The world had gone black. For a heartbeat, there was nothing — no light, no sound, just the hollow echo of Ethan's own breathing.
Then came the whispers.
Soft. Twisting. Like they were seeping from the walls themselves.
He opened his eyes, or thought he did, but there was only movement in the dark. Shelves shifting. Wood creaking. Footsteps that didn't belong to him.
"Mr. Abernathy?" Ethan's voice cracked, small in the vast dark.
A faint answer came — layered, trembling, too deep to be human. "You shouldn't have forced this…"
The lights flickered.
When they came back, the bookstore was wrong. The walls bent inward like they were breathing. Shadows crawled along the floor, slick and slow, pooling like black ink.
And behind the counter stood Mr. Abernathy.
Only it wasn't the man Ethan remembered.
His skin was pale, veins glowing faint red beneath. One of his eyes shimmered faintly, as though light itself couldn't decide whether to touch him or not.
"You shouldn't have come back," he rasped. "I can't hold it together anymore."
Ethan stepped closer, his chest tightening. "Hold what together?"
The air pulsed. For a moment, Ethan saw flashes — a hospital corridor, wires, a machine's faint glow — then it snapped back to the bookstore again.
"Mr. Abernathy…" Ethan's voice trembled. "Please, just tell me what this is. What's happening to me?"
Abernathy looked up, eyes hollow. "You weren't supposed to wake up." Abernathy murmured
Ethan froze. "What do you mean?"
"If you keep questioning the world," Abernathy said, voice rising, "it'll fall apart, and so will you!"
"Then let it fall!" Ethan shouted, rage breaking through his fear.
The shadows surged. They rose like a tide, writhing, clawing for him. Ethan stumbled back, heart hammering, as cold hands brushed his ankles. He swung his arm instinctively — not knowing what he was doing, and a wave of air pulsed outward, scattering them briefly.
Abernathy stared. "No… no, that's not possible."
"I don't even know what's happening!" Ethan yelled. "Just stop this!"
Abernathy's face twisted, his body trembling as his Mirage Control fractured. Illusions splintered around them — images of Ethan's fears, of fire and endless corridors, of himself screaming behind glass.
"The dream was supposed to be peace," Abernathy whispered. "No pain. No death. Why couldn't you just stay asleep?"
Ethan forced his way through the illusions, shouting, "Because it doesn't feel real!"
Abernathy coughed hard — a wet, tearing sound, and blood splattered the counter. "It feels real to me," he said softly, brokenly. "Better than what lies for me out there."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Ethan stepped closer. "You're not okay. It's this place."
Abernathy gave a faint, pained smile. "It was better than the pain… but now it's falling apart."
The bookstore began flickering faster — flashes of the real world bleeding through: metallic walls, wires, dim light. It wasn't a hospital, but something colder, secret — a facility.
The shadows screamed, rising again, thousands of them, clawing up from the floor and ceiling. Ethan fought, thrashing, trying to break free as they dragged him down.
"Mr. Abernathy!" he cried. "Please, help me!"
Abernathy turned away, face twisted with sorrow. "I'm sorry, boy. Maybe this way… you'll find peace."
The shadows swallowed Ethan whole.
For a moment, all was silent until the scream broke through.
A roar — not human, not contained.
It came from Ethan.
Light exploded from his body. A storm howled to life around him — wind tearing through shelves, scattering books like feathers. The shadows wailed, ripped apart by invisible currents.
Abernathy's eyes widened. "Impossible…"
He raised his hand, summoning more shadows, hundreds more, but they were ripped away by the cyclone swirling around Ethan. His power, born from fear, pain, and will — tore through everything.
"Ahhhhhhhhhh!" Ethan screamed, unleashing one final blast that shattered the ceiling. Dust filled the air, thick and blinding. The bookstore crumbled around them.
When the storm finally settled, Ethan could barely see. "Mr. Abernathy?" he called out.
A cough answered him.
He rushed forward — and there he was, lying on the floor, blood pooling beneath his trembling hand.
"Don't bother, boy," Abernathy whispered, smiling faintly. "No wonder you were brought here. You have a good heart worth saving. Still trying to save the old man who lied to you."
Ethan knelt beside him, shaking. "You're sick."
"It was the only way," Abernathy murmured.
"This isn't real," Ethan said quietly.
Abernathy's eyes shimmered with grief. "Real enough to make me forget I'm dying."
Ethan's voice broke. "Then… what even is this place?"
Abernathy's lips trembled. His eyes began to close.
"A… drea—"
Silence.
Ethan froze, his throat tightening. "Mr. Abernathy?"
But the man didn't answer. His chest stilled.
The world flickered — light draining, colors fading until only static remained.
Then, faintly:
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Somewhere far away.
The world shifted. The light turned sterile and cold.
A quiet room. Machines hummed softly. A monitor pulsed steady green lines across a screen.
A man lay motionless on the bed, frail, tubes running down his arm.
The name tag read: A. Abernathy.
For a long while, there was nothing. Just the faint, mechanical beeping.
Then — his right index finger twitched. Once.
The beeping steadied.
The screen flickered.
And then — silence.