After a long, exhausting day at work, Marcel returned home, calling out to his little sister as he locked the front door behind him.
He had picked up her favorite treat on the way and planned to make dinner before his wife returned. Climbing the stairs, a quiet unease settled over him. She always ran to greet him at the door, always.
Her absence felt wrong.
He reached her room and opened the door, expecting to hear her laugh, to see her wide smile. But what he saw instead brought him to his knees.
There she was, hanging from the ceiling fan, gently spinning, a plastic bag covering her head, blood dripping slowly to the floor.
Time seemed to stop.
Staggering forward, he reached out and touched her.
Her body was cold.
And in that moment, the truth crashed into him: this wasn't a dream.
No nightmare could be so vivid, so cruel.
If this was a dream, it had taken shape and life within these very walls. The front door creaked open and closed, echoing faintly through the house. Someone had either entered or left.
Marcel froze, heart pounding, his mind a blur of dread and desperation.
"It could be the killer," he thought.
Without hesitation, he dashed down the stairs, each step echoing with urgency.
But as he reached the entryway, it wasn't a stranger he found. It was his wife.
There was no time for greetings.
One look at his face, twisted with fear and anguish, and her heart dropped. Without a word, she followed him as he turned and charged back upstairs. When she entered the room, a gasp escaped her lips.
Her hands flew to her mouth in horror.
It was beyond comprehension.
Marcel was beneath the ceiling fan, desperately trying to lift his sister's limp body, convinced, hoping, there was still a chance. He shouted for his wife's help, but she stood frozen, paralyzed by the grotesque scene before her.
Only when he screamed again did she jolt into action, rushing forward to assist.
Together, they lowered the body with trembling hands. Marcel removed the bag from his sister's head and recoiled.
Her eyes had been gouged out.
Her nose, mutilated.
Her lips were sewn shut with thick, black thread.
It wasn't just murder.
It was a message.
Marcel wailed, his voice raw and fractured. "Who could've done this?" The question echoed in his mind, unanswered and unbearable.
Without pause, he gathered his sister's lifeless body into his arms, cradling her as if she might stir at any moment.
He raced toward the car, the weight of false hope heavy in his chest. His wife, hands trembling, dialed 911 with frantic urgency.
Marcel knew, deep down, that she was gone.
The stillness of her limbs, the cold of her skin, it all pointed to the truth.
But what if... just 'what if' there was still a chance? Even the smallest thread of hope was enough to propel him forward.
Who could blame him?
His sister and his wife were all he had left.
Twelve years ago, an accident had wiped out the rest of his family, and since then, his sister and wife had been his anchor, his reason to keep breathing.
He couldn't lose her.
Not her too.
Speeding through the city, Marcel violated every traffic law, his hands clutching the wheel and her body as if both were keeping her tethered to life.
But fate was cruel.
By the time he reached the hospital, she was gone.
In truth, she had been gone long before.
Declared dead before she could even be admitted, the nightmare he had desperately tried to escape was confirmed as his reality.
A week passed. She was laid to rest beneath a clouded sky. The police began their investigations, but no leads brought solace.
The pain remained raw, and grief hung in the house like a thick fog.
His wife did what she could to lift his spirit, her own heart breaking at the sight of the man she loved unraveling.
Depression lurked at the edges, whispering in the silence, but Marcel forced himself to stand, for her sake.
They had planned to visit the doctor that week, hopeful for a future with children.
The appointment had been cancelled. Everything had changed.
Another week crawled by.
Marcel returned from work one quiet evening, the silence in the house louder than any sound.
The air felt stale, stagnant, as if it mourned too.
No warm hug.
No playful leap into his arms.
He hung his cap on the rack and made his way upstairs, weary.
But as he passed his sister's door, something pulled him to a halt.
A whisper of intuition.
A chill in the air.
He turned the knob.
The door creaked open.
His eyes widened.
His jaw trembled.
Goosebumps erupted across his skin as every fiber of his being screamed in horror.
And then he did.
A cry so loud and anguished tore from his lungs that birds scattered from the trees outside.
Neighbours turned toward the house, startled by the piercing wail.
She was hanging.
The same position.
The same grotesque display.
His wife, suspended from the ceiling fan, a plastic bag shrouding her face, blood painting the floor beneath her.
Marcel froze.
A scream died in his throat.
He rushed forward, trembling hands reaching up to lower her gently. He peeled the bag from her face, dreading what he already knew, and there it was.
The same unspeakable brutality.
Eyes gouged out.
Nose mutilated.
Mouth sewn shut with thick black thread.
He cradled her in his arms, the warmth of life long fled, replaced by the cold weight of death.
And something inside him cracked.
A sob escaped, jagged and broken.
Then a chuckle.
Then both sobs and laughter colliding in a twisted symphony of despair.
Madness crept in like a fog, silent and consuming.
Marcel's world had unraveled.
His sister and wife were the only tethers keeping him from plunging into insanity. And now, those threads were severed.
Gone.
Someone had done this.
And someone would pay.
The police had nothing. No suspects. No motive. No hope. Just platitudes and silence.
Useless.
He rose in silence, walked into his bedroom, and pulled open the drawer. A Glock sat waiting, cold, mechanical, final. He loaded it with mechanical precision, each bullet a promise.
Then he stepped outside, laughter tumbling from his lips as tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and endless.
"Someone must pay," he thought. "And it doesn't matter who."
Marcel had snapped.
The weight of loss, the silence of justice, the cruelty of fate had twisted him into something else.
The neighborhood froze as he emerged, gun in hand, eyes wild with sorrow and fury.
Across the street, a child no more than six stood paralyzed, the muzzle of the gun pointed squarely at him.
Screams rang out.
Mothers pulled children close.
Doors slammed.
Windows shut.
The world watched a man unravel live, in real time.
And Marcel stood at the edge of the abyss, finger on the trigger, destiny trembling in his hands.
In that fleeting instant, as his finger trembled on the trigger, wavering between vengeance and collapse, fate intervened.
A truck, barreling down the road, struck Marcel with brutal finality.
The impact was thunderous.
His body was thrown like a ragdoll, and in a single breath, the story of Marcel , brother, husband, broken man , ended.
Onlookers screamed and gathered, surrounding the twisted form that lay motionless in the street.
The weapon clattered beside him, forgotten.
There were no words.
Only silence, sirens in the distance, and the echo of maniacal laughter that hung in the air like a curse.
Then, darkness.
A void.
"Wake up, mortal!"
The voice shattered the silence, deep, ancient, reverberating through existence itself.
"WAKE UP!"
Marcel shot upright, gasping for breath.
His heart thundered in his chest, confusion flooding his senses.
The last thing he remembered was cradling his wife's lifeless body.
The grief.
The madness.
The truck.
He blinked, wiping away tears, then froze.
He wasn't in his home.
Or a hospital.
Or anywhere on Earth.
He was surrounded by pitch-black space, yet not empty.
Stars shimmered in every direction, infinite pinpricks of light, swirling even beneath him.
And though he sat as if on solid ground, the surface was transparent, like glass suspended in the cosmos.
It was beautiful.
Terrifying.
Unreal.
And then he saw it.
The being.
It loomed before him, towering and immense, a silhouette of void and starlight.
Its body was made of darkness itself, yet within it swirled constellations, entire galaxies suspended in motion, as if the creature was a canvas for the universe itself.
Its shape was only barely discernible, like an outline drawn in shadow and light.
It stared at him.
And Marcel, utterly numb, had no fear left to give.
He had already lost everything.
This... this felt like a dream conjured from a manga he once read. Like the Anti-Spiral, an embodiment of hopeless infinity, of collapse and rebirth.
But this was no fiction.
This was something more.
Something real.
And it had called him here.
"I'm dead... aren't I?" Marcel asked, his voice hollow, drifting into the void like smoke.
The entity before him tilted its unseen head, then began to shrink. Its colossal, celestial form condensing until it hovered before him at eye level.
Even now, it radiated power, its outline flickering like a dying star, galaxies swirling in the hollows of its limbs.
Then, it laughed.
A wild, maniacal cackle that shook the very fabric of the void, echoing endlessly in every direction.
It clutched what could only be called its midsection, writhing in amusement, as though Marcel's question were the punchline to an eternal joke.
Marcel clutched his head, the sound piercing his skull, waves of pain reverberating through his mind.
"Pitiful, isn't it, lad?" the entity crooned through its laughter, voice dripping with mockery.
Then came the unraveling.
With an almost casual wave of its hand, it began to reveal.
Visions poured into Marcel's consciousness like poison , his life, his suffering, every moment of loss, every wound to his soul... all manipulated, orchestrated, twisted into place for one reason alone.
Entertainment.
The entity grinned.
Marcel's breath caught in his throat, horror blooming in his chest.
His eyes, wide with disbelief, slowly rose to meet the being's.
He had no shock left, only a silent, hollow awe.
"Your sister... your wife... oh yes, uhmm... icing to the cake, yeah? That's how you mortals say it, right?"
It sighed contentedly, almost wistfully.
And then, almost with a shrug:
"Your death wasn't part of the plan, though. That truck? Not mine. Just fate... or perhaps mercy."
The entity floated closer, its body pulsing with gleeful malice. "Still, I was disappointed. You didn't even kill anyone.
You snapped, but you didn't deliver. What a letdown."
The void trembled with silence.
Marcel's hands curled into trembling fists.
A boiling rage surged through his limbs as the entity smiled wider, feeding on the intensity of his hatred.
"You..." he growled, then lunged, hurling a punch with every ounce of fury in his being.
But his fist passed through the being as if through mist.
Again he struck.
And again.
And again.
"What did they ever do to you?!" he roared, voice cracking. "You want to screw with me? Fine! But why them?! WHY THEM?!"
He kept swinging, screaming, breaking with every failed attempt to make contact. And still, the entity laughed.
Then, with a wave of its hand, Marcel collapsed to his knees.
His limbs wouldn't obey.
His soul trembled.
Hopelessness consumed him, yet his fury burned undimmed beneath the surface.
The entity hovered above him, mocking and pleased. "You've always been my favorite little plaything," it cooed. "No need to be so agitated. I'll give you... another chance."
It raised a hand and pointed upward.
"Again, you shall live, but still as mine."
And then Marcel heard it.
"Marcy..."
A voice.
Two, actually.
Familiar.
Painfully so.
He looked up.
Suspended high above, floating within a massive golden birdcage, were two figures illuminated by a soft, ethereal glow.
His sister.
His wife.
Unmoving, but very much present. Their eyes met his.
His heart, if he still had one, plummeted.
They were real.
They were here.
And they were still trapped in this nightmare.
The entity watched him silently now, feeding on the shifting storm of emotions , grief, confusion, rage, and something else stirring beneath it all...
Determination.
"What is it that you truly want?" Marcel asked, his voice low but steady as he stared into the void where the entity lingered.
The entity chuckled, its voice echoing with an unnatural resonance. "Collateral. Just in case you get any foolish ideas of ending yourself after the Rebirth."
Its grin widened, inhuman and unnerving.
"All I ask is that you entertain me. Be my little diversion."
Marcel's expression darkened. "Nonsense!" he snapped.
"You expect me to believe this is all for your amusement? That you went this far just to have a plaything? Liar! What is it you really want?!"
His voice thundered through the void, raw with desperation and defiance.
The entity said nothing.
It merely smiled, wider, grotesque and gleaming, as it slowly raised its hand, fingers poised to snap.
"Wait... what's your name?" Marcel asked, breath catching in his throat.
A pause. Then, with gleeful malice, the entity answered:
"Astorossah."
And with that, it snapped its fingers.
As though eroding into dust, Marcel's form began to vanish, dissolving from the feet upward.
Amid the disintegration, his gaze remained locked on his wife and sister.
Despite the despair etched across his face, his eyes burned with a solemn vow.
"No matter the cost," he whispered, "I will bring you back."
Tears welled in their eyes, shimmering with a mixture of sorrow and hope.
Yet through the anguish, they both managed a faint smile and nodded, silently affirming their faith in him.
That single gesture was enough.
Marcel's lips curved into a smile of his own.
He lifted his gaze toward the looming presence above him.
"I swear it, one day, I will kill you," Marcel said, voice steady even as the last of his body faded into nothingness. "Mark my words."
Astorossah burst into laughter, its twisted delight echoing like thunder in a hollow chamber.
Covering its eyes with one hand, it laughed until its frame trembled.
Then, with a snap of its fingers, Marcel's wife and sister were released, no longer bound.
"Come," the entity said, eyes glinting with perverse amusement. "Let us watch him... together."