The slums stank of piss and despair, same as always.Sunniless sat with his back against a crumbling brick wall, knees drawn up, clutching a still-warm loaf he'd lifted from the bakery three alleys over. The crust was golden, the inside soft enough to make his mouth water; luxuries he hadn't tasted in months.
Tomorrow he would be dead anyway, so why not die with the taste of real bread on his tongue?He tore off a piece and shoved it in, chewing slowly, letting the warmth spread.
"This is good," he mumbled through a full mouth, voice hoarse from disuse.The second bite never made it.A sudden gust—sharp, unnatural, cold as a grave—ripped the loaf from his fingers and flung it down the alley like it rolled, bounced once, and vanished into a storm drain.Sunniless stared at his empty, flour-dusted hands."…Of course."
He laughed once, dry and cracked. "Even the bread hates me."He rose on aching legs. Pale pajamas hung off his skeletal frame, the fabric so thin and torn it barely qualified as clothing anymore. Bare feet slapped against broken concrete as he shuffled into the open.
His black hair stuck out in greasy clumps; dark circles carved hollows beneath bloodshot eyes.He hadn't slept in eight days.Not because he didn't want to. Because he was terrified to.Everyone had heard the rumors by now.They called it the Nightmare Shroud.A curse that came in your sleep.
One moment you're snoring in your bed, the next you wake up somewhere else—somewhere wrong. A realm stitched together from humanity's worst fears. Monsters that wore your childhood traumas as skins. Trials that broke minds long before they broke bodies.Most never woke up again.Governments tried to study it. Scientists published papers. Rich parents hired ex-special forces tutors to drill their teenagers in swordplay, marksmanship, survival—anything that might give their precious offspring an edge when the Shroud finally dragged them under.The poor. Nobody was hiring tutors for the gutter rats.Sunniless rubbed his eyes with filthy knuckles.
"Just a creepypasta," he told himself for the thousandth time. "Internet bullshit to scare kids."Yet every night the news added new names to the death toll. Every morning another empty bed in the slums just like this one.He was so tired his bones buzzed. Eyelids felt like lead curtains. Hallucinations flickered at the edges of his vision—shadows that moved wrong, whispers that tasted like rust.
He couldn't keep going like this. Another day, maybe two, and he'd collapse in the street. Pass out right here on the sidewalk, and if the Shroud had marked him…Better to know.Better to choose the place he fell asleep, at least.Sunniless took a shaky breath that tasted of garbage and distant bakery yeast, then started walking.Ten minutes later he pushed open the reinforced door of the 19th Precinct station.
The lobby looked like a war zone someone had given up halfway through cleaning. Bulletproof glass spider-webbed with cracks. Steel plates bolted over what used to be normal walls. Old bloodstains no one had bothered scrubbing off the tile.Behind the counter sat a middle-aged officer—uniform rumpled, stubble going gray, eyes carrying the same exhausted deadness Sunniless saw in every mirror.
The officer glanced up once, then back to his paperwork.
"You lost, kid?"
Sunniless's throat clicked when he swallowed. His voice came out smaller than he wanted.
"I'm here to turn myself in."
That got the man's attention. He leaned forward, elbows on the counter, studying the barefoot scarecrow in front of him.
"Turn yourself in for what, exactly?"
Sunniless met his gaze. The words felt heavy as stones.
"I think I've been cursed by the Nightmare Shroud."
Silence.Then the officer's chair screeched backward. His face drained of color so fast the stubble stood out like iron filings.
"You're serious.
"Sunniless gave the tiniest shrug.
"Symptoms started about a week ago.
Haven't slept since.
If I pass out on the street…" He trailed off.
The officer's hand was already under the desk. A red button clicked."Attention all units—this is Dispatch Nineteen. Code Red, main lobby. I repeat, Code Red—confirmed Shroud candidate, conscious and requesting containment. Move!"Boots thundered from every hallway. Rifles clacked as safeties flicked off.Sunniless didn't resist when they grabbed him. Rough hands forced him into a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor. Thick straps—canvas lined with cold iron—cinched around his wrists, ankles, waist, throat.
Someone slapped a medical patch on his neck; sedative, probably, to keep him under control once the curse took him.His head lolled. Eight days without sleep crashed over him like a wave.The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him whole was the officer leaning close, voice strangely gentle."Hang in there, son. Whatever hell you're about to walk into… try to walk back out."Then the world dissolved into black.And somewhere beyond waking, something ancient and hungry opened its eyes.The Nightmare Realm was waiting.And it had been waiting for him for a very, very long time.