Eternal twilight swallowed the horizon as Alma's consciousness clawed its way back into existence. Her eyes fluttered open to a sky stained crimson—thick, pulsing, as though it breathed with a life of its own.
The air was dense, pressing on her chest, humming with memories she didn't want and voices she couldn't place.
For a moment she didn't remember her name. Only the cold. Only the weight.
She stood alone in a landscape where reality curled inward, folding over itself like a dying thing. Broken trees twisted into impossible shapes; shadows leaked across the ground like spilled ink, slithering toward her feet.
Alma inhaled slowly, trying to steady the panic rising in her throat—but the air felt wrong. Heavy. Saturated with something ancient.
"Where… am I?" she whispered. The sound floated, thin and fragile, swallowed instantly by the vast emptiness.
Then the temperature plummeted.
A presence materialized behind her. It didn't walk. It simply was. Tall. Cloaked in shifting darkness. An outline of menace carved into the fabric of the realm. Alma's breath hitched, her pulse slamming against her ribs as she turned slowly to face it.
The figure stepped forward, shadows pouring off its form like smoke. Only the faint shape of a mouth was visible under the hood—curved in something too cold to be called a smile.
Fear, sharp and instinctive, shot through her.
"Who… who are you?" she asked, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound firm.
"I," the figure said, its tone low enough to vibrate through her bones, "am your salvation."
The words slithered across her skin like ice.
"I come to give you purpose."
A bitter laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "Purpose? In this place?"
"You seek revenge," the figure continued, ignoring her tone. "For every wound they gave you. Every humiliation. Every night you cried alone."
Alma's throat tightened. Memories flickered—shouting voices, cruel laughter, hands pushing her down, the sensation of water closing over her head, the helplessness. The darkness. The fear.
Her hands balled into fists.
"What purpose?" she forced out.
The figure tilted its head. "To make them pay. All of them. But in exchange…"
Its voice deepened, curling with hunger. "Your soul."
A silence stretched, thick as blood.
Her stomach twisted—but not with fear. With anger. With a rage she had carried for too long. A rage that had grown roots in her chest.
She remembered the faces of her cousins—cold, sneering.
Her classmates—whispering, mocking.
The man… the one who hurt her and left her to die.
The prank. The water. The darkness.
Her lungs burning as she sank.
Her voice trembled, but with fury now, not fear.
"Take it," she whispered. "Take my soul. Just give me the power."
The figure's smile stretched, inhuman. Satisfaction radiated from it as it stepped closer, raising its hand. The shadows behind it writhed like serpents.
"Good," it murmured.
Its fingers touched Alma's forehead.
A surge of power tore through her like lightning—blinding, searing, intoxicating. Her scream echoed through the realm, but she didn't know if it came from pain or exhilaration. Her senses expanded beyond the limits of her human body. She felt everything—every whisper of air, every ripple of shadow, every heartbeat that wasn't hers.
When the figure pulled its hand away, Alma was trembling, breath rapid, eyes glowing with an unnatural red light.
"What… did you do to me?" she asked, voice low, changed, sharpened.
The figure did not answer.
But she already knew.
"Dark magic," she whispered.
The figure turned, its form flickering like a dying flame. "You're going back."
Her heart lurched. "Back? To where?"
"Your world."
Before she could speak again, the realm around her twisted violently. Flames erupted beneath her feet—bright, engulfing light swallowing everything. Her scream was lost in the blaze as her consciousness shattered into white.
-------★
Alma jolted awake.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat clinging to her skin as she sat upright in bed. It took her a moment to orient herself—to remember she was no longer in that hellish realm. She was in a room. A hotel. One she had paid for with money stolen from people who no longer needed it.
Because they no longer breathed.
Her breath steadied slowly, but the memory—the flashback—lingered inside her like an echo she couldn't escape.
She ran a hand down her face, fingers trembling slightly. "That dream… again."
She stood, the bedsheets sliding off her body. The moment her feet touched the floor, the atmosphere in the room rippled. The shadows shifted, swaying with her movements like obedient creatures awaiting command.
Her eyes glowed faintly—red, pulsing—illuminating the dimly lit room in eerie flashes.
The dagger resting on the bedside table glimmered. A faint hum filled the air, responding to her presence like a loyal pet sensing its master.
Alma moved toward the window.
Each step was silent.
Each breath measured.
Each thought sharpening into cruelty.
Outside, the city buzzed. People walked, cars moved, the world continued its rhythm—busy, alive, completely unaware of the storm preparing to tear through it.
She leaned against the glass, her reflection warped with red gleams.
Memories crept in again.
The girls in school who whispered and laughed behind her back.
The boys who shoved her, tripped her, humiliated her.
Her cousins who treated her like garbage, ordering her around, mocking her existence.
The man she could never forget—the one whose touch made her shrink inside her own skin.
The prank that pushed her underwater, teeth chattering, lungs burning as her vision dimmed.
Her jaw clenched.
Her nails dug into her palms.
Every muscle in her body tightened with rage.
"They'll pay," she whispered.
As if reacting to her fury, the dagger vibrated and flew into her hand with a sharp metallic hum. Telekinesis came naturally now—an extension of her will.
She twirled the blade effortlessly, her expression shifting into something twisted, almost joyful.
She remembered their screams.
Their terror.
The moment they realized she was no longer the girl they tormented.
Her lips curled upward—not in a smile, but something darker.
But one name stood out from the chorus of hatred in her mind.
Celine.
That girl with the pretty face.
The one who had everything she didn't.
The attention.
The love.
The life Alma believed she deserved.
"Celine," she murmured, rolling the name on her tongue like poison. "She's next."
Her eyes lit up again—brighter this time, flickering like crimson fire.
"I'll kill her," she whispered, voice trembling with excitement. "And everything she holds dear. I'll make Pristine High my hunting ground. Let them feel what fear really tastes like."
The shadows around her stretched toward her feet like loyal beasts.
She laughed.
First a small chuckle.
Then into a louder one.
Then a full, manic cackle—sharp enough to slice through the air.
Outside, birds scattered in panic, wings beating furiously as they fled from the sound.
The city continued moving, unaware that hell had already opened its gates—and Alma was stepping through, dagger in hand, ready to paint the world in agony.
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