I opened my eyes and saw nothing but endless black. It stretched in every direction, with no walls, no ceiling, no horizon. Just an infinite void that swallowed everything, including the air I breathed.
I was sitting on what seemed to be a cold, unyielding floor beneath me, but it was just like everything else, blending perfectly with the abyss. My bare feet rested on it, sending a chill up my legs, and I realized I was dressed in a simple white pajama, the fabric soft and familiar against my skin, obviously without footwear. No protection from whatever this place was.
"Where the hell am I?" The thought hit me like a blow, my heart began to race. On instinct, I tried to stand, bracing myself with my hands, but my body didn't move. It was as if I were glued to the ground, or maybe gravity itself had turned against me, pressing me down against the surface. Panic bubbled in my chest.
"Where am I? What is this?" I said out loud, my voice echoing strangely, as if the darkness were mocking me by throwing it back distorted. I struggled again, my muscles straining, but it was useless.
"Someone! Someone help me!" I shouted, the words tearing out of my throat. Silence answered, thick and oppressive, like a blanket smothering any hope of a response. I shouted again, louder this time, desperation creeping in.
"Robert."
I heard it, an echo slipping through the nothingness itself, too close and too far away, everywhere at once—sinister, deep, and colder than any nightmare I had ever had. It was a macabre voice, in short. It made my skin crawl, darker than the growl of a serial killer from those horror movies I watched late at night trying to drown out my own thoughts. My blood turned to ice. I snapped my head around, scanning the darkness, but there was nothing. No one.
"Who's speaking?" I demanded, my voice breaking despite my effort to sound brave. Only silence, mocking me. I twisted my body, cracking my neck, screaming into the void. Still nothing.
I tried to stand once more, pouring every ounce of will into my body, but then I felt something move. From the black floor beneath me, a pair of tentacles burst forth—slippery, shadowy appendages the same inky color as everything else, writhing like living nightmares. They grabbed me around the waist, cold and unyielding, yanking me back down with brutal force. I slammed hard against the surface, pain shooting through my tailbone and up my spine. I groaned in pain, the impact making my teeth grind.
"Robert, I am awakening. Soon I will open my eyes completely." The voice returned, closer now, whispering in my ear.
"Who are you? What does that mean?" I stammered, fear knotting my stomach. My breath came in short, trembling gasps.
"I will be ready when the time comes. I will torment you as if you were in hell itself." The words hung in the air like a promise of damnation. I swallowed hard, trying to summon some defiance.
"Of course you're tormenting me right now, but I'm not afraid." It was a lie, and we both knew it; my voice shook like a leaf in a storm.
"Playing brave with me, Robert," the voice hissed, amused and cruel. "Just enjoy your life until I return to you."
"Who are you? You can't be real," I snapped back, my fear turning into anger. "How do you know my name?"
"I am as real as you are."
The darkness in front of me shifted, forming out of nothing into something monstrous. A giant mouth, at some distance but massive, larger than a skyscraper, with uneven whitish fangs gleaming like obsidian swords. It was like one of those Lovecraftian horrors I had read about in pirated books online, jaws from the depths of madness, dripping with shadows that pulsed like veins.
"No, you're not real!" I bit out a scream, eyes wide.
A laugh erupted from it, booming and sinister, shaking the very fabric of this nightmare space. It rattled my bones, echoing endlessly. I trembled, unable to look away as the mouth twisted into a grotesque smile.
"It's time for you to wake up, Robert," he said, the words forming shapes in the air like smoke.
Before I could react, I felt chills—something behind me—lifting me effortlessly off the ground. Hard, rough hands grabbed me under the arms, hoisting me as if I weighed nothing. I kicked wildly, or tried to, but my legs wouldn't respond. Screams built in my throat, but came out as muffled gasps. I twisted my neck, desperate to see what held me.
It was a shadow, tall and unnaturally thin, a silhouette carved out of nothing itself. I couldn't make out any details; the blackness covered it like a shroud, but I saw long, flowing white hair cascading down its back, stark against the darkness. And its eyes—two piercing red orbs boring into me, stripping my soul layer by layer. True terror flooded me, colder than death.
"I will come for you soon," he murmured, his voice a whisper that scraped against my mind. "Die now."
Instinct took over; I thrashed, trying to scream, but it was useless. The creature's grip tightened, and then it began to pull. Agony exploded through me as I felt my body being torn apart, starting from my midsection. I felt skin rip, muscles tear, bones snap like dry twigs. Blood sprayed everywhere—hot and sticky—soaking my torn pajamas, drenching the creature's shadowy form. It spread across the black floor like ink in water, my vision blurring from pain and blood loss. Dizziness overwhelmed me, the world spinning toward a red-stained oblivion.
"No!" I screamed with my entire being then, a raw, piercing wail that seemed to echo for miles in that endless void, the sound of my own destruction.
I shot upright, the scream still on my lips, my eyes flying open to a different kind of reality. My heart slammed against my ribs as if trying to escape.
"No!"
Now I was in my messy, filthy room, the familiar chaos of wrinkled clothes on the floor, empty bottles scattered like fallen soldiers, and the faint stench of dirty laundry and methamphetamine hanging in the air. My bed was beneath me, sheets twisted and soaked with sweat. I was sitting on it, my thin, bare torso marked by various scars, heaving with every breath, dressed only in black boxer shorts clinging to my damp skin. My skinny arms held my face in shock.
Morning light filtered through the cracked glass door of my small balcony, casting weak rays across the peeling wallpaper and the clutter of my life. Everything looked normal. Rock and metal band posters on the wall, half torn. The distant hum of various ground transports moving outside. Suicide Slum, my second home.
"That voice again in my dreams. A new place unlocked in my mind."
I collapsed back onto the bed, exhaustion crashing over me like a wave. My head throbbed, as if the phantom pain of the nightmare lingered in my being. Fear still coiled in my instincts, confusion in my thoughts. I touched my pounding head again, fingers pressing into my temples.
"Why? That voice is always in my mind," I asked myself softly in the quiet room. But deep down, I was afraid. That image of dying split in half by that voice and creature was more terrifying than when my father used to beat me… I need to stop thinking about it… I think I overdosed on meth.
I was startled by the sound of the alarm from my rectangular black digital clock sitting on the nightstand to the right of my bed. I turned and saw it read exactly 7:00 a.m. in blinking red numbers. The sound kept assaulting my ears; with one punch, I smashed the clock, silencing it.
"I need a shower… I really need one."
With a groan, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the thin mattress creaking under my weight. My bare feet hit the cold, dirty linoleum floor, sending a shiver up my spine. I stood slowly, unsteady at first, rubbing my temples with the heels of my hands as if I could massage the fear away. The room spun slightly, probably the side effects of whatever I'd shot up last night mixed with the adrenaline crash from the dream.
I dragged myself toward the bathroom, every step deliberate, my thin frame feeling heavier than it should. The door was half open, hanging off its hinges, and I pushed it open with a squeal that echoed in the quiet morning.
The bathroom was a joke, a small tiled coffin with peeling paint and a foggy mirror stained by age. I rummaged through the worn cabinet beside the sink, its doors barely staying shut, and pulled out a towel that had seen better days. It smelled faintly of mildew, but it was clean enough. I slipped off my black boxers, letting them fall to the floor like paper, and wrapped the towel around my waist. The fabric was rough against my skin, a small comfort in the routine. I stepped into the shower stall, chipped and stained porcelain, and twisted the knob. The water came out harsh at first, discolored from old pipes, but cleared into a lukewarm stream that cascaded over my head and down my scarred body.
"The scars… God, I hate them."
They mapped my life like a roadmap of failures and near-failures. The jagged lines from gang fights in back alleys, where fists and boots had left their marks; the harsh streaks from parkour gone wrong, jumping rooftops to escape cops or rivals, scraping against concrete and rusted metal; thin, puckered trails from knives that had cut too close during robberies; and worst of all, the burns from bullets that had whispered past. I ran my hands over them under the water, feeling the raised tissue, each one a story I wished I could erase. My body was a canvas of survival, but it felt more like a prison.
Out of nowhere, the dream flooded back—the sensation of being split in two, that dark voice laughing as my blood spilled. I shuddered, soap suds mixing with the water as I scrubbed, trying to wash it away.
"That voice… that damn voice."
I couldn't pinpoint when it had first slipped into my dreams, but it had to be sometime during my adolescence, around thirteen or fifteen, when the nightmares escalated.
"Was it the meth?"
I questioned it constantly, blaming the highs for twisting my subconscious into horrors. But I couldn't quit.
"Hell, I didn't want to."
My parents had introduced me to it directly—Dad with his casual hits to "take the edge off," Mom looking the other way until she got hooked too. It was my life now, my crutch, stronger and richer than cocaine or weed could ever be. If I couldn't get meth, those last ones were my backups.
Water and soap ran over my body like a cleansing ritual, but it was useless. Drugs were my heaven and my hell wrapped into one—escape from pain, but a constant fight to feed the beast. And to get them, robbing other gangs with fists or blades, and mainly robbing passersby for money—especially women with purses and distracted men to snatch phones from their pockets without them noticing.
It was my last resort to survive, but I hated it. Every time I scared someone with a knife gesture without hurting them, or ripped a purse and valuables away, a piece of me died.
I never finished high school at Garfield High. I dropped out sophomore year because addiction owned me. Classes blurred into cravings, and eventually I just stopped showing up. I preferred not to continue anyway.
"What was the point? No diploma was going to get me out of Suicide Slum."
Instead, I thought about the garage. That was my job now—repairing stolen tech: cell phones and laptops taken from passersby and stores Superman and company were blind to, as well as computers and tablets tossed in the trash. I fixed them, cleaned and assembled them; my knowledge of hardware and a bit of software was my light out. I made them look new, then fenced them to people with deep pockets who asked no questions.
"Illegal as hell… sure… but I'd been tangled in that web forever." It was my only option, a victim of bad influences from day one.
My father, that bastard—his bad decisions and cursed drugs dragged us all down. Mom was a victim like me, blinded by love for a man who gambled away our future. The street kids taught me survival: throw a punch, use a knife well, aim a gun. But deep down, I didn't like using weapons to rob and hurt others, or getting to know other addictive substances. My street mentor, old Eddie, taught me the basics of vehicle repair in his filthy shop, turning wrenches into a skill I could use. And the old woman, Mrs. Gertrudis, who took me in when I was an orphan dumpster-diving, was the closest thing to family after my parents.
All of them dead before my eyes: Dad and Mom burned alive and murdered in our old hellhole home near Hob's River, orchestrated by Intergang. Old Eddie shot dead defending me—again right in front of me—organized by a couple of thugs supposedly working for the mobster Tobias Whale, called the 100, who wanted protection money so he could keep working peacefully in his auto shop. Mrs. Gertrudis, riddled with bullets because she protected me due to my fault, after I got into a fight over acquiring more drugs with other gangs.
Crime in Suicide Slum wasn't Gotham-level madness with its own clowns and countless mafia groups everywhere, but Suicide Slum also known as "Hob's Bay" its share: gangs carving territory, daylight beatings, and bodies in the river.
If I had taken action in those moments that marked my life forever, maybe things would've been different. I could've saved Mom, especially. She didn't deserve it. Dad? I hated him so much I thought he'd earned his fate. But Mom… she was in love with him, completely obsessed, and it cost her everything.
I shook my head under the stream, getting water in my eyes. I'd rather not think about it anymore. The past was a chain, and dwelling on it only tightened the links. I twisted the knob, shutting off the shower with a final drip. Stepping out, I dried myself roughly, the towel soaking up the water but not the weight on my shoulders. I left the bathroom, steam trailing behind me like a ghost, and headed back to the room.
Rifling through the few hangers, I grabbed a faded, oversized yellow hoodie, a white polo shirt that was at least clean, blue shorts hanging loose on my frame, and my white sneakers. I hated the hoodie; Metropolis heat turned it into a sweat box, but I needed it to cover my tracks. Hood up, face shadowed—protection from street enemies: neighborhood gangs looking for revenge, the 100 leading the pack, sniffing out thieves, and especially Intergang, those bastards who started it all.
I paused mentally, forcing my thoughts to stop as I sat on the edge of the bed to get dressed. First sliding into the polo, then the shorts, and finally pulling the hoodie over my head.
As I did, my mind wandered to my last bag of meth hidden in the nightstand drawer. Funny how my old friends went feral with any drug—robbing at knifepoint or gunpoint, intimidating strangers, going crazy in fights. Anyone could gut someone without restraint.
"But me?"
It was strange; it only hit me lightly, even after years of use. I could still be myself, think straight. I'd never questioned why until now.
"Maybe some kind of gift?"
My body resisted it better, processed the poison without completely losing my mind. Well, except for the nightmares— that voice always lurking. Maybe it was an accumulation of all the drug use and trauma, maybe it was manifesting now…
I left those thoughts behind, pulling up the hood and standing. Fully dressed, I spotted my blue backpack on the floor, scratched but reliable. I grabbed it, slung it over one shoulder, then picked up the half-broken laptop from my desk, made by LexTech, stolen by some anonymous third party. I'd finished the first stage of repair last night: motherboard swap, data wipe. It was my duty, my routine. I cleared my mind a little, shaking off the fog, and grabbed my WayneTech-branded cellphone from the nightstand—an old burner model I'd pulled from the trash. It read 7:20 on the screen. Time to go.
My destination now—the shop, a rundown garage a few blocks away where I did my under-the-table repairs.
I opened the balcony door, the glass rattling in its frame, and stepped out before closing it behind me. The balcony was metal, rusted and creaky, overlooking the alley below. I quickly descended the fire escape, iron steps humming under my sneakers. The building was old, walls thin as paper, could collapse in any earthquake or alien attack that might level Metropolis. Cheap place to live, but I was nineteen.
"I had a new long-term goal: change my life… I want out of my past."
But my life wasn't easy. Drugs swirling around me like smoke, crime the air I breathed—it wasn't fertile ground for any kind of well-being. But I had to try.
I reached the third-floor landing, pausing to catch my breath. I used this route because it helped me relax, the descent a mini-escape from all my present and past problems. I needed the adrenaline, that rush of feeling alive. Looking down, I saw the remaining ladder section dangling—well, not literally floating, but the lower part had been torn away long ago, not reaching the ground. I didn't need it anyway. I climbed down without bothering to extend it fully, gripping the rails tight, then jumped halfway, dropping about ten feet to the pavement below, backpack slamming against my back.
I landed hard, knees bending to absorb the impact, but a sharp gasp escaped me as pain flared in my ankles and shins. Damn, that stung more than usual. But I was strong—not Superman, flying around in tights, but strong in my own way, forged from street scraps and survival. This was my daily routine, my ritual to start the day.
I adjusted my backpack and stepped out of the alley, the morning sun already baking the concrete. My destination—the shop.
"Well then… I, Robert Reynolds, to work."