Alex woke with a jolt.
Every muscle in his body screamed. Sweat clung to his skin like oil, and a dull, grinding ache pulsed in his bones. He tried to move, but his limbs refused. It wasn't paralysis—no. It was something else. There were no chains. No cuffs. But he couldn't lift a finger.
He didn't know who he was. Not truly.
Not his name, not his past.
Not how he came to be here.
Only the pain was familiar.
Then—light.
A soft click echoed through the darkness as a single candle flickered to life, several feet away. The flame danced weakly, casting jagged shadows on stone walls. A figure held it—slender, cloaked, silent. Then, a voice, low and melodic:
"Padre sacramentum."
It was a woman's voice… or at least, it sounded like one. As soon as the words were spoken, other candles flared to life one by one, spreading in a ritualistic arc until the entire chamber was dimly lit in soft amber glow.
Alex blinked against the pain that pulsed in his skull. He tried again to move, to sit, to stand—but his body stayed pinned to the cold floor. He glanced down.
No ropes.
No iron.
Just him.
And something he couldn't see holding him down.
He wasn't alone. Dozens of shadowed figures now surrounded the perimeter of the room, each one holding a candle. Their faces were hidden, shrouded by deep hoods. The circle was perfect—intentional. Something sacred, something profane.
Then the memories came.
Not one at a time—but all at once.
Blood. Screams. Metal against bone. Fire. A door slamming shut behind him over and over and over again.
They tore through his mind like claws.
Alex screamed. Not from fear—but from agony. He clutched his head, his vision burning with images he couldn't control. And as he screamed, the first figure—the woman—laughed.
He knew her.
He didn't know how… but he did.
He'd seen her before. Many times. Every time she came, the pain followed.
Her laughter rang through the stone walls like a hymn of cruelty.
Alex gasped and tried to crawl backward, even though he couldn't move. The effort amused her. She took a slow step forward and began chanting again—low, sharp syllables that echoed strangely in the chamber. Latin. But not church Latin—older. Darker.
In her hand, she held a crucifix.
Burning.
With every word, the floor began to glow. Flames erupted silently from a hidden circle surrounding him, tracing the pattern of a pentagram. At its center was an inverted cross, carved into the ground beneath his body.
The flames didn't spread outward.
They rose.
Higher.
Hotter.
But they didn't burn the cloaked figures.
Not even her.
The woman stepped into the circle of fire, untouched by it. She approached him with slow, graceful steps, her burning crucifix raised like a relic. Alex tried to scream no, but the words that left his lips weren't English. They were older—instinctive.
Words of a language he'd never learned but somehow knew.
Still, the woman advanced. As she reached him, she threw back her hood.
And Alex's breath caught.
She had a human form.
But she wasn't human.
Her skin was too smooth. Too pale. Her eyes were hollow—voids that didn't end, but stretched into other realms entirely. Looking at her felt like drowning.
He turned away.
But her gaze dragged him back.
He was forced to look.
She pressed the burning crucifix to his chest.
And Alex burned.
He didn't scream this time—he howled. His body arched, wracked with waves of pain no mortal should feel. The crucifix was melting into his flesh, dissolving into his ribs, embedding into his heart. The air thickened, pressing on his lungs. The invisible chains gripped tighter.
The room was on fire.
All of it.
The circle.
The shadows.
Reality.
And through it all… she laughed.
Then came the voice.
Not hers.
Another woman's. Somewhere inside his skull.
Singing.
"La la la… runaway, runaway, my love… runaway, runaway, my sweet love…"
And then—darkness.
Silence.
Alex couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. He floated in the black, suspended between death and something worse.
And just like that… he woke again.
But this time, the room had changed.
The woman was screaming—writhing, clutching at her face as black ichor spilled from her mouth. The fire was gone. The pentagram smudged. Alex could move.
And he did.