11:23 PM — Bensile Club
The music throbbed through the walls of the Bensile Club, heavy bass pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the flashing lights. Laughter, perfume, and the faint scent of alcohol filled the air — the kind of chaotic harmony that only a late-night city club could produce.
At one of the corner tables, four people sat together. Unlike the crowd around them — dancing, shouting, living in reckless abandon — this group seemed more composed. They were talking, quietly, as if their conversation mattered more than the rhythm surrounding them.
The woman sitting at the center caught the eye first. Around 157 centimeters tall, mid-thirties, perhaps thirty-five, with fair skin that glowed under the dim club lights. Her rose-pink blazer shimmered subtly as she lifted a half-empty bottle of liquor. A black designer watch clung to her wrist — ticking forward with the same relentless confidence she exuded. Her hair was pinned up, held together by a thin Chinese hair stick. Her figure was fuller than most, her BMI likely around 25 to 27, yet she carried herself with unapologetic poise.
She poured another glass of wine and slid it toward the man sitting across from her — a young man, around twenty-four or twenty-five. Tall, slender, about 180 centimeters, with dark hair and sharp eyes that seemed slightly out of place in the dim club light. His face was youthful, his demeanor quiet, almost distant.
"Come on, Sherlock," the woman said with a teasing smile. "Just one glass. Don't make me drink alone."
Before he could answer, another man leaned back in his chair with a chuckle. Sam, somewhere in his mid-thirties, blond hair slightly tousled, his sharp blue eyes glinting with mischief. His black blazer was unbuttoned, revealing the casual arrogance of someone who didn't care much for rules.
"Mrs. Wilson," Sam said, smirking, "stop forcing the poor boy. You know he doesn't drink. Right, Sherlock?"
Mrs. Wilson — Christina Wilson — laughed, waving him off.
"Oh please, Mr. Sam! If not now, then when? I barely get the chance to drink these days. My little William's already seven, and you think I can drink freely at home?"
Another voice joined in, deeper, with a tone of polite amusement.
From beside her, a man leaned forward. He was around 5'11", wearing a crimson-red shirt rolled up to his elbows, his forearms covered in hair. His gold-rimmed glasses gleamed beneath the dim lights. Renix Taylor, calm and observant, smiled as he spoke.
"Christina," he said, "I don't think Wilson or little William would appreciate seeing you like this. You're a mother — and a respected manager, too. Don't make me call your son to pick you up."
Christina frowned at him, cheeks puffed with mock irritation. "Oh, come on, Taylor! You sound just like my husband. Can't a woman celebrate her promotion in peace?"
The table erupted into laughter. Sherlock smiled faintly, shaking his head.
"I think I'll pass for tonight," he said softly, adjusting the cuff of his dark shirt. "My fiancée will probably get angry if I come home smelling like wine again."
Sam leaned forward, raising a brow. "Fiancée, huh? So when's the wedding, Sherlock? Or is this another one of your mysterious secrets?"
Sherlock chuckled. "Socially, we're already married. But, well — not on paper yet. The ceremony's in a few days. After that, I'll make sure there's a party for all of you."
"Oh, finally!" Christina grinned. "I was beginning to think Helen was imaginary."
Taylor gave a short laugh, shaking his head. "A man like you settling down — now that's the real miracle."
Sherlock smiled politely, but his expression softened for a brief moment — the kind of look that held warmth behind restraint.
Soon after, he rose from his seat, slipping into his black coat.
"It's getting late," he said. "You all enjoy the rest of the night. I'll head home before Helen calls the police on me."
"Don't trip over your own feet!" Christina called, waving the bottle.
The group laughed again, and Sherlock gave a brief smile before leaving the club.
---
Outside, the city air felt cooler, cleaner.
Neon lights flickered across wet asphalt, reflecting the chaos he'd just left behind. Sherlock wasn't much of a drinker — never was. His pleasures were quieter: reading, gaming, long walks, and the occasional aimless wandering through the sleeping city.
His apartment wasn't far. Thirteen to sixteen minutes on foot — unless the traffic lights slowed him down.
As he walked, he checked his watch. 12:19 a.m.
"Almost midnight," he muttered. "Good thing tomorrow's a holiday."
He turned off the main road, stepping into Bey Street F3, a narrow stretch illuminated by pale, flickering lamps. The street was quieter here — too quiet, almost.
That's when he heard it.
A faint sound. A voice.
No — not one voice, but two.
A woman's muffled scream, and a man's angry growl.
Sherlock froze. His heart beat faster.
For a moment, reason told him to keep walking. But something else — something deep, instinctive — pushed him forward.
He turned into the alley.
It was dark, narrower than he expected. Shadows clung to the brick walls like thick fog. His footsteps echoed against the pavement as he called out, "Hello? Is someone there?"
No reply.
Only the faint hum of a transformer at the end of the alley.
And then — a shape.
A body.
He hurried forward, kneeling beside it. It was a girl — maybe twenty-one, lying motionless against the transformer, her clothes torn, her skin pale.
"Hey!" Sherlock reached out, shaking her shoulder lightly. "Hey, are you okay?"
No response.
And then — the world changed in an instant.
A faint metallic click.
A flash of light.
And the echoing burst of—
Shot. Shot. Shot.
Three sharp sounds tore through the alley.
Pain.
Explosion.
A scream that never left his throat.
Sherlock's body jerked backward — thrown several feet into the air by the sudden blast. His back struck a power line. Electricity arced, bright and violent, wrapping around him like light made of knives.
In less than a heartbeat, it was over.
The last thing he felt was the burning hum of current — and then, silence.
---
The Next Morning — 9:17 AM, East Koelia Cemetery
Gray clouds hung over the cemetery, drizzling faint rain. The crowd gathered around a simple black coffin, the scent of burnt wood still lingering in the cold air.
A girl, barely twenty, knelt before the grave, clutching the edge of the coffin with trembling hands. Her eyes were red, her voice broken beyond words.
Beside her, an older man — in his sixties, gray hair brushed back neatly — rested a hand on her shoulder.
Farther back, Sam stood silently, his face pale, eyes disbelieving. He'd rushed here the moment he heard. Sherlock — his friend, his brother in all but blood — was gone.
Near him stood Mr. Wilson, Christina, and their son, William. Christina sobbed quietly, holding a tissue that had long since soaked through.
When she saw Sam, she broke down completely.
"I told him not to go out that night!" she cried. "He should have stayed with us… Look at him now, Sam. He's gone!"
William, calm as ever, pulled her close, murmuring, "Death comes when it must, Christina. None of us choose our hour."
Sam clenched his fists, his throat tight. He turned toward the girl kneeling beside the coffin — Helen, Sherlock's fiancée.
He remembered their quiet smiles, the way Sherlock used to talk about her like she was sunlight.
"Come on, Helen," Sam said gently, crouching down. He fixed his hat, his voice soft but firm. "You have to be strong now. Don't let this break you."
Helen looked up at him, eyes hollow and wet. Then, without a word, she collapsed into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
He held her, whispering words of comfort that barely made sense anymore.
Behind them, the priests began chanting.
"The final rites will begin," one of them said quietly. "Please step back."
The crowd fell silent. The last handful of dirt fell upon the coffin.
And then — somewhere far, far away — a sound cracked through the void.
---
In an Ancient Ruin
A colossal stone statue stood amid a hall of broken pillars.
Cracks began to spread along its surface, glowing faintly with golden light.
A moment later — it shattered.
Dust filled the air, and from within the rubble, a man stumbled out — dazed, half-blind, his body trembling.
Sherlock.
His head throbbed. His vision swam. He leaned on a cold, stone chair nearby, breathing heavily.
"What… happened?" he whispered. "I… died. I'm sure I died."
He blinked, forcing his eyes to adjust.
The place around him wasn't Earth.
Ancient walls stretched endlessly, covered in runes that pulsed faintly like veins of light.
As he tried to stand, something caught his attention — another statue. Taller, five inches above him, its entire body wrapped in moss and time.
Curiosity drew him closer.
He touched it.
Instantly, the moss burned away in a wave of light. Cracks formed along its surface — and then, the statue split open.
From within, a figure stepped out.
A man with long dark hair streaked with red at the tips. His face was sharp, his expression calm, eyes hidden behind his hair.
The man knelt slightly and spoke with a reverent tone.
"Oh, Lord Zero. You have returned. I, Diablo, stand once more in your service."
Sherlock froze.
"Z… Zero? Who's Zero? My name's Sherlock! And what's with the statue thing? Why were you trapped in there?"
Diablo lifted his head slightly, still kneeling.
"My lord, I am but your servant. All that I am — all that I was — exists only for your command."
Sherlock blinked, utterly lost. "My command? You've got to be kidding me."
Diablo rose, glancing around the hall.
"So much time has passed," he murmured. "This palace… it's nothing but ruin now."
He raised both hands, whispering ancient words:
"Ho mon. Ho mon. Ho des paolisoo."
The air trembled.
The ruins shifted, shimmering like a mirage.
The cracks sealed. The dust vanished. The throne hall reformed — vast, magnificent, and glowing with divine splendor.
A golden throne, inlaid with platinum carvings, stood at the end of the great table.
Diablo smiled faintly.
"So, it has been a million years since your last command, my lord."
Sherlock's eyes widened.
"A… a million years?"
He stared at Diablo for a long moment, then sighed, half-bewildered, half-amused.
"Tell me you're not joking," he said. "You're not going to abandon me here, are you? You're not planning to trick me or something?"
Diablo bowed slightly.
"Never, my lord. My life is yours. I am — and have always been — your butler."
Sherlock blinked. "Butler? Wait… where exactly are we?"
Diablo smiled faintly, his golden eyes glowing through the dim light.
"My lord," he said softly, "we are inside your own mind."