His eyes were pierced by violet beams that slid down until they met the deep blue of his irises, glowing with an almost painful brightness. Strange flickers of light. He blinked.
He felt the soft sheets, the flattened pillow beneath his head, and the unfamiliar furniture, all perfectly aligned. On the ceiling, a neon lamp spun slowly, scattering bursts of light across the room—strange to the eyes of the man who frowned at it.
He rose on unsteady legs, his head pounding. The last memories came in flashes: blood, discomfort… and, in the background, the muffled echo of music.
He shuffled to the door, letting out low grunts. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he froze. A young man stared back at him—no age lines, no expression, just a hungover, hollow look and disheveled hair. That wasn't his face.
With what little strength he had left, he pushed the door open and was struck by a chaotic, vibrant scene: lights like the ones in the room blazed across drunken bodies, reeking of alcohol and chemicals, swaying to a beat that threatened to split his chest in two.
Stunned, more lost than a poisoned roach, he arched his brows.
— What the hell is this?
---
He kept walking through the vast hall, crowded with people no matter which way he turned. He searched for something familiar. A voice.
But what came to him was only noise: faces staring at him—or rather, at whoever they thought he was—shouting over the deafening sound: "What's with that look, Arnold?" or "Where you going, Arnold?" Arnold.Arnold. Arnold. But he wasn't Arnold.
He didn't even know who Arnold was.
At last he froze near what looked like a small garden, the only space where it felt possible to breathe. Still, his heartbeat raced, pounding as loud as the music itself. His pupils widened, and in his mind appeared sharp images: his true body, lying broken on a hard floor, bloodied and nearly torn apart.
— What's happening to me? — he muttered, his voice tense and unsteady.
His thoughts spiraled, until a rough touch on his skin dragged him back to reality.
— Arnold — the name came again, this time with a strange tenderness.
He turned and faced a man: rigid face, weary eyes, patchy beard. And yet, there was something disturbingly familiar in him, like the reflection he'd seen in the mirror.
— I'm not who you're looking for — he said, recoiling from the stranger.
But the man, whose police badge bore the insignia of demon hunters, had a name etched onto it: Billy. Probably his name. Billy held his hand tightly the moment he noticed the recoil.
— Don't play dumb! — Billy barked, scanning him head to toe. — Don't tell me you've been messing with drugs… Impossible. Kid, you never change!
The "not-Arnold" stepped back even further, swallowing hard.
— Do I… know you?
Even the voice that came out—low and hoarse—didn't feel like his own.
— We're going home. You've caused enough trouble already — Billy declared, sighing in exhaustion.
The young man ignored him. That figure wasn't hearing him at all. His head jerked around, dazed, when another flash tore through his mind: the body he now inhabited, sitting in some strange place, trapped inside a circle of blood, breathing through machines strapped to his mouth.
A ritual.
His nose burned. He half-heard the worried voice calling his name. Blood dripped, staining his already faded white shirt. His vision blurred, until only one image remained: a motorcycle, three-wheeled, ridden by a horned man, flames etched along its frame whipping wildly as it roared down the road.
Then everything went black.
— Son!