INT. ARVEN'S ROOM – MORNING
The alarm rings. Arven stares at the ceiling, restless. Sweat clings to his brow, and the faint light of dawn stretches across the floor. His mind replays fragments of last night's dream—the faceless figure, the pleading voice, the blinding light. Every time he closes his eyes, it comes back.
He swings his legs off the bed, dresses quickly, and checks his phone. Notifications flash—messages from friends, news alerts, videos of people fainting in the streets, hashtags trending worldwide.
Arven (quiet, to himself): It's not just me... it's everywhere.
The weight in his chest is real. The urgency gnaws at him, even in the ordinary light of morning.
EXT. STREETS – MORNING
Vendors set up stalls, shouting their wares. Students rush by in crisp uniforms, backpacks bouncing. The usual noise of the streets is present, but underneath it, tension hums—hushed whispers, anxious glances, hurried footsteps.
Man (mutters, passing Arven): Same dream... every night... God help us.
Woman (to friend, uneasy): Are you... sure this is normal?
Friend (forcing a laugh): It's just stories, right?
Stories or warnings? Arven cannot tell. The pulse of fear is subtle, but unmistakable.
INT. SCHOOL – MORNING
Arven walks into class. Phones light up like small fires in the dim room. Students huddle, sharing screenshots of global reports. Teachers whisper behind closed doors, exchanging worried glances.
Suzan (to Ray, whispering): Have you seen it? News is going nuts... nightmares everywhere.
Ray: Everyone's saying it's a sign. Some freak out, some laugh... no one knows.
Arven sits quietly, letting the whispers wash over him. Fear spreads faster than any virus. Pale faces, wide eyes, trembling hands—he watches them all. Yet the dreams have not fully come for him. Not yet.
He glances out the window. The sunlight feels too bright, too sharp, as if the world itself is on edge.
EXT. CAMPUS GROUNDS – LUNCHTIME
Arven sits beneath a tree with May. She studies him closely, chewing quietly, her eyes searching his face.
May (softly): You've been quiet. Tell me what's on your mind.
Arven (hesitant): The dreams... they're getting worse. And I can feel... something's coming. Not everyone's ready for it.
May (concerned): Something? What do you mean?
Arven: I don't know. But it's not just dreams. Look around... people are changing. Fear is... growing.
She swallows, eyes widening slightly. He sees the unspoken question in her gaze—she wants answers he doesn't have.
The wind rustles the leaves overhead, carrying the faint hum of the city. Even in this quiet moment, Arven feels a pulse beneath his feet, a tension in the air.
EXT. SCHOOL HALLWAY – AFTERNOON
Arven walks the corridor, noticing subtle signs of unrest,
Students praying quietly in corners.
Teachers speaking softly, almost afraid.
Posters for church events suddenly pinned everywhere.
He pauses at a bulletin board. A small flyer reads: "Repentance Gathering Tonight — All Are Welcome." He reads it twice, eyes narrowing.
Arven (thinking): They know... or they feel it too.
A classmate bumps into him, nerves visible.
Classmate (nervous laugh): Did you... sleep okay last night?
Arven (forcing a smile): As well as anyone can... I guess.
No one sleeps well anymore. Even ordinary nights are haunted by shadows of what's coming.
EXT. CITY STREETS – EVENING
Arven walks home, alert. The streets are quieter, lights flickering in rhythm with the low hum of distant sirens. People glance at the sky nervously, murmuring among themselves.
Woman (to neighbor): Did you hear it? A low... hum?
Neighbor (uneasy): Probably just the wind... right?
It isn't the wind. Arven feels it too—a vibration underfoot, a pulse in the air. He quickens his pace, sensing movement in the shadows.
He passes a man staring at a cracked cellphone screen, trembling.
Man (muttering): It's coming... it's really coming...
Clouds shift unnaturally above. The sky seems alive, moving too fast, twisting like smoke.
Arven (whispering to himself): I should warn someone... but who would believe me?
INT. ARVEN'S ROOM – NIGHT
The house is silent, every creak amplified in the quiet. Arven sits on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor. Shadows stretch across the room, twisting like smoke. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to push away the lingering weight of the day.
The dream presses at the edge of his mind, faceless, blinding, pleading. Every instinct screams to move, to do something—but his body feels heavy, almost detached from him.
He glances at his phone. Notifications blink in the darkness: friends joking, livestreams of people screaming in streets, news alerts about mass hysteria. The world is awake, panicked, but still nothing touches him directly... yet.
Arven (whispering): It's coming... isn't it?
He sets the phone down, shaking slightly. The thought of sleep terrifies him. He needs control, a distraction. He grabs his console controller and launches a game. The familiar sounds of magic spells, sword clashes, and victory chimes fill the room. For a while, he focuses entirely on combos and timing, letting the adrenaline drown out the fear.
Minutes pass. Hours? Time blurs. He wins, loses, respawns—his fingers tense, eyes darting. But even victory cannot erase the feeling pressing against his chest.
Finally, he pauses. He stands, stretches stiff arms above his head, and walks to the bathroom. Steam rises from the bath as he sinks into the warm water, shoulders submerged, heat crawling into every tense muscle. He closes his eyes, tries to slow his breathing, and lets the quiet of the moment anchor him.
For a few minutes, he almost forgets the dream. He imagines himself somewhere else: sunlight on the campus grounds, May laughing beside him, the warmth of family dinners. But the edges of reality blur, and the figure returns. Faceless. Blinding. Urgent.
He pulls himself from the water, wrapping a towel around his shoulders. The world feels heavier now, darker, the shadows in his room deeper. He sets a mug of tea on the desk, sipping slowly, trying to cling to the mundane—the warmth, the taste, the steam curling around his face.
Still, sleep presses against him. The pull is irresistible. He climbs back into bed, curling under the sheets. Every sound—the wind against the window, the hum of the city outside, the creak of the floorboards—feels amplified, alive. His heartbeat thrums in his ears.
The dream arrives without warning.
Faceless figure, arms outstretched. Blinding light piercing his mind. Shadows curling, whispering, pleading. Every nerve screams, and Arven tries to move—but his limbs feel leaden, paralyzed between waking and falling.
He gasps, springing upright, sweat soaking his hair and sheets. The room is quiet again, but his chest heaves, his hands trembling.
Arven (whispering): No... no... not again.
He sits on the bed, knees drawn up, letting the quiet settle around him. But even in the silence, he feels it—the anticipation, the urgency, the world holding its breath. Somewhere, beyond the walls, something watches. Something waits.
He swallows, trying to focus on ordinary things: the texture of the blanket, the hum of the streetlights outside, the faint scent of lavender soap still lingering from the bath. These small anchors feel fragile, temporary, but they are all he has.
Arven leans back, staring at the ceiling, willing sleep to stay away. The night stretches endlessly before him, a dark expanse of possibility and threat.
Somewhere in the shadows, the dream stirs again.
To be continued...