Deep within the Alpha Facility lay a secret corridor, shrouded in impenetrable darkness and whispered rumors. The narrow passage was bordered by cold, black steel panels that drank in the faint overhead lighting, casting eerie, shifting shadows that danced along the worn floor. The atmosphere was oppressively silent, broken only by the distant, almost mournful hum of machinery—a sound that made every step feel like a descent into an unknown abyss.

  Each door along this corridor was a formidable barrier, constructed from reinforced metal and secured with intricate locking mechanisms. Their blank, unmarked surfaces added to the sense of isolation and danger. Two guards, clad in imposing black tactical gear, stood vigil at every entrance. Their faces were set in grim determination, eyes unblinking as they clutched their weapons, embodying the facility’s rigid discipline and the relentless secrecy that permeated the place.

  Behind each door, hidden from the outside world, lay a room—a sanctum of secrets sealed away from prying ears. The rooms were soundproofed to perfection, their contents protected by flickering fluorescent lights that cast a harsh, clinical glow over everything. This hidden passageway, comprising seventy-two such rooms, was a fortress of solitude and mystery, its existence known only to a privileged few within the Alpha Facility.

  Into this foreboding corridor stepped a man whose presence seemed to bend the very air around him. His cyan hair, streaked with bold hints of red, framed a face marked by cold indifference and piercing blue eyes that regarded the guards with an unsettling calm. Dressed in a pristine white suit with a luxurious fur coat draped over his shoulders, he exuded an effortless elegance that contrasted starkly with the oppressive gloom. Remarkably, he moved as if floating—barefoot, his feet barely brushing the cold steel floor, as if he were treading on air. On his left hand, a purple ring inscribed with a glowing rune caught the light with every measured step, while a tattoo of a clock without hands marred his right.

  As he glided past the guards, their stern demeanors betrayed a flicker of apprehension; his presence was a silent storm—both awe-inspiring and dreadfully ominous. The corridor itself seemed to darken in his wake, the heavy air growing denser with every ethereal step he took.

  He paused at one particular door, and the two guards stationed there stiffened instantly, their postures snapping into rigid alignment as if bracing for an onslaught. His piercing gaze swept over them, seeming to strip away all pretense, as if he could see the very core of their souls. With a single, deliberate gesture, he signaled that they were to grant him entry. The heavy door creaked open in response, and as he stepped inside, the guards exhaled a collective sigh of relief.

  “I worry every day that this corridor might be the last thing I see,” muttered one guard in a hushed tone.

  “Seriously, why must our boss be such a crazed bastard?” grumbled the other, his voice a blend of frustration and fear.

  The first guard replied, “That man killed one of the Seven Deadly Sins and practically rebuilt A.E.G.I.S.—he can do as he pleases. As for us un-Awakened, we’re nothing more than disposable cogs. He won’t even walk the same ground as we do.”

  “Also,” the second guard added with a wry laugh that barely masked his underlying tension, “have you noticed how every Awakened seems to flaunt the strangest fashion? It’s like they’re competing for the title of most outlandish.”

  The first guard snorted. “For real. And the weirdest of all is that bag head—seriously, it looks like he just pulled it out of a trash can.”

  While the two guards continued their hushed, irreverent banter, deep within the facility’s hidden cell, a far more sinister conversation unfolded.

  Inside the cramped cell sat a twelve-year-old boy with tan skin and wild, crimson-red hair. His eyes, mirroring the fiery hue of his hair, were wide with terror as he glared at the imposing figure before him. In an instant, dark tendrils of shadow erupted from the cold floor, lashing out as if intent on skewering the intruder.

  “Why must we endure this every time I visit you, brat?” Alexander said calmly, his voice chillingly detached, as he advanced with deliberate menace.

  Before the boy could react, Alexander unleashed a blinding flash of light that exploded from his core, consuming the room and momentarily blinding the trembling child.

  When the light receded, Alexander’s tone was almost affectionate in its cruelty. “All the other test subjects eventually gave up. So why is it that you—the one I’m so excited about—continue to resist?” He reached out and grabbed Matteo by the neck, his grip firm yet disturbingly gentle, as if handling something both precious and fragile.

  Matteo struggled, his crimson eyes burning with defiance despite his faltering breaths. “Let… me… go,” he managed, his voice choked yet resolute.

  “How many times must I remind you?” Alexander replied coolly, his tone laced with disdain. “You and your authority are far too valuable to be released.” With a swift motion, he dropped Matteo to the ground. The boy collapsed, violently coughing and gasping for air.

  Alexander’s lips curved into a dark chuckle. “I didn’t come here to continue your experiment today. I only desired a simple visit.” His sinister delight echoed through the cold, steel walls of the cell.

  Seizing a fleeting opportunity, Matteo gathered his inner strength. As Alexander’s light blazed again—repelling thousands of shadow tendrils that erupted from every surface—Matteo concentrated his own dark power. Slowly, his scattered shadows coalesced into a solid, razor-sharp sword.

  The moment the blinding light began to fade, Matteo leaped forward, heart pounding, and swung his newly forged shadow blade toward Alexander’s neck with all his might. For a brief, charged second, time seemed to freeze—the air thick with impending violence. But Alexander, ever the master of his domain, deftly sidestepped the assault, his movements fluid and almost graceful. In the same instant, he retaliated with a streak of luminous speed—a thin blade of pure light slicing through the air.

  Matteo staggered back as a sharp pain seared across his cheek, a precise cut marring his skin. Blood trickled down his face, yet his eyes burned with a mixture of fear and unyielding determination.

  “Impressive,” Alexander remarked, his voice dripping with condescension. “However, I could have ended you before you even realized what hit you. So, stop playing this game.” With a dismissive glance, he turned and strode out of the cell, leaving behind an echo of menace and the faint scent of ozone.

  The guards abruptly fell silent as Alexander left the room, their casual conversation vanishing in an instant. He strode down the dim corridor with an air of inexorable authority, his eyes scanning the passage. Suddenly, he halted and turned back—and in that frozen moment, the second guard’s head was violently torn from his body, landing silently at his feet.

  “Do not delude yourselves into thinking that, simply because I’m within in a soundproof room, I fail to hear every whisper in this facility,” Alexander intoned, his voice echoing coldly along the corridor. “Clean up that unsightly mess, or you will join it.” With that, he resumed his measured walk, his presence an unsettling blend of menace and meticulous order.

  Muttering to himself in a tone as icy and calculated as the surrounding shadows, he mused, “Now, what should I do about the other fools with tongues sharper than that wretch’s?” A dark, humor-laced chuckle escaped him. “Oh Jonathan, it’s almost adorable that you think I don’t know exactly what you’re planning. After all, I allowed you to find those files.”

  Abruptly, Alexander paused and turned back toward a guard standing frozen, still hovering over his slain comrade. His gaze was unyielding. “Actually, I’ve decided—you’re fired. Here’s your severance,” he declared with a disturbing calm. In one swift, merciless motion, he severed the guard’s head from his body. The guard crumpled to the ground, his head joining the fallen in a grim tableau.

  Alexander’s voice dripped with scorn as he continued, “So many must be purged from my organization—the Valentines, Jonathan, Frank. It’s almost laughable how they dare to think they can take me down… pathetic wretches.” His words echoed through the corridor like a chilling promise of the ruthless future to come.

  Meanwhile, Iris sat on her bed, her thoughts swirling with unanswered questions. The cryptic dream and Fate’s unsettling words weighed on her like an anchor. She longed to confront Fate, to demand answers, yet the exact questions danced just beyond her grasp. Her gaze drifted to the book resting on her bedside table—a mysterious birthday gift from Fate, who had haunted her dreams. Driven by a fragile hope, she reached for it, praying it might illuminate the darkness of her uncertainty.

  As she opened the book, a burst of radiant, golden flames erupted from its pages, transforming into a delicate swarm of fiery butterflies. They flitted around her room like living embers, their luminescence casting a warm, ethereal glow that softened the harsh edges of her reality. Each wing shimmered with a rich, opalescent hue, painting a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow across the walls.

  The golden butterflies moved in graceful patterns, weaving intricate formations that drew Iris into a trance. Their gentle, radiant light felt both soothing and profoundly mysterious, as if they were silently guiding her toward a hidden truth. In awe, her heart pounded with a mix of anxious wonder and hopeful longing as the luminous creatures continued their enchanting display, hinting at secrets yet to be revealed.

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  Before her eyes, the pages of the book—previously blank—began to inscribe themselves in deep, crimson ink. Each stroke formed elegant, hauntingly familiar handwriting that sent shivers down her spine. Iris’s heart raced as she realized that the script was unmistakably her own. The words flowed with a fluid grace, and from within the pages emerged the same feminine voice that had beckoned her before, now laden with ominous warning: “Read my message carefully; you must follow it, or you will regret it, as much as I regret my current life”

  As the book continued to inscribe its message, the diary entry emerged with a profound weight and gravity. Each carefully penned line pressed down on Iris as if the very ink carried the burden of regret and despair. The words resonated with a raw, aching sorrow, transmitting the author's anguish in a chilling urgency that seemed to seep from the page itself.

  “It’s all my fault. I was reckless and foolish, wielding this power without fully understanding the cost. I used it so carelessly—driven by a desperate mix of ambition and despair—and now I find myself grappling with the heavy price of my mistakes. My heart aches with regret, knowing that my hasty decisions have brought me to this breaking point. If only I had been more cautious, perhaps things might have turned out differently.

  In my desperation, I resolved to make a deal with a devil—a pact so dark that even now it fills me with dread. The wish I make now is a warning, a message across time intended for my younger self: heed these words and avoid the pitfalls into which I have fallen. No matter where or when this message finds you, I implore you to take it to heart.

  Please, do not rely on the red book, despite its tempting power. It promises much yet delivers only regret and sorrow. I am consumed by an all-encompassing sense of loss, knowing that the very tool I once coveted has become the source of my deepest anguish. If you can, save yourself from the path I have walked—a path I wish I could have avoided.

  —Your future self, Iris Blackwell”

  Iris stood frozen, her eyes locked on the final line: “—Your future self, Iris Blackwell.” The shock of reading her own name—signed by a version of herself yet to come—crushed her with overwhelming dread and confusion. A torrent of questions surged within her, as the warning’s urgency clashed with her burning curiosity. The red book, once a mysterious object of intrigue, now loomed like an ominous oracle. Its dark allure was marred by the inescapable weight of consequence. Two burning questions plagued her: Why did her future self both implore her to open the book and then warn her against ever using it? And what dreadful price would be exacted for tapping into its power?

  As night deepened, Iris paced the room, the solitary lamp casting elongated, eerie shadows that danced in the silence. The red book lay open on her desk, its cover inviting yet foreboding, as if beckoning her to unravel its secrets despite the risk. The cryptic message pressed down on her, intertwining with a strange, inexplicable familiarity she felt toward the book—a connection that seemed to transcend time itself. It was a haunting reminder of choices yet to be made and consequences that loomed on the horizon.

  With a heavy sigh, Iris closed the red book and carefully locked it away in a drawer, her hands trembling with reluctant resolve. Deep down, she couldn’t shake the feeling that by merely opening the book, she had already set events into motion—like a catalyst waiting to unleash its full, destructive potential. The paradox of her future self’s advice—urging her both to harness and to shun the power—left her more perplexed and anxious than ever. What desperate circumstances had driven her future self to send such a cryptic plea? And what was the true, terrifying cost of using the red book?

  Exhaustion eventually overcame her, and Iris collapsed onto her bed, her mind a whirlwind of unanswered questions. For now, she could do nothing but wait, hoping that when the time came, she would know exactly what to do. The red book, with all its haunting mysteries and dangerous promises, remained locked away—at least for now.

  The next morning, as dawn crept through the window, Iris discovered that more had been written within the red book—a new letter from her future self.

  “The devil I made a pact with has allowed me to send you a letter once a day, after he approves its contents. To be honest, the future isn’t bright—it’s filled with despair. Even if you never use the power of the red book, our life has already become a true hell. We’re the only ones left—just us and that devil. Not our class, not Wallace or Markus… everyone else dies. I hope that with your help, we can save everyone, or at the very least give our friends the happy endings they never got.

  —Your future self, Iris Blackwell”

  Tears poured from Iris’s eyes as she read those lines, she didn’t wish to believe what she was reading, that such a cruel ending could happen.

  Each day, Iris received a message from her future self through the enigmatic red book. These messages, filled with cryptic hints and poignant reflections, often spoke of memories that had yet to occur, each one about a different classmate. One particular message stood out, evoking a mix of emotions that left Iris both intrigued and embarrassed.

  “Charles, at one point I only thought of him as an annoying distraction, someone who would disrupt class each day. He’d try to throw a desk at the teacher only to get defeated, yet he had more desire to become stronger than anyone else. The more I learned about him, the more I felt sorry for him. His parents were bad people, but he never knew that, he was just a kid and A.E.G.I.S took his parents from him. If you can, comfort him and try to become someone for him to rely on. He never made any friends, the only time he had someone was when the class would drag him to hang out together. I have a soft spot for him, he was our first kiss, after all.

  —Your future self, Iris Blackwell”

  As Iris read these words, a deep blush spread across her face. The revelation was unexpected, not just for the intimate detail of a first kiss, but also for the insight into Charles' life and struggles. She had never considered him more than an occasional nuisance, yet here was a future self hinting at a deeper connection and understanding. The mention of their first kiss left her flustered, a surge of emotions she couldn't quite place washing over her. Why had her future self included such a personal detail? Was it a gentle nudge toward a future that held more than she could currently comprehend, or simply a fond memory shared out of nostalgia? The message lingered in her mind, adding another layer to the mystery of her future self's intentions and the enigmatic nature of the red book.

  Later that morning, after classes, Iris sought out Charles, driven by an inexplicable curiosity about what her future self had seen in him. She found him alone in a deserted lounge—Charles usually kept to himself when he could, his presence so intimidating that he’d scared everyone else away. He sat slumped on a worn-out couch, eyes fixed on a cartoon playing on the TV; the bright, colorful animations provided a jarring contrast to the gloom that clung to him.

  “Hey, Charles, funny running into you here,” Iris greeted, attempting a casual tone even as her heart pounded with apprehension.

  Charles shot her a withering glare before turning his attention back to the flickering screen. “Get out now. I don’t want to be around any of you unless I absolutely have to,” he muttered, bitterness lacing every word. As he spoke, small objects—pencils, remotes, even loose books—began to levitate subtly around him, a quiet but potent display of his telekinetic power.

  Undeterred by his hostility, Iris stepped closer. “Why do you always push everyone away? I just want to be your friend,” she said, her voice soft but laden with genuine concern.

  At her words, Charles’s eyes darkened further, and he clenched his fists. “You’re all nothing but idiots, blindly trusting A.E.G.I.S. I’ve heard how most of you were ‘rescued’—showing up at your worst moments, never actually saving anyone. But for me… it was even worse. They caused it,” he spat bitterly, a single tear escaping and trailing down his cheek.

  Iris’s heart ached with empathy. “Charles… I understand your pain. I resent A.E.G.I.S. too for not saving my parents, but isolating yourself and holding onto that anger will only hurt you more.”

  In a flash, Charles’s frustration manifested, a pen, lifted by his telekinetic force, shot towards Iris, narrowly missing her head before embedding itself in the wall. “Just get out, please—get out!” he shouted, his voice breaking with raw emotion. More objects began to swirl around him—TV remotes, pencils, books—all caught in a chaotic dance, hovering like dark omens poised to strike.

  Yet Iris stood her ground, her resolve hardening even as her heart raced. She saw beyond the anger—she saw the deep well of pain and fear beneath. With a surge of determination, she shouted, “You’re the one being an idiot, Charles! What’s your grand plan for avenging your parents? Do you really think getting tied up by the teachers every day will fix anything? Or are you planning to end up like them—committing a crime and getting executed?”

  Charles’s face contorted in rage as the room erupted into chaos; every object—books, chairs, even the TV—rose in a violent maelstrom around him, whirring and clashing in a cacophonous display of raw power. The fury of the storm seemed imminent, poised to engulf them all.

  “If you want revenge, stop this senseless behavior,” Iris continued, her voice cutting through the tumult with unwavering determination. “Train properly, pay attention in class, and become stronger. Take control of this place—reform it if you despise how things are done. Or at the very least, become so indispensable that they have no choice but to listen. Look at Markus—he’s a complete goofball, yet everyone’s in awe of his strength. You’re one of the strongest among us. So, do it! Become stronger than anyone and fix this place!”

  Charles’s fury wavered, his eyes flickering with doubt and uncertainty. “D-do you really think I can do it?” he asked, his voice trembling.

  “Of course I do, you dummy,” Iris replied, a reassuring smile softening her features.

  Gradually, as if the storm within him had been calmed by her words, Charles’s anger dissipated. The levitating objects crashed to the floor with a resounding clatter, and the tumult in the room faded into an uneasy calm. “Let’s get out of here quickly,” Charles said, reaching for Iris’s hand. Together, they bolted from the room, the echo of falling debris marking their escape.

  As they raced down the hallways, a newfound determination ignited in Charles’s eyes. “Fine,” he declared, “I’m going to become so strong that I take over this miserable place. I’ll kick out the leader and make things better.”

  “I’ll support you every step of the way,” Iris said cheerfully, her heart light with hope as they ran together into an uncertain future.

  That night, as the echoes of the day’s events still lingered in her mind, Iris began to keep a diary in a blue notebook—her personal vessel for the present and the past. If the red book detailed a grim future, then this blue notebook would capture the essence of her now. With deliberate care, she chronicled the day’s trials and the tentative promise of change. Just as she finished the first few lines, a new message from her future self materialized in that familiar, eerie manner:

  “What an odd method you used, but I liked it. Do be warned, the devil I made this pact with is connected to the version of himself in your time, so he is aware of every change you make. He has decided to let me keep sending you messages, as long as I do not reveal his identity. Charles will be a great ally, and this time, he won't die alone. So, thank you. I don’t want you to have to cry over him after finding his corpse in that cult, like I did.”

  —Your future self, Iris Blackwell

  Iris’s eyes filled with tears as she absorbed the message—a haunting blend of warning and hope that deepened the mystery surrounding her fate. Despite the uncertainty of what was to come, she knew that this cryptic guidance was a lifeline, a beacon in the darkness. Determined yet trembling, she resolved to face the future head-on, whatever it might hold.