Asher stood enveloped in a shroud of thick, ghostly fog—a place utterly foreign and hostile to the senses. The white haze clung to his skin like cold smoke, coiling and dancing in unsettling silence. Visibility was poor. Every step forward felt like a descent into the unknown, a realm where time and light had no dominion.
He raised his hand to swat away the swirling mist, but it was no use. The fog was relentless, pressing against his skin like damp silk, refusing to yield.
Then, suddenly, he froze.
There, through the murk, stood a figure.
Still. Pale. Frozen mid-motion like a statue made of sorrow.
Asher's heart thumped painfully in his chest. Moving slowly forward, he saw the face—recognizable yet hauntingly different. It was Jeremy. His hands hung in the air as if reaching for something lost, and his eyes—once vibrant, full of mischief and soul—were hollow. Lifeless. Like windows into a void.
"No," Asher whispered, his voice catching in his throat. "No, not you..."
With trembling fingers, he reached out and caressed Jeremy's cheek with his thumb. The touch sent a shiver down his spine—his skin was cold. Ice cold. The kind of cold that seeped into bone and spoke of death.
Yet even in this lifeless state, Jeremy was achingly beautiful. His doll-like features hadn't faded. His soft brown hair curled delicately around his face, and those long lashes still cast shadows over lifeless eyes. The serenity on his face was not peaceful—it was painful. Like a soul suspended in suffering.
But the horror didn't stop there.
Just a few feet away lay Ezekiel.
Or what was left of him.
Asher recoiled at the stench—acrid, putrid, the unmistakable scent of decay. Ezekiel's face had melted grotesquely, exposing raw bone and hollow sockets. His once strong body was now a feast for writhing maggots, crawling like a plague over his decomposing flesh.
Asher dropped beside him, panic flaring in his eyes.
"No, no, no—Zeke, c'mon!" he shouted, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him desperately. "You're not dead! You can't be! You're awakened, remember? You're strong, you're—"
Silence.
Nothing moved.
Jeremy remained rooted like a statue, and Ezekiel gave no response.
Tears spilled freely down Asher's face. He couldn't bear this—this grotesque scene of death and stillness. Not now. Not after everything they'd survived.
And then his thoughts darkened, the shadows of memory creeping in.
He remembered what happened to Valemont City—especially Silver Hill. Families torn apart. Parents missing. Children screaming into voids that gave no answers. Lamia had brought destruction with him, the kind that etched itself into bone and marrow. And the battle that caused such devastation? It wasn't even the final war.
What happens when the true battle begins? Asher wondered with dread. What if we're already too late?
He reached for Jeremy again, clasping his cold, unmoving palm in his own. But as he prepared to stand, a strange dizziness swept over him.
His skin prickled—like static warning him of danger.
Then came a voice, clear and echoing inside his mind:
"Mortals cannot survive within the fog... unlike us who are far from normal."
It was Ava's voice.
A warning.
Suddenly, the fog pulsed. Something passed through him—a void, intangible and suffocating. The world around him dissolved in waves, shifting and twisting. Jeremy's figure melted into the fog, and before Asher could understand what was happening...
He was somewhere else entirely.
Now, Asher found himself in the heart of a forest.
The air was thick with the scent of damp leaves and old bark. Towering trees loomed over him like guardians of forgotten memories. He blinked, trying to orient himself. This place… it felt real. Too real. But he hadn't seen this part of the world before.
Where the hell am I?
Then came a sharp snap from the bushes.
He stiffened.
Was he being followed?
With quick instincts, he darted behind a large iroko tree, pressing his back against the rough bark. Peering cautiously, he saw two figures nearby, their conversation laced with sorrow.
"…Yes, I'm working on it. Trying to see if I can get into a new school now that Papa's… gone," said one voice.
Asher's breath caught. He knew that voice.
Jeremy.
"But take it slow," the other figure said gently. "You're the only thing keeping your mom afloat right now. You're her last hope."
The name Jeremy struck Asher like thunder. But the scene unfolding before him? It felt… old. Like a memory playing out before his eyes.
He looked closely.
It was Jeremy, no doubt about it. That tousled brown hair, the soft ember eyes, the porcelain-like skin. But he was younger, more fragile. The other boy—Josh, apparently—was unfamiliar.
After a brief exchange, Jeremy hugged Josh and walked away toward a distant farmland.
Curious and concerned, Asher followed.
The path was rough, lined with overgrown grasses and scattered animal droppings. The deeper he walked, the more desolation he saw. The land was dry, the crops withered and sickly.
Is this where Jeremy grew up? he thought, aghast. This is poverty in its cruelest form.
He was disgusted—but not at Jeremy. At the world that had failed him.
Then he saw the house—or what passed for one.
A dilapidated shack, its wood rotting, roof sagging, barely fit for animals let alone people.
"What the fuck... Is that his house?" Asher muttered under his breath. "This could almost replace a poultry cage."
His heart ached.
Now he understood. Jeremy wasn't just driven by ambition—he was desperate. Desperate to escape a life of suffocating poverty, to become someone better, to claw his way out of this godforsaken place.
Then, a voice came from inside the shack.
"Jeremy baby, come see who we have here."
A beautiful young woman with brunette hair emerged—stunning and youthful, almost too much so. At first, Asher thought she was Jeremy's sister.
But the next word proved otherwise.
"Do we have a visitor, Mom?" Jeremy asked, stepping inside.
Mom.
Asher's eyes widened. So this was Roshelle, Jeremy's mother.
Then came another figure—a man. Unshaven. Clothes in tatters. A beard like wild roots. His aura was unsettling.
"It's your dad, Vincent," Roshelle said, beaming as she hugged the man. "He's alive."
Jeremy looked like he had been slapped.
"My father is dead. He sacrificed his life for us. I saw his grave. I—" he began.
"This is your father," Roshelle insisted. "And he has something to tell you."
Asher crept closer, hiding beside the broken wall, watching with mounting dread.
The man approached.
"Jeremy," he said darkly, "when did you turn gay?"
Asher froze.
Gay? That didn't make sense. Jeremy had always insisted he was straight. Even when he confessed feelings for Asher, he'd been nervous, uncertain.
Jeremy looked horrified.
"I—I'm straight! I don't know what you're talking about."
But Roshelle sneered.
"Don't look at me like that, you abomination. After all we taught you, you turned into this? All thanks to that school—Paradise High—filling your head with filth."
The man extended his hand. Roshelle handed him a blazing iron rod, its metal glowing orange with heat.
Asher's eyes widened.
No ordinary human could hold that.
Jeremy's expression broke. Tears rimmed his eyes.
"I love him… Dad, Mom. I love Asher. He's the only one who's ever truly seen me. Please, I know you'd love him too if you just—"
The rod struck his back.
Jeremy screamed.
Asher could no longer watch.
He burst from his hiding spot, fury and desperation igniting every step.
"Leave him alone, you monsters!"
Roshelle turned slowly, smiling like a serpent.
"Well, well… welcome back, Asher," she purred. "Escaped your own prison, did you? Thought you could be a hero? It ends here. Today, your worthless soul will vanish into oblivion."
But Asher didn't flinch. His eyes locked onto Jeremy—broken, hurting, beautiful in his pain.
He walked up to him slowly.
"I love you too, Jeremy," he said softly, voice trembling but sure.
Then, in front of the imposters, Asher pulled Jeremy into his arms.
And claimed his lips in a deep, passionate, soul-wrenching kiss.
The world shuddered.
The mental prison cracked.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Jeremy's eyes fluttered open.