he whimpered. "But it's so hard. The dreams pull me under. It's easier… sometimes… to just let them happen." He paused. "What about you, O? What do you dream of?"
I thought of the snow, the blood, the tearing pain, Mark's face, the Door. "The past," I said grimly. "Things I can't change."
"The Succubis brought the… food," Jark said, changing the subject, his voice thick with disgust. "Did you…?"
"No," I said quickly. "Couldn't. It made me sick. You?"
"Tried a bite," he admitted. "Tastes like wet ash. Made me feel weaker. Like it's sucking something out, not putting anything in." He sounded utterly defeated. "How long can we last like this? Getting weaker every day? Until we just… fade away?"
His despair echoed my own fears. The weakness was profound. The thirst was growing, a constant, painful ache deep in my chest. Without real sustenance… how long? Days? Hours?
*Creature of the night.*
The thirst… it wasn't for water. I knew that now with a terrible certainty. It was for something else. Something vital. Something… warm.
The thought horrified me. It felt alien, monstrous. But the hunger, the thirst, pounded at me, insistent, primal. It whispered in the back of my mind, a dark, seductive pull. *Life. You need life.*
I pushed the thought away violently. No. I wouldn't. I was a soldier. A man. Not… not that.
But the thirst remained. A desert inside me.
Time crawled. The white light never changed. The buzz never stopped. Melin never moved. Jark was quiet now, maybe asleep, maybe lost in another dream.
I lay on the hard bed, trapped in my own thoughts. Hatred for Mark Velics burned, a steady flame. It was the only thing that felt strong inside me. The only thing that felt *mine*. The Right Hand of Hitler. That name… that man… he was dead. But the hate he carried, the will to survive, to destroy his enemies… that seemed to have survived the Door. It was the core of me now, wrapped in this pale, strange, starving body.
I had to get strong. I had to find a way to feed this terrible hunger, to quench this thirst, or I would die here in this white room. Again. This time for good. And Mark Velics would win.
The thought was unbearable.
I sat up, ignoring the wave of dizziness. I looked around the cell again, desperately searching for anything I might have missed. A loose tile? A weakness in the door frame? A vent? Nothing. Just smooth, seamless white surfaces. The only features were the bed, the small table with the untouched tray, and the caged light above.
My gaze fell on the metal tray. The bowl of grey sludge. The metal cup of water. Worthless. But the tray itself… it was thin, pressed metal. The edge looked slightly sharp.
An idea, desperate and probably useless, sparked. I picked up the tray. It was light. I gripped the edge. Using all my weakened strength, I tried to bend it. My muscles screamed in protest. The metal groaned slightly but didn't yield. I tried again, bracing it against the edge of the metal table. Straining. Sweat broke out on my forehead, cold and clammy. The weakness was overwhelming.
*Snap!*
A jagged piece of the thin metal tray broke off in my hand, about three inches long, sharp along one edge. It wasn't much. Not a knife. But it was something. A shard. A potential tool.
I quickly hid the broken piece of tray under the thin mattress. The main tray now had a rough, broken edge. I placed it back on the table, the broken part turned towards the wall. Maybe they wouldn't notice. Or maybe they wouldn't care. The Succubis hadn't seemed to care about anything.
Holding the sharp metal shard hidden in my palm, I felt a tiny flicker of something other than hunger and despair. Purpose. A weapon. Small, pathetic, but mine.
I looked at Melin. Still motionless. Did she have any fight left? Or was she truly gone?
"Jark," I whispered against the wall.
A muffled grunt answered. Awake.
"I have a piece of metal," I breathed, barely audible. "Sharp. Hidden."
Silence from the other side. Then, a low, shaky whisper filled with a mix of fear and something else – hope? "Be careful, O. They watch. They always watch."
"Let them watch," I hissed back, the cold hatred flaring. "I'm getting out of here. And I'm killing Mark Velics."
"How?" Jark's voice was full of doubt. "The door... the Succubis... we're weak..."
"I don't know how yet," I admitted, gripping the metal shard tightly. It bit into my palm, a small, sharp pain that felt grounding. Real. "But I will. First... I need to get strong. I need to find..." I trailed off. I couldn't say it. The monstrous need. "...something. Anything."
The thirst surged, painful and demanding. My vision blurred slightly at the edges. The white walls seemed to pulse.
Just then, a new sound echoed faintly down the corridor. Not the clicking footsteps of the Succubis. This was different. Heavier. A slow, rhythmic *thump... thump... thump.* Like something heavy being dragged.
Jark gasped softly through the wall. "Oh no... not again."
"What is it?" I asked, pressing my ear to the cold wall. The dragging sound was getting closer. It sounded wet.
"It's the Cart," Jark whispered, terror choking his voice. "They bring it... when they take someone. Or... bring someone back."
My blood ran cold. "Bring someone back? From where?"
"From... from the Rooms Below," Jark stammered. "Where the Court... works. Where they... test things." His voice dropped to a terrified whimper. "Sometimes they don't come back the same. Sometimes they don't come back at all."
The dragging sound was right outside our block of cells now. Heavy, wet, slow. *Thump... squelch... thump.* Then it stopped.
Silence. Thick, heavy silence. Even the buzzing lights seemed to hush. I held my breath, the metal shard a cold, hard point in my fist. Melin, for the first time since I woke, moved. Her head tilted, just slightly, towards the door. Her empty eyes focused, not on the door, but on a point somewhere beyond it, listening.
Keys jangled. The lock on a cell door down the corridor clunked. Not mine. Not Jark's. Two doors down, maybe. The door groaned open.
Muffled voices. Not the silent Succubis. These were male voices. Cold. Clinical. Unemotional.
"...minimal response this time. Degradation accelerating."
"Subject Gamma-Seven is nearly depleted. Note the cellular collapse in Sector Four..."
"Prepare the extraction chamber. We'll need a fresh sample before disposal."
*Disposal.* The word hung in the air like a poison gas.
There was a wet, heavy sound, like a sack of meat being lifted. A low, pained moan that barely sounded human. Then the dragging sound started again, moving away down the corridor. *Thump... squelch... thump...*
Slowly, the sound faded. The lock on the distant cell door clunked shut. Silence descended again, heavier than before. The smell of bleach and chemicals seemed stronger, trying to mask something else – a coppery tang, faint but unmistakable. Blood.
My thirst exploded. The scent, though faint, sent a jolt through me like lightning. It wasn't repulsive. It was... magnetic. My mouth flooded with saliva. My senses sharpened painfully. I could *hear* Jark's rapid, terrified breathing through the wall. I could *smell* the cold sweat on my own skin. I could *see* the tiny imperfections in the white paint on the wall in front of me. All focused on that fading scent of blood.
The hunger wasn't just emptiness now. It was a roaring beast, clawing at my insides, demanding, *needing* that warmth, that life. The metal shard in my hand felt insignificant. My weakness felt like a cage within the cage.
They were taking people. Testing them. Breaking them. Disposing of them. Like lab rats. Gamma-Seven. Was that a name? A number? Would I become O-One? Or just... disposal?
The cold fire of hatred for Mark Velics merged with a new, white-hot rage for the Court of Doom. For the Succubis. For this white hell.
*I will not be disposed of.*
The thought was a vow, carved into my soul with the sharp edge of my thirst and my hate. I looked at the hidden metal shard. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
I needed strength. Real strength. The strength of the creature they thought they had caged. I needed to feed the beast inside me, or it would consume me from within. I needed blood.
The realization was terrifying. Monstrous. But it was also the only path forward. The only path to survival. The only path to Mark Velics.
The dragging sound was gone. The corridor was silent. But the scent lingered in my heightened senses, a cruel taunt.
I looked at the locked door. Not just an obstacle now. A barrier between me and what I needed to become to escape. Between me and my revenge.
The Succubis would come again. They brought the tasteless slop. But maybe... maybe they brought something else too.
Maybe they brought blood.
The thought was madness. But in this white, silent hell, madness felt like the only sane option. I clutched the metal shard, my pale knuckles white. My red eyes stared at the door, waiting.
The hunger gnawed. The thirst burned. The hate kept me awake.