A lean, muscular young man with pale skin and dark circles under his eyes sat on a rusted bench in the dimly lit restaurant, the dining area deserted except for him. He stared at the plate of meat before him, untouched and slowly growing cold, his fingers unconsciously drumming against the table's edge. Lucky rarely ever consumed meat—he had to manage the rent of the house and his other basic needs with just meagre amounts of earning from his daily construction labor. Today, however, he had wanted to enjoy his remaining hours of life to the fullest with all his earnings.
"Enough pondering, I should not waste my money's worth."
He took a bite of the meat and made a conscious effort to savor it, knowing it might be his last meal. With each bite, he tried to lose himself in the taste, to forget the weight of what awaited him. However, his attempts in doing so were futile.
In the next moment, dread crept over Lucky as a faint bell ringing echoed through his mind—eerily slow and deliberate, with long pauses between each toll. His face drained of color, his eyes snapping shut. He wanted to scream, but no sound came. Each ring felt like it was draining away his sanity itself. He pressed his hands to his ears, desperate to block it out, but the sound only grew louder. A distant voice joined the bells—something between crying and laughter, twisted and melodious.
His mind went blank. The agony stretched for seconds that felt like hours before the sounds finally ceased. Lucky gasped, and blood erupted from his mouth, splattering across the table. Through the crimson haze, his only thought was relief—none of it had touched his expensive plate of meat and his new white tee.
Lucky sighed with relief as the tremors subsided and immediately took out his kerchief from the pocket of his black jeans to wipe off the bloodstains from the table before any of the staff of the restaurant would notice the scene.
However, there was more he had to face.
As he finished cleaning the mess and slipped the kerchief back into his pocket, the world around him fractured.
The familiar restaurant dissolved. In its place, an endless desolate landscape consumed by flames stretched before him—corpses piled atop one another like discarded dolls. Then the scene shifted.
A creature stood before him, vaguely humanoid but grotesquely wrong. Two meters tall, hunched, nearly flayed of skin. Its long arms ended in gory claws—overgrown nails that dripped with something dark. Its face was a nightmare of distortion: a ravenous mouth filled with canine teeth, sharp and deadly, working through what had once been a human hand.
Lucky knew it was a vision, not reality. But knowing couldn't stop the dread that coiled around his chest.
The creature's head snapped toward him. Its gaze burned like fire, and Lucky's breathing became ragged, desperate. He desperately wished for this to end before his sanity fractured completely.
Then—a violent shove against Lucky's shoulders jolted him back.
Klein stood over him, fair skin flushed with panic, tousled black hair disheveled. His only friend. The one who'd stayed by his side since his parents died.
"Lucky, what happened?! Snap out of it!"
Lucky's throat was dry, his voice barely above a whisper.
"It's all good," he rasped, though even he could hear the lie in his own words.
"Like hell it is, your face is lifeless, like a zombie," Klein scowled.
Lucky was still in a daze, trying to compose himself.
After a moment, Klein added:
"Get yourself together. I'll grab some water."
Lucky exhaled slowly, cataloging his body piece by piece—fingers, legs, heartbeat, breath. Everything accounted for. Everything whole.
'What did I do to deserve this?'
Lucky stared at the table, his mind spiraling with questions. Why him? What sin had he committed to deserve this torment? He'd lived honestly, never stealing despite the hunger that gnawed at his belly on countless nights. He'd begged instead, preserving his integrity even when survival demanded compromise. After his parents died when he was ten, Klein had found him—a helping hand extended from pity that blossomed into friendship. Klein had offered him work at his family's construction site, given him purpose. Lucky had done nothing wrong. Nothing that warranted this.
His train of thoughts was interrupted by the thud of a metal plate against the wooden table; the plate had a glass of cold water on it.
Lucky snatched up the glass, his hands shaking, and drained the water in a few desperate gulps.
Lucky looked up to find Klein sliding into the seat across from him, concern etched deep into his features.
Klein spoke:
"Have you finally gotten sick from overwork or what? If there is something, tell me what's happening. Maybe I can help?"
Lucky grimaced.
"Don't bother, it's over. I can see them—and hear those cursed voices."
Klein went deathly pale, his expression locking in sheer horror.
"What?! Since when?" His voice shook with fear.
Lucky shook his head. "Maybe since a week ago? I don't remember properly."
"Are you absolutely certain that it is The Dirge affecting you?"
"Obviously, duh, or do you perhaps think I'm schizophrenic?" Lucky let out a dry chuckle.
"Shit! You've really lost it." Klein snapped.
Klein shot to his feet and signaled for Lucky to follow, his tone hurried.
"I'll get my bike. We need to go. Now."
Lucky nodded. He knew the situation was worse than he'd imagined—that The Dirge could claim him at any moment.
'Ahh, but my meat…'
Disappointment gnawed at him over the wasted money, yet he made himself a promise: if he survived, he would come back and eat meat to his heart's content. No—he would definitely survive, if only to taste that delicious meat again.