The author narrates.
As the sun's light crept around the edges of the room, like warm fingers caressing the darkness, Vikram's body received it with gratitude. The warmth was gentle, almost maternal, and for a moment, it made him forget where he was.
But when he opened his eyes, the illusion shattered. The room was still in ruins: cracked walls, the air thick, and that silence that seemed to watch him. Vikram still clung to the idea that it was all a dream, a nightmare that would end with the sound of his alarm... but there was no alarm. Only him, only that room, only the pact.
He slowly pulled back the sheet, as if unearthing his body were part of a ritual. He wanted to see his legs. He needed to make sure they weren't dead, that they hadn't abandoned him.
He moved a foot. Barely a gesture. But enough. An awkward smile spread across his face, as if that small movement were a promise: you're not completely broken.
With renewed confidence, he raised his leg in the air. The muscle responded. His heart raced, not from fear, but from the sudden joy of feeling that his body still belonged to him. He smiled, this time more broadly, as if he had discovered a miracle hidden within his flesh.
He was clumsy, yes. But he was his. And that was enough.
The final test was risky. From the bed, Vikram cautiously eyed the floor, recalling what had happened the day before: the failed attempt to walk, the fall, the pain. All because of the Executioner. His body had been subdued, branded, and for a moment he believed he would never move freely again.
But now he accepted it. He knew it would be repeated. That each day could bring a new Executioner, a new ritual, until everything was fulfilled. Whatever "everything" meant.
He could try to stand. But he didn't know if his body would hold him up. The fear of falling again made him swallow hard. He turned slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed. He placed his feet on the floor. The contact was strange, as if gravity were testing him.
"Will I be able to walk? Or will I fall again like yesterday?" Vikram thought.
He took a deep breath. He gathered his courage. And with a quick push, he stood up.
His body responded. His legs supported him. And his expression changed completely: a wide, awkward, almost childlike smile spread across his face. As if he had just discovered that life still belonged to him.
He began to hop in place. Not out of necessity, but out of celebration. Each hop was an affirmation: I am here. I am alive. And I can still move.
Until a pain, almost stabbing, shot through his back. Vikram clutched his stomach and half-crouched, as if his body were trying to protect itself from a memory he hadn't asked for. But memory didn't need permission.
The night the Executioner was inside him returned like a thick shadow. The savage way he'd been treated, the brutal rhythm, the moan he couldn't control. It all came flooding back.
Vikram sat up in bed again, his feet still touching the floor. The pain was mild, but uncomfortable. He didn't like it. It made him feel invaded, dirty. But he couldn't keep complaining. What was coming could be worse. And he knew it. Sooner or later, he'd have to get used to it.
"Relax, Vikram... it'll all be over once you've finished... this shit," he muttered to himself, frustrated at feeling weak, at needing comfort where there was none.
He looked around. He was looking for Bi. But he wasn't there. Only silence, and the sun streaming through the window, bathing the room in a golden light that seemed to mock his pain.
"At least... hell has a beautiful sunrise," he said, with a bitter smile.
He looked down. His body was marked. His legs, his chest, his arms... traces of something large that had touched him, that had possessed him. He knew who it was. He didn't need names. But the memory made him feel strange, disgusted with himself. Not because of the act itself, but because of what he had felt. Because he had been part of something he didn't fully understand. Because he had moaned. Because he hadn't been able to resist.
And yet, he was still there. Breathing. Thinking. Living.
Although the faint pain lingered, pricking like a silent reminder, Vikram didn't stop. He got out of bed decisively, as if his body could obey pride rather than pain. It was then that a strange, yet familiar, smell reached his nose.
He took a deep breath, searching for the source of that peculiar aroma. He looked around, but found nothing to explain it. So, curious, he decided to smell himself. He cautiously brought his forearms to his face, and the smell hit him: provocative, dense, intimate. It was blood mixed with semen. He didn't need a super sense of smell to know that. It was a scent he recognized, one he had smelled before. But that wasn't what he was looking for.
He continued exploring his own body, as if it were a map of his experiences. Until he stopped at his armpit. He sniffed for a few more seconds. The smell was closer to what his nose had detected at first. He raised his arm, leaned closer, and there it was: his body was sweaty, permeated with a rancid, acidic, human smell. Only then did he remember that he hadn't bathed since arriving in the Underworld.
Vikram: Damn... I stink, he muttered, with a mixture of disgust and resignation.
His body bore witness. Every pore, every mark, every scent. Vikram wasn't just trapped in a strange place. He was trapped within himself.
He lowered his arm with a hint of frustration. The gesture was brief, but laden with discomfort. His gaze shifted to the bed, that silent altar where the ritual had taken place. The memory of the Executioner churned inside him, as if his stomach were trying to expel something that wasn't physical. He didn't know how to name that feeling: it wasn't just disgust, nor just shame. It was something deeper, more confusing.
Right at the edge of a corner, he saw his clothes. Folded. As if someone—Bi, probably—had taken the trouble to arrange it. That gesture disconcerted him. Was it care? Mockery? A way of saying, "Here's your disguise, go back to pretending to be you?"
Vikram approached and grabbed the first thing he found: a shirt. Next to it, his jacket. Out of curiosity, he brought the shirt to his nose. The smell of sweat hit him immediately, acidic and thick. He stepped back with a grimace.
"Damn... and I just didn't bring extra clothes," he thought.
He had come there intending to film something strange, something out of the ordinary. An experiment. A provocation. He hadn't planned to stay. But now he was trapped. Half in something. Half in nothing. All because of what Bi had given him. A pact disguised as curiosity.
His suitcases were still in the car, far from the town. Untouchable. Useless.
He sighed. He had no choice. He put on the shirt, not out of desire, but out of embarrassment. He didn't want his body exposed all the time. Not after what had happened.
The smell intensified against his skin, but he didn't flinch. It was his own scent. His own story ingrained in the fabric. And that, for now, was all that belonged to him.
Then came the inevitable part: putting on his boxers. He searched between his pants and under his jacket, but they weren't there. He frowned. He kept searching on the bed, among the rumpled blankets, until he saw them: just to the left, under the bed, lying there as if they'd been carelessly tossed aside.
He stared at them for a few seconds. Another memory slipped into his mind, uninvited. The night the Executioner ripped his boxers off in one swift, abrupt motion, as if his body were just a wrapping to be torn apart. The memory made him feel strange. Not just because of what had happened, but because of how it had felt. Because of how his body had reacted. Because he couldn't stop it.
Vikram bent down, picked it up, and studied it for a moment longer before putting it on. The fabric covered his skin, and although it was dirty, although it bore the marks of what he had endured, it gave him a sense of relief. As if recovering that garment was recovering a part of himself.
He went to the front of the bed, put on his trousers, and then his jacket. The heat was noticeable, but he didn't care. He was used to oppressive environments, to climates that felt like punishments. Besides, the jacket was like armor. It didn't protect him from pain, but it did protect him from shame.
Dressed, marked, and still with his own scent lingering in the fabric, Vikram remained silent for a few seconds. He wasn't the same as yesterday. And he knew it.
Vikram observed the place for a few seconds. During the day, everything looked different. The black marks in the corners, the cracks in the walls, the cracked floor... everything seemed warmer, almost aesthetic, as if the sun had the power to beautify what was broken. It was strange. He wasn't used to seeing decay as something "wow, it looks good," but he wouldn't deny it: the light highlighted the horrible with a haunting beauty.
At night, when he arrived, none of it looked good. Everything was a threat. Everything was shadow.
He turned his head. Right next to the bed was a three-drawer box. On top of it, his cell phone. He approached it somewhat hurriedly, as if something were waiting for him on the other side of the screen. Or as if Bi had left a digital trap. With her, anything was possible.
He swiped the screen, entered his password, and there they were: several messages. Right at the top, Bi's name. Vikram frowned. He didn't remember adding her to his WhatsApp contacts.
Confused, he searched for the app. He opened the search bar, typed "WhatsApp"... but it didn't appear. He kept searching, checking folder after folder, and found absolutely nothing. As if the app had been deleted. Or worse: as if it had never existed.
Until something caught his eye.
One app stood out from the others. The icon was different: two colors, black and red, intertwined as if they were bleeding into each other. It didn't have a recognizable name. He didn't remember installing it. But something about it drew him in. As if the phone, the room, and Bi herself were pulling him toward that icon.
Vikram stared at it. His finger trembled, hovering over the screen.
In the end, curiosity got the better of him. Vikram tapped the icon. The app opened.
What he found surprised him.
The interface was eerily similar to WhatsApp, but it was already open in a specific chat. In the upper right corner, a line of text stood out in red: Rituals completed: 1/20.
Below, a cascade of messages. And at the top of them all, the name: Bi.
What caught his attention most wasn't the content, but the design. The chat background was white, but the edges of the screen were covered in black and red marks, as if the application were bleeding from within. It was as if the system itself were contaminated by the pact.
The number of rituals made his stomach churn. One out of twenty. It had barely begun. And he already felt something inside him crumbling. But he couldn't deny it. He had to accept it.
He began to read the messages:
—Bi: Hi Vikram, good morning.
—Bi: Are you awake yet?
—Bi: Vikram, I'm outside the building. I brought you food and something to drink... Do you drink water or would you like something alcoholic?
Upon reading that, his stomach growled loudly, as if he hadn't eaten in days. He clutched his abdomen with one hand, feeling the emptiness like a sharp pain. Then he continued reading.
"Bi: Vikram, the ritual must continue."
"Bi: Damn it! I don't want to come in and throw this food in your face."
That message made him shudder. He imagined Bi standing before him, with that unpredictable energy, capable of blending tenderness with violence in a single sentence.
"Bi: Vikram, as soon as you're ready, I'll send you a location. It's not that far. I'd like to talk to you about something..."
And right below, the location message. A red dot on the map. No name. No context. Just coordinates calling to him.
"Bi: There's the location. Now come."
[END OF CHAT]
The chat seemed normal, but it wasn't. Nothing was. Not even the sunlight streaming through the window. Neither his scarred body. Nor the hunger he felt. Everything was controlled by something invisible. Something Bi controlled.
Vikram stared at the location message. The red dot blinked on the screen as if it were breathing. There was no name, no street, no landmark. Just coordinates that seemed to say come.
Suspense. He put his phone in his jacket pocket, feeling the sticky heat of his body under the fabric. The smell was still there, but he didn't care as much anymore. He was hungry, he was scared, and he had to move.
He walked toward the bedroom door. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, as if the place remembered every step he'd taken. He opened the door slowly. The hallway was illuminated by the same golden light that streamed through the window, but here it seemed denser, heavier. As if the sun, too, were trapped.
He went downstairs. The building was silent, but not empty. There was something in the air. Something watching him.
When he reached the entrance, the front door was ajar. Outside, Bi was waiting for him. Sitting on the hood of an old car, a bottle in one hand and a bag of food in the other. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes gleaming as if she knew exactly what Vikram had read.
BI: You took your time, —she said, without moving.
Vikram didn't answer. He just approached, feeling the smell of the food mingle with his sweat. Bi held out the bag without another word.
BI: Water or alcohol? "—she asked, as if it were a moral choice.
Vikram looked at her. His stomach growled. His head throbbed.
Vikram sat down right next to Bi and grabbed the bag of food she had brought. He didn't hesitate. He opened it curiously, and inside he found a medium-sized box. When he unwrapped it, the contents surprised him: rice, small arepas arranged in one corner, potato chips, and ketchup. Everything seemed freshly made, but also... too much.
Vikram: Don't you have anything else... something lighter... —he said, looking at the box with a mixture of hunger and discomfort.
Bi looked at him confused, raising an eyebrow.
Vikram: I mean... I can't eat this in the morning. That would be for the afternoon.
Bi crossed her arms, turning her face away, narrowing her eyes in annoyance.
Bi: I took the time to find human food for you, and you complain about it." I would have let you starve to death for that.
Vikram felt nervous seeing her like this. He nodded repeatedly, as if that could soften the moment.
Vikram: No, no. This is fine. It's just that I don't usually eat like this in the morning. Maybe some toast or something... sorry.
Bi let out a short laugh, then turned to him with a playful smile.
Bi: Relax, bottom. I'm just teasing you.
Vikram tensed. That nickname bothered him. It made him feel exposed, labeled. His muscles stiffened as if his body wanted to defend itself.
Vikram: Don't call me that! I'm not a bottom!
Bi shrugged, casually grabbing a potato chip.
Bi: Oh yeah, sure. Judging by how you were acting that night, I'd say the opposite.
Vikram blushed. Heat rose up his neck, a mixture of embarrassment and disgust. Talking about it with Bi was awkward. Not because of what happened, but because of how she told it: as if it were a funny anecdote.
"I had no choice!" Vikram replied, almost defensively.
Bi raised both hands theatrically, as if to say "okay, okay," while chewing the potato chip with a smile that wouldn't fade.
When Bi finished chewing the chip, she glanced at him sideways, as if she were savoring something more than just food.
"Relax, Vikram. I'm not going to bite you... unless you ask me to," she said with a crooked smile, tilting her head.
Vikram clenched his jaw. He didn't know if Bi was serious or if she was simply enjoying making him uncomfortable. With her, everything seemed like a game, but one where he never knew the rules.
"Do you always have to talk like that?" "—he asked, without looking directly at her.
Bi: Like what? Direct? Honest? Funny? —she listed while wiping her fingers on the other's jacket—. It's not my fault you get nervous every time I remind you of what you did.
Vikram blushed again. His body burned, not from the heat, but from discomfort. Bi knew him too well. Or at least, she knew how to push the buttons that made him tremble.
Vikram: I didn't do it for fun —he murmured.
Bi: But you did —Bi replied, without losing her smile—. And that's what matters. The Underworld doesn't ask about your intentions, only your actions.
Vikram lowered his gaze. The rice in the box no longer looked so appetizing.
Bi stretched, as if her body were urging her to move, and then took her cell phone out of her back pocket.
Bi: When you finish eating, you're going to this place—she said, showing the screen with the location. It's not far. But don't expect me to come with you. What happens there... will be yours alone.
Vikram put a small arepa in his mouth, but before he could chew, he heard what Bi had said. The sentence stopped him. He slowly lowered his hand and put the arepa back in the box, as if his appetite had vanished.
His gaze focused on the screen Bi was holding. And his expression changed completely. His face tensed, his eyes widened slightly, and his jaw clenched. Fear. Nerves. A touch of anger. But above all, fear.
Vikram: Um... I... what do I expect to find there? —he asked, his voice cracking with uncertainty.
Bi didn't answer right away. On her phone, she sent the location to Vikram's number, then calmly put the device away, as if the gesture were part of a silent ritual. She tilted her head to the left, watching him curiously. He was afraid, and she was trying to figure out why.
Bi: Well... —she sighed— if I tell you, you won't want to go on your own.
Vikram looked down at the food container. Fear washed over him like a slow but steady wave. And instead of stopping, he started eating fast. As if the food could protect him. As if filling his stomach could empty his mind.
As he chewed, his imagination ran wild. A creature waiting in the darkness? A life-or-death mission? More Executioners?
The last thought made him shudder. Not from pain. Not because of the danger. But because of that strange feeling he'd had before: the mix of pleasure and suffering. His body remembered. And that made him feel odd. Like something inside him was out of sync.
He swallowed. The rice felt heavy. The arepa, rough. And the air, denser.
Bi didn't say anything else. She just looked at him. As if she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Bi stared at Vikram as he swallowed with difficulty. Fear was evident in his eyes, in the way he held the food container like a shield.
She leaned slightly toward him, as if she were about to tell him a secret.
Bi: Let's just say... what awaits you there doesn't have a fixed form—she said softly, almost as if she were telling a story to scare children. Sometimes it appears as a person. Sometimes as an object. Sometimes... as something you already know, but that shouldn't be there.
Vikram stopped chewing. The rice was left unfinished.
Vikram: What does that mean?
Bi smiled, tilting his head.
Bi: It means the place is going to show you what you need to see. Not what you want to see. And that, Vikram, can hurt more than any Executioner.
Vikram felt a chill run down his spine. The idea of facing something that adapted to him, that knew him, that could take the form of his own fears... left him speechless.
Bi stood up from the hood, stretching as if the conversation had been nothing special.
Bi: You have until sunset. After that, the place closes. And if you don't arrive... well, I don't know what happens. I've never seen anyone fail that.
He winked, turned around, and started walking toward the street.
Vikram stood there, the small box in his hands, his stomach churning, the location flashing on his phone like a promise he couldn't break.
Vikram watched Bi leave, her silhouette vanishing into the mist as if the air itself were absorbing her. In a matter of seconds, he could no longer see her. Only the echo of her presence remained, that kind of energy that doesn't leave even when the body does.
He looked at the small box again. He realized she had already eaten everything. His right hand was dirty, with traces of sauce and crumbs stuck to his fingers. He sighed nervously. The fear was still there, like a shadow he couldn't shake off.
He turned slightly toward the hood to place the small box with the bag on top, and then he saw it: a small letter, taped to the center of the metal. He picked it up carefully. It was thin, handwritten, with letters he recognized all too well.
He opened it.
"By the way, Vikram... Take a bath.
"You smell like a dead man that apparently a mother gave birth to, pulled out, and then shoved back in—disgusting flesh."
"Oh, and one more thing. The car you're sitting in is the one you'll use to get to the location I sent you to much faster.
You'd better take care of it; that machine has more history than your balls."
—Atta: Bi. Kisses.
Vikram froze. The letter was grotesque, absurd, and strangely poetic in its cruelty. He blushed, not only from embarrassment but from confusion. How had she had time to write that? When did she do it? Had she planned it beforehand? Or did Bi have ways of being in two places at once?
The letter had a faint scent of perfume. Not the sweet kind. A stronger, more invasive one. As if Bi had wanted the scent to speak to him as well.
" Then he looked again at what Bi had written, and it said:
—PST: "Even the letter smells better than you, bb 💋."
He paused for a second. He looked at the floor. He frowned.
Vikram clumsily folded it and put it in his pocket, not knowing why. Maybe as proof. Maybe as punishment.
Vikram: Damn it... —he muttered, feeling the blush rise again, mixed with anger and shame.
It was as if Bi knew exactly how to leave a thorn in his side. The fear of the ritual wasn't enough. He also had to bear the aromatic insult.
He got in the car, started the engine, and checked the location on his phone. The red dot was still there, waiting. As if the map were mocking him too.
As he drove, the scent of the letter lingered in the air. And even with the windows down, it wouldn't go away.
"Even the letter smells better than you, baby."
Vikram gripped the steering wheel. He didn't know if he wanted to scream, take a bath, or tear his skin off.
But the ritual awaited him. And Bi, though absent, remained present in every corner of his mind.
______________________________________
Bi is a sweetheart, okay? 🤘😎💋✨ She's a little rough around the edges with words, but she's cool 😆.
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Chao Chao! See you later! Bye!