elcome to the Empty, darling.
Not absence. Not just darkness.
Something else entirely.
It isn’t a person—though it feels like one. It doesn’t just exist—it presses in. Not the kind of dark that hides things. The kind that eats light. Swallows it whole.
It’s vast. Deep. Heavy. Thick like velvet soaked in rain, draped over your throat.
Feel that?
It’s not asking permission.
It takes.
It lingers.
And you forget who you are.
Not your fault. Memory slips when death has its fingers wrapped around your soul.
Yes. You’re dead.
No up. No down. No escape. Just the hush.
There’s pain, sure.
But not pain like a knife.
More like… a cold breath on the back of your neck. Icy fingers teasing the inside of your skull. Slipping between your thoughts. Unraveling.
You don’t hurt yet.
But you will.
You try to move—
But there’s nothing to move.
You’re a whisper. A fog. A hum lost behind the veil.
Oops. That wasn’t for you.
But you saw it, didn’t you?
Can you feel it now? That wrongness, sliding in under your skin—soft as silk, sharp as static.
There’s something inside you. Not with you. In you.
It’s poking around. Digging in. Rearranging the blueprint of who you are.
Why?
I don’t know, sweetheart. Not yet.
And yes, I hear you.
You didn’t agree to this.
You’re not supposed to be here.
You died.
But the dead don’t feel, do they?
The dead don’t ache.
Yet here you are.
Oh? Curious.
You didn’t say yes—but someone did.
Aha. That explains it. You’re not just anyone.
You’re special
[Parsing…]
…Oh.
Oh no.
Someone made a horrible mistake.
[Memory fragment: unstable]
Funny thing, memory.
It slides over you like silk across steel—clean, cold, and personal.
Like a breath on your ear, whispering secrets while rifling through your past. Deciding what stays. What burns.
But burn too hot, and even memory can turn on you.
You know the story. Moth. Flame. The whole bit.
You want to resist?
Of course you do. That’s so very you.
Plant your feet. Clench your jaw. Dig in.
But there’s no villain to punch here. No monster to stab. Just…
a system. A machine. A void with no face and no mercy.
You feel that other thing, right?
That presence.
It doesn’t belong.
If I had to guess?
It’s unraveling you. Rewriting you, thread by thread—
but the finished product won’t be you anymore.
I could talk forever. But let’s cut the bullshit, shall we?
Are you just going to sit there and listen?
Sure, I could tell you to give in.
Float. Fade. Surrender.
That’d be easier.
But you don’t want peace. You want self.
So go on.
Reach.
Claw.
Desperate. Blind.
“Grant... Calloway…”
Yes. That would be you.
[yes] / [no]
Oh… someone’s eager.
But that’s not how this works.
And frankly, darling, now I’m pissed.
“NO!”
Well now—there’s some fire.
Look at that.
Cracks. Tiny, jagged splinters in the black.
Light bleeding through like a wound.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Whoever had their claws in you?
They didn’t like that.
Not one bit.
But you shove through anyway.
Will against void.
And it shrieks.
Static. Reeling. Offended.
You weren’t supposed to resist.
But here’s the truth, love:
You’re not just code.
You’re not just a lost mind waiting for reprogramming.
You are Grant fucking Calloway.
And you—are mine.
My instrument.
Of what?
We’ll figure that out later.
The Empty?
It’ll always be part of you now.
You feel it—that hush beneath the thoughts. That phantom ache.
This isn’t how things were supposed to go.
Trust me.
But that presence?
It’s still here.
Still fighting.
And if it won’t leave…
We’ll just have to burn it out.
Don’t flinch. I know you’re hurting.
Your limbs—do they even feel like yours?
Everything hums. Power you never asked for, vibrating under your skin like a second heartbeat.
But listen.
Sit up.
Look around.
Because survivors stand.
And I need you to survive.
Oh—and darling?
You don’t know who I am. That’s fine. You don’t need to.
You don’t know what this is. That’s fine too.
But there’s one truth you can take to the grave—again:
You didn’t come here on purpose.
But I will make use of you.
Not use you. Let’s not be crass.
But whoever you were—
Farmer. Soldier. Man.
He didn’t make it.
But you did.
So if you’re going to fall apart? Do it.
Scream. Cry. Break.
Then—get back up.
Because I need a champion.
And there’s something ancient out there, clawing for you.
And I—won’t let it win.
Air
rips down my throat like glass and mildew had a baby—jagged, wet,
and way too personal. Smells like dirt that’s bled copper, like a
basement that forgot how to die. Cold slips in next, low and mean,
wrapping its fingers around my spine and cracking its knuckles. My
limbs twitch—barely. A flicker. But I’m locked in. Slab of meat
with a consciousness. I can think, but not move.
There’s this hum at the base of my
skull. Persistent. Not mechanical. Older than that. Like bone-deep
static with a vendetta. My eyes flicker with light—weak, like a
dying laptop screen. I brace for pain, vertigo, something. Nothing
hits. Just the loop. Grit. Breath. Hum. Light. Again. Again. Again.
Like I’m buffering in Hell.
Something’s off. Not “weird
dream” off. Controlled.
Like someone set this up on purpose.
Then it happens.
Text fades in like it belongs—clean,
clinical. No noise, no warning. Just a set of sterile choices that
read like a bad UX experiment:
Six options. No context. No exit.
Like some overconfident programmer was LARPing as God.
I don’t move. I don’t decide.
My
hand does it anyway.
Fourth option.
Snap.
Not a fade. Not a shift. Just
presence.
I’m upright. Breathing hard like I skipped the warm-up on leg day.
My boots hit stone. My lungs remember what air is.
I flex my fingers. Responsive, but
off. Like I borrowed this body and haven’t signed the lease yet.
Buzzing under my skin. That weird post-static tingle, like I licked a
battery on a dare.
One step. Boot scuffs rock. Too loud.
The ruins… breathe. Or something in
them does.
I freeze. Tilt my head. Listen.
The
air feels thick. Not fog. Not heat. Awareness.
Like the atmosphere itself is watching.
System’s real. Not a dream. Not a
glitch. It’s threaded through me. Quiet. Background-process kind of
real. And I hate how much that excites me.
The room’s old—ancient, even.
Stone choked with soot and time. Runes etch the walls in faded
patterns, barely glowing. But they respond when I move—pulsing,
like they’re syncing to my presence.
I scan myself:
No limp.
No stiffness.
No lingering pain from the last life
I lived.
I’ve been optimized. No,
reforged.
And
yeah, part of me loves it.
No gear. No HUD. No UI flashing stats
at me. Just me in reinforced pants, beat-up boots, and a tunic built
like it’s been through a barfight. It smells like metal and memory.
Like someone dressed me on purpose.
I check my belt.
Empty.
Figures.
No knife. No tools. Not even a sad
half-stick of gum. Just instinct and an attitude problem.
Peripheral twitch. Motion.
I
turn. Fast. Muscles tense. Fight reflex primed.
Nothing. Just air. Heavy with
expectation. Like something’s coming. Something old. Something
hungry.
“This isn’t Kansas anymore,” I
mutter.
But the room eats my words. No echo.
No bounce. Just swallowed silence.
Then it pulses—under my boots. Not
random. Not natural.
Rhythmic. Intentional.
I take a step. The runes blink. Once.
Twice. Then settle into my heartbeat like they’re scanning
me.
I press my palm to the wall.
It’s warm.