‘Bravo!’ I muse, watching the valiant soul defy the frost’s relentless embrace. How quaint, yet how utterly captivating. I’ve been fallowing this protagonist for some time now. Watched him stare at the screens, watched him in that red dotted cover filled room, and now watching him be denied by the doors.

  The mortal navigates from one sealed door to the next, a pattern as old as time itself. The suspense is minimal—will he find shelter or succumb to the elements? The predictability hardly dampens my interest, yet I am inexplicably drawn to its simplicity. There was something fascinating about his panic, his wild rush to escape the phantoms that haunted him.

  From the shadows, I observe him—a silent spectator invisible to all senses. The deep white snow provides the perfect stage for this nightly drama. His thin clothes and flimsy slippers are clearly inadequate for the biting cold, a testament to his unpreparedness for the world outside his former sanctum. It’s almost painful to watch him stumble in the cold, pitiable, yet I cannot look away.

  I saw him from across the roads as he reaches his last and final door. I focus intently on his face, eager not to miss a single flicker of emotion. Just then, he pauses and turns, his gaze searching the darkness until it meets mine. For a moment, our eyes lock. Has he sensed my presence? Before I can ponder further, fate intervenes—the door opens, and he’s ushered inside.

  I chuckle—a sound that, though inaudible, reverberates through dimensions, unheard by mortal ears. Predictable, yet compelling. Our protagonist has potential beyond any, a brief reprieve in his relentless odyssey. But what lies ahead? A plot twist perhaps? Or merely the continuation of their Sisyphean struggle?

  This sanctuary he’s found—a momentary haven of warmth and relief—is but a scene in the grand tapestry of his existence of which I am the sole spectator. I revel in the unfolding story, a rich tapestry of trials and triumphs. These worlds never ceases to amaze me. Its narratives, woven from threads both brilliantly unique and dreadfully cliche, offer an endless spectacle.

  I bide my time before following him into the building. The warmth inside is a welcome contrast from the frigid night, or so I think, I really can’t tell. He ascends the stairs slowly, each step a battle against exhaustion. At the top, he turns once more, eyes scanning for the unseen—I remain cloaked in shadows.

  A part of me toys with the idea of revealing myself, of stepping onto the stage rather than lingering by the wings. But I resist. The unspoken rule of my existence forbids such direct intervention. Instead, I watch as he drags himself into a room, the door closing to seal him away from me once more.

  There he lies, vulnerable and alone—unaware of the cosmic eyes upon him. There’s an intimacy in this moment, forged through silent observation. A connection, albeit one-sided, blooms in the shared experience of intimate struggle.

  He doesn’t see me—not truly. Perhaps he senses something, a prickling at the edge of perception. He is too focused on his own suffering, but maybe knows I am here? When his gaze sweeps the room, there’s a flash of fear, quickly smothered by resignation. Too tired to run, too cold to fight—It’s a look I have seen before in the eyes of others before, a common sight. As the protagonist drifts into sleep among the scattered books, I decide to shift my focus. While the main act takes a brief intermission, a recap is in order.

  As his first stepping stone, our main character Han awoke from his slumber shrouded in amnesia. The trauma erased the person he once was, leaving behind a vessel of confusion and raw emotion. His panic and pain palpable, each moment of uncertainty a morsel of intrigue. Yet, beneath the surface, a glimmer of understanding persisted—a subconscious grasp of his reality. Slowly he came to make sense of his surroundings. Quickly, he began to process the concept of his situation, abnormally fast. ‘Why could that be?’ Only I knew, and I keep the answer hidden away, deep in my thoughts, as to further enjoy the show more, not wanting to spoil my only fun.

  Weeks passed, each day a seemingly monotonous routine, they were boring, or so it seemed that way. To the untrained eye, nothing of note occurred—a series of filled episodes devoid of excitement. But I saw beyond the mundane. Our protagonist had been doing something extraordinary, he was unknowingly practicing his given innate ability: the power to see the unfiltered thoughts of others. A form of witchery perhaps?

  Like a machine assimilating data, he absorbed information at an astonishing rate. Throughout the days he repeated his routine, head constantly spinning around. Like a maniac he stared at the TV, more for comfort than amusement. He was constantly learning, analyzing, adapting, and overcoming the natural human fear of—the unknown— the most human part of him so far.

  His interactions were few but meaningful. A meeting with the doctor stirred echoes of a past connection, a brotherly resemblance that tugged at buried memories, painful memories. The doctor’s decision to help him, despite the emotional turmoil it invoked, added layers to his character, truly an interesting cast.

  Then there was the poignant episode with the little girl—a tragedy that even I found stirring. The girl’s fight against death to hang on for just a little longer was valiant, her untimely demise a somber note in the symphony of Han’s journey. A fleeting life, impactful in its brevity, even I could feel the fight left in her. Sadly she didn’t get to see her dad one last time. Unbeknownst to the doctors and nurses, she suffered silently, her internal injuries sealing her fate.

  As the protagonist slumbers, his story is momentarily paused. I turn my gaze elsewhere to distract my thoughts. Meanwhile the main act is on hold, I move on to a different show. Time is fluid for me, past, present, and future, they all meld into a singular canvas. I move my attention towards the future—an era happening many years from our protagonist, one destined to happen.

  I peer into an era yet to unfold—years ahead. Wars ravage the lands with endless battles, killing countless people. A planet in which hope is a scarce commodity, its people only filled with hatred. Yet surprisingly, after decades of such destruction, the same dominant powers remain, their foundations shaken but unbroken. Their pride as timeless nations well deserved—and a lie. These powers forced into peace once before, reached the breaking point again. A fragile peace teeters on the edge of collapse, nations poised once more for conflict, only held back by hesitance. Truly a spectacle to watch.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Amidst this turmoil, another protagonist emerges—a young man awakens from his own slumber, the sole survivor of the clandestine coupe d'état, its details buried deep within classified annals. As the last man standing, he carries the weight of a failed revolution on his shoulders.

  ‘Let’s see how this tale unfolds.’ I muse, settling in to witness this new storyline. The tapestry of mortal lives is rich and varied, each thread weaving into the next. While Han rests, his chapter bookmarked for now, the grand theater continues, readying for the next play.

  Yes, it’s quieter now, the astral theater empty. The show always goes on, and I’ll be there in every single scene to make sure I don’t miss anything; not a single movement, not a single breath, not a single heartbeat, and not a single mistake.

  —————————————————————

  I open my eyes, unveiling an abyss of pure obsidian. One by one, each of my senses became aware with time.

  The nauseating stench of rotting flesh invades my nostrils, and the burning air scorch my lungs. My muscles are frozen, unresponsive no matter how desperately I try—they refuse me. An acrid, metallic taste coats my tongue—the unmistakable essence of blood. Is this the aftermath of death? Have I arrived at my final destination? Slowly, a chilling realization takes root: perhaps this was my eternal resting place.

  Hell—right? It seems fitting for someone like me. As the black shadows of the abyss slowly engulf me, I can’t help but think there’s nowhere else I deserve to be. Why would someone like me be anywhere else?

  An unsettling sensation creeps over me—I sense countless eyes upon me, ghostly green and glowing from the darkness. An endless galaxy of emerald orbs pierces through the void, each pair a prisoner begging forgiveness. These were the eyes of the dammed, tormented souls trapped here alongside me.

  I cannot move; rooted to the spot, I have no choice but to endure their unblinking stares. No panic manifests within me. One might expect terror, but I remain calm. If this is Hell, then so be it.

  The sea of eyes tainted in green drill into my very being, dissecting my soul piece by piece, as if trying to comprehend the sum of my sins. Surrounded by the void, I feel both significant and exposed. My eyes join the sea of others. The abyss stares deep into me, and I stare back at the abyss as though I am part of it. Only then, the agonizing screams and wails of desperation echo around me—a cacophony of suffering that reverberates through the darkness. These are the echoes of war, the shattered dreams of soldiers sacrificed on the altar called ‘The Whims of Tyrants’. Now, they are all prisoners of this ominous realm, begging for liberation from their unseen chains. Their cries are deafening, yet they will never reach the ears of the living. I don’t bother screaming.

  I find myself amid this torment, ensnared in the same fate. The voices of the damned seem to accuse me, their anguish a mirror reflecting my own guilt. There is a sorrowful irony in these dejected souls. Each trapped in their metallic cage, paying for the sins of the living. I can see my reflection in the glare of these poor souls, until a haunting question claws its way into my mind:

  Were these prisoners truly dead?

  For the first time in my hollow existence, I pray. I pray that those I cared for are not here with me, that they have found peace elsewhere. As my vision begins to adjust to my new reality, I realize I am hanging in the air. Through the gloom, I can just make out the silhouette of my weakened arms, stretching wide. Wires bite into my palms, tearing through flesh and veins—I was crucified, just barely held up by the wires, which slowly and painfully slip further through my flesh. My own weight becomes an instrument of torture, gravity pulling me downward, making the cords connected to each of my muscle fibers slowly rip apart—more with each passing second, sending fresh agony coursing through me.

  Amidst this suffering a grim realization set in, and I become aware of presences below me. Gathering my remaining strength, I look down to see them—my comrades. Their bodies horrifically displayed, twisted and broken, yet they stand as silent witnesses to my judgment. Memories flood back: the vicious sounds of the battlefield, the sight of each one falling in turn.

  Now I know for sure—this is hell.

  I try to scream, but no sound escapes my cords. The weight of their deaths crushes me, the guilt suffocating. They were invincible—or so I believed—each a hero with a story worthy of legend. Commanders hailed them as phantoms, elite soldiers of unparalleled skill and resolve. I was honored to be among them, yet I never felt worthy of their trust.

  Now, their cold, dead eyes fix upon me, and a wave of remorse washes over me.

  What have I done?

  The question echoes incessantly in my mind, a relentless torment slowly digging into my head. They were the chosen ones, executing missions shrouded in secrecy, demanded by tyrants who lounged on thrones built from the blood of the working class they enslaved long ago. It’s my fault they are here, trapped in this hellish place. Their dreams of igniting a revolution, of building an army strong enough to challenge America United, died with them. My selfish desire to be part of something greater led me here, but I failed them. I wasn’t good enough—I didn’t belong—and now I bear the weight of their lost futures. I was greedy for wanting to be part of them, and although they accepted me, I could not accept myself.

  Now in this abyss, I accept my punishment. I deserve to be tormented eternally for my incompetence. Yet, amid my self-condemnation, a burning hatred ignites within me—not for myself, but for the one who appointed me to their team. The one who knew I wasn’t prepared. It must have been deliberate, a calculated move that led to their demise. For the rest of my existence, I will curse him, waiting for the day he joins me here.

  The hands of my fallen comrades reach out, their touch cold as they grasp at my dangling legs. They crawl upward, their grip tightening around my ankles, then my torso. I close my eyes, bracing for the inevitable descent into deeper deserved torment. I can only close my eyes in anticipation—It was all his fault. He was the reason the world became this way. Rage boils within me.

  He is the reason why peace is impossible. Their hands climb higher, clutching my chest.

  He is the reason for why the bombs fell. Fingers wrap around my neck, nails digging into my skin.

  He is the reason mother died.

  As they envelop me, I expect to be dragged down into the depths of the abyss. Instead, I feel a surprising lift—a gentle ascension. The wires that once tore at my flesh release their hold. The crushing weight of my guilt begins to lighten. But I dare not open my eyes, out of shame, afraid of meeting their emerald eyes.

  I rise up, away from the black obsidian abyss. I rise up, away from the suffering prisoners in metal cages. I rise up, away from the emerald eyes. I understand now. Rather than condemning me, they have offered me absolution, they’ve granted me a chance—a mission. They’ve chosen me to be the instrument of justice, to bring him—the one responsible for all this pain—to the depths of hell. To fulfill the dreams they could not. Rising from the abyss, I feel their strength flowing into me. My wounds begin to heal, the pain replaced by determination—I will not let their sacrifices be in vain.

  I feel myself being forgiven. My sins washed away, replaced by my newfound purpose for existence.