Chapter 4 (Joshua’s POV)

  The door closed behind me with a dull thud, muffling the distant noise of the street. Immediately, the stale, musty air of the cottage hit me full-force—a suffocating blend of dust, mildew, and something vaguely sour, like old grease left on a pan. My eyes scanned the cluttered interior, taking in the stained, peeling wallpaper, the warped floorboards, and the scattered junk piled on every available surface. For the first time, I noticed how close it looked to the apocalypse I’d just escaped. Hardly comforting.

  A flicker of bitter amusement twisted my lips. “No roamers,” I muttered under my breath, “but my place sure as hell resembles a war zone.”

  My stomach growled viciously, reminding me I’d eaten barely anything during my… expedition. With a final exhale of relief, I crossed the debris-strewn living room, brushing aside an old newspaper and some chipped plates from the coffee table. I dug through the kitchen cabinets, wincing at the film of dust coating everything. Most of the pantry was bare, except for a stale box of crackers and a couple of canned goods, half-hidden behind cobwebs.

  I settled for making a quick sandwich with questionable lunchmeat and the last slices of bread I found in the fridge. It tasted stale, the mayonnaise borderline rancid, but I didn’t care—I scarfed it down like it was gourmet, ignoring the twinge of worry about potential food poisoning. The hunger won out. After days of near-starvation and twisted realm-hopping, the simple taste of bread, meat, and sauce felt like heaven.

  Then I poured myself as much water as I could stand, gulping it from a mismatched mug. The liquid ran cold down my throat, washing away at least a fraction of the dryness. I refilled the mug and drank again, my body desperate to replace the fluid lost to stress and fear.

  “Alright,” I whispered between shaky gulps, leaning against the sink. My eyes flicked around the grimy counters and ancient stove. A spider scuttled across a crusty pot, making me flinch. “This place is a disaster, man.”

  My clothes were stiff with dried gore and filth, reeking so horribly that I half-expected my own nose to revolt. The stench clung to my skin, and I realized there was no way I could keep wearing them. I needed a shower in the worst possible way—and new clothes. But first, I took another moment to just… breathe.

  Blood. Grime. Sweat. Despair. All caked onto me.

  I forced myself away from the counter, stepping over a broken chair leg. One sock still half-intact, the other foot bare. My shoulders sagged as I shuffled down the creaking hallway toward the bathroom, flicking a switch that produced a feeble overhead light. The door groaned open. The state of the small, ancient bathroom nearly made me want to cry—stains on the tiled floor, rust around the taps, and a yellowish film in the tub. I fumbled with the faucet, praying the water would at least run somewhat hot.

  A spurt of brownish liquid coughed from the showerhead, accompanied by a shrieking noise. I waited, heart hammering, until it ran clear. Then, at last, a weak but steady stream of lukewarm water drizzled down. Good enough. I locked the door behind me, though I had no idea why—nobody else was here. Habit, maybe.

  Then, with a grimace, I peeled off my clothes.

  I started with the torn shirt, carefully lifting it over my head so as not to smear congealed gore on my face. The fabric stuck to my skin in places, requiring a few forceful tugs that left me gagging from the sour stench released. Once it came free, I tossed it into a corner. My chest was streaked with grime, small cuts, and bruises—reminders of the nightmarish realm I’d fought through.

  Next came the pants, also caked in dried blood and who-knew-what else. The button was half-ripped off, so I yanked them downward, heart twisting at the memory of that other world’s horrors. My sock—the only one left—was shredded beyond repair. I peeled it away, flinching when I saw a blister forming on my foot. Good thing I still had some antibiotic cream somewhere. The underwear was last, equally filthy and rank. I nearly gagged again, ripping it off with trembling hands and throwing it onto the pile.

  Naked, every inch of me sticky and itching, I stepped into the tub. The lukewarm spray hit my shoulders, and I shuddered at the sensation—part relief, part revulsion, as globs of grime swirled around the drain. I grabbed an old bar of soap from the ledge—barely more than a sliver—lathering it up with frantic energy. No fancy scents, no plush towels, just me and this half-rotten soap. But it felt like salvation as I scrubbed away the apocalypse layered onto my skin.

  Dried blood flaked off in gritty chunks. The water ran dark and foul, swirling with the residue of rot and fear. I found fresh scrapes and bruises I hadn’t even noticed; the adrenaline from that place must have masked the pain. My arms bore shallow cuts, the skin around them raw and tender. I winced each time I brushed over one, but it still beat reeking of death.

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  Somewhere between the second and third round of scrubbing, I caught sight of the bathroom mirror across from me—cracked, but still reflecting. I froze, soap dribbling down my chest, because for a moment I could have sworn I saw something on my back, some pattern or mark. Heart pounding, I carefully turned, half-twisting to glance over my shoulder.

  Under the weak overhead light, I spotted it: a faint, shimmering tattoo-like Character sheet nestled between my shoulderblades. My mouth went dry. It resembled something swirling—like fractals or runes shifting—barely visible unless the light hit it right. The lines caught a dull gleam, the same kind of strange glow I’d seen around the Key’s door. Instantly, my mind flashed back to that world. The mark. Anna had told me something about it—you only get the mark after your first kills or pearls or… something. My pulse jumped. She’d warned me, You need a hundred roamers for your first increase. But maybe even a few kills triggered this brand.

  “Shit…” I whispered, leaning forward, trying to see it more clearly. No wonder my shoulders felt oddly warm. That place really did change me. A swirl of conflicting emotions—fear, curiosity, guilt—flooded my chest. This was a piece of that nightmare, stuck on my skin, as if it refused to let me go.

  I shook myself out of the trance, finishing the shower by rinsing the soap from my hair, letting the water run over me until it went ice cold. Even that shock was better than the thick, rancid coat of apocalypse I’d carried. Finally, with a shiver, I shut the water off. The tub remained lined with gritty residue, the drain struggling to swallow the filth.

  Drying off proved a challenge. I found an old, stiff towel on a hook—smelling faintly of mildew—but it did the job. I patted myself down, ignoring how the towel left damp patches on my skin. With the flickering overhead bulb, I caught glimpses of my battered reflection again. Leaner than before. Dark smudges under my eyes. And that faint shimmering tattoo on my back.

  God help me, was I actually… grateful? The memory of roamers, the stench of decay, the desperate kills… maybe that had hammered some perspective into me. Maybe.

  I wrapped the towel around my waist, forcing the thoughts aside. My adrenaline faded, replaced by a deep ache in every muscle. Hunger still gnawed, but the brief sandwich and water had taken the edge off. Right now, I needed a plan. I needed a sense of normalcy to keep from spiraling.

  So, still barefoot and dripping, I returned to the living room. I rummaged through old drawers and found some battered stationery with my father’s letterhead. My hand shook as I sat at the tiny desk, pen in hand, forcibly ignoring the dusty piles of boxes around me.

  “All right, goals,” I said to the empty room, voice echoing slightly. “Find a job. Start training again.” I had done a bit of martial arts in college, a fleeting hobby I dropped when life got busy. But after everything I saw in that realm, after Anna’s scorn for my weakness, the idea of learning Muay Thai or something equally tough seemed right. Something to keep me from ever being that helpless again.

  I jotted down bullets:

  1. Get new clothes (these rags are worthless).

  2. Buy groceries (my fridge is a biohazard).

  3. Join Muay Thai gym (couple blocks away, saw a commercial once should be nearby).

  4. Find a job (something… stable).

  5. Deep clean cottage (door to the apocalypse or not, this place is vile).

  I paused, chewing on the pen cap. Then I added:

  6. Research weird world (??), character sheet, mark on back.

  Because ignoring it wouldn’t make it go away. If that world or that Key resurfaced, I had to be prepared, not just physically but mentally. Anna’s face flashed through my mind—a pang of guilt twisting in my gut. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, though the words barely carried in the musty air.

  Shaking off the wave of regret, I focused on the short term. First: new clothes. I couldn’t walk around in a towel forever. I rifled through drawers, cursing my father’s hoarding tendencies. Eventually, I found an old, ill-fitting pair of sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt—musty, but better than wearing apocalypse rags. The fabric scratched my skin, but it was clean enough for now.

  Everything else—pants, shirt, socks, underwear—I gathered in a plastic bag, cinching it tight. “Straight to the trash,” I muttered. There would be no salvaging that. The stench alone could kill a rat.

  I returned to the living room once more, the single overhead light casting harsh shadows. The place resembled a hoarder’s den—stacks of newspapers, dusty knickknacks, broken furniture. My father never bothered renovating or upkeep, and I had been too distracted by the bizarre inheritance and that copper door to do anything about it. No more excuses. If I planned to live here without losing my mind, I needed to clean.

  Exhaustion weighed on me, but at least I felt somewhat human again—cleaner, less like a roamer myself. I skimmed the bullet points again, fingers drumming. One day at a time. That’s how I would start rebuilding a life that had veered off a cliff.

  Finally, I got to my feet, heading to the bedroom in search of a blanket. Sleep beckoned, but a swirl of anxious thoughts made me wonder if I’d have nightmares about that realm. Probably. I sighed, glancing at the bag of filthy clothes one last time, then at the greenish wad of bills on the desk. At least I’m not broke. The cosmic toll left me enough to kill my old debts and maybe more.

  My shoulders still ached from tension, from the memory of near-death experiences. But tomorrow, I would buy cleaning supplies, groceries, a pair of shoes that matched, new clothes. I would sign up for Muay Thai. I would find a job. Maybe I’d become something more than a terrified data analyst cowering under Brenda’s stapler.

  And if that mark on my back meant I could be stronger in ways I didn’t yet understand… well, that would be tomorrow’s worry too.

  For now, I allowed myself a small, tired smile. Surviving was no longer enough; I had to live.