His surroundings bled into streaks of green and sickly brown as he whizzed through the undergrowth. Sharp branches scraped across his face, leaves clawing at him each one wanting to leave a piece of itself behind.
He was accelerating rapidly, and although he hadn't yet reached a truly dangerous velocity, it was only a matter of time. According to physics, stopping suddenly at such speed could be described with a single word: unfortunate.
Throughout the panicked journey, he twisted his head constantly, trying to shield it from the worst of the impacts. His greatest fear though was the possibility of a solid stone lying directly in his path—worse still, if it struck right between his legs. He tried to clamp them shut, but the roots seemed to disagree, prying them apart as if physical suffering alone wasn't enough. No—something more permanent was required. A touch of mental scar at least. That fear was not unfounded. During the walk here, he had definitely seen at least three of the things. Two had hurtled past him earlier—one close enough to clip his arm. The stone had even seemed to wave as it passed, nearly disabling his right arm for life. Considering he was right-handed, that would have been catastrophically unfortunate.
He burst into a clearing, crashing through a tangle of interlocking branches that hung like spiderwebs across his path.
The noise startled Mike and Andrew. Both turning instantly at the deafening sound—just in time to... still not see him.
Unfortunately, they should have run instead of standing there gaping at the branches shaking on their own. A sight to see, yes, but shouldn't you ask yourself what caused the sight.
Sebastian promptly collided with them, the impact hurling them in opposite directions. They hit the ground hard, bodies folding in on themselves, battered and gasping from the blow.
He reached the tree and stopped dead, suspended in air.
The sudden halt intensified the dizziness that had been building throughout the free but unrequested ride. Roots then erupted from the ground, snaking around his legs and torso, tightening, then began dragging him towards the trunk. He struggled violently, twisting his neck and screaming for help.
Mike and Andrew as expected still couldn't hear him though it seemed they still could certainly feel him as currently they where curled on the forest floor, locked in fetal positions from the pain of Sebastian's body slamming into them.
Sebastian managed to free his head and forced himself to look.
What he saw hollowed him out.
The surface of the tree was changing. The bark darkening, rippling as though heated from within. Instead of burning, it softened—turning rubbery, pliant. The texture reshaped itself, swelling outward, forming the unmistakable silhouette of a woman. An arm stretched free, reaching for him.
"Fuck you. I'm not interested—leave me alone!" he shouted. "Help! Someone help! Chloe—help!" he screamed louder.
He tried to edge away, but there was nowhere to go.
The embrace was cold and unwanted. He could feel something squishy pressing against his back. His thought however got interrupted before he could savour the feeling.
"Finally…" a feminine voice whispered breathless and pleased. "Another meal."
He pissed himself in fright darkness swallowing him whole.
⇨⇨⇨⇨⇨⇨⇨⇨⇨⇨⇨⇨
Sebastian woke with his head pounding. He propped himself up on his elbows, vision blurred, thoughts sluggish and scattered. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here.
First of all, this wasn't his room. Secondly, it wasn't the home of any friend or family member he knew. And this definitely was not a hospital. Had he transmigrated?.
He scanned the room, panic rising. His mind clawed for memory—something was there, hooked just out of reach, struggling like a fish on the line. Soon it would be caught. The only question was whether he had time.
The room was sparsely furnished, utterly lacking the normalcy he was used to. It felt foreign. The walls were wood—lush brown wood—each panel carved with strange, abstract shapes he couldn't properly identify. He stood, his bare feet sinking slightly into a grass-like covering that blanketed the floor, as if the outdoors had been trapped inside.
Two structures stood to his left and right. Calling them doors felt generous. They looked more like paper stretched over thin frames.
He looked down at what he had been sleeping on, a memory of an anime slapping his face.
A fucking futon.
His eyes drifted to a low object nearby which he had noticed earlier. If that was a futon, then this must be a table and this grass like covering was a, what was it again tatii, tattli, No a tatami mat. The realization made him confused perhaps he truly transmigrated. Well it was either that or....or what. Like what the fuck.
Why was this place giving him Japanese vibes?
He pressed a hand to his stomach, checking for pain or numbness.Organs—check.Balls—check.Same size. Maybe bigger. Okay. Check.
"Okay," he muttered. "So not organ trafficking."
His mind lurched toward another possibility.
"Perhaps I'm a sex slave," he whispered. "Let's hope it's not some old geezer."
He subconsciously rubbed his backside as he approached one of the wall carvings.
"Fuck," he muttered. "Looks like I'm chattel."
The image depicted a man and a woman entwined. Whether it was consensual or not was impossible to tell. Wait a moment, was that a woman?.
He turned to a framed calligraphy piece. His brow furrowing as he read the inscription:
Where stature fails and spine bends, duty tends to travel uphill.
He stared at it, trying to decipher its meaning.
Then it clicked.
Cold sweat broke across his scalp and down his spine.
It seemed it wasn't a woman he would be serving but a man.
"No. No. I'm straight—why me?" he cried, collapsing to the floor. His heart felt brittle, fragile. Hot tears streamed down his face as he imagined what might be expected of him.
He clenched his teeth and forced himself upright.
"I'd rather die than be a man's bitch."
He punched one of the paper doors.
It didn't budge.
"What the—ain't this paper?"
He punched again. Pain immediately shot through his hand in response.
He gritted his teeth then proceeded to kick it. Well, that only left his toe with a matching frequency of throbbing, breathing hard through gritted teeth, he tried the handle.
It slid open effortlessly.
ಥ_ಥ
Sebastian froze.
Surely that isn't right.
Did they forget to lock it?
He strained to listen, holding his breath, trying to sharpen his hearing. All he could hear was his own galloping heart.
He stepped into the corridor still keeping alert.
Doors a lot of them. They lined both sides—identical to his own. Six in total. He opened one to look inside. Inside unexpectedly was an empty room, nearly identical to his, minus the futon.
Am I the only one here and why the fuck is this open?
Am I in some kind of sick game. he questioned internally
Fuck how did I end up in this situation and why the fuck cant I not remember the last shit I did.
He sat down, gripping his head, tugging at memories that refused to surface.
He paused listening to an echo of clanging. He listened for a bit then whispered
"someone is near" his hands shaking
The sound continued
Metal striking metal.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang
Chains.
His blood ran cold. Dog chains?, please no. He turned to take a good look and a good look he took
A foot wrapped in chains emerged from the corridor ahead, each step leaving thick droplets of red behind.
This scared him shitless fuck that ain't dye that's surely blood
He immediately hitched up his rob and ran. Yes he was in a bloody fucking bath rob.
He had been running for a few minutes now, tearing down the hallway, flinging doors open, each room identical, each turn making it feel like he wasn't moving at all.
Finally, he arrived at a door that looked different.
The number 100 was etched into it a skull embedded in it.
Below it, the Roman numerals were carved deep into the surface, inlaid with gold.
He opened it—and instantly knew it wasn't wood though it looked like wood.
He continued on his way running past more numbered doors. 99. 98. 97. each one having the skulls begin to leak blood on closing.
He passed 94 and began searching desperately for 93. This had been ongoing for some time causing his heart rate to spike every time he opened a now show. Yes, he couldn't hear the chains, but what if the thing decided to hold the chains like he held his clothing.
Thankfully fate, for once, was not entirely cruel.
Right in front of him stood door 92.
He stared at it, breath ragged.
"Seems I jumped one," he mused.