EMPTY SPACE: THE CITY OF BLOODY MYSTERIES
"Story: Everything in this world has its own story.
No matter what happens — it continues without trace, even before existence and after disappearance.
Some stories… die even before they are born."
RUSTAM TURSUNOV
Chapter 1: Another World — A New Day
The dark room was utterly silent—not just the room itself, but the air, even the human breath, evoked the same black feeling as the gloom of the space.
It was as if this place was not merely silent, but the very abandoned time had stopped here. The air was heavy, mysterious; even dust particles seemed afraid to move, drifting lazily, while every flicker of the candle gave them a fragile spark of life.
The dim but cold light of the candle left uneven traces along the walls, as if it were losing its own life for the last time, trembling across floors, walls, and even ceilings.
The light flickered uneasily, like tired eyes sensing the weight of the room. The stains on the walls, the old cracks, the darkness accumulated over years—all seemed to awaken under this dim glow.
It was as if someone were playing a game, but no laughter existed.
Shadows turned the game into a dance—unnatural and alien.
They seemed to mock human presence, each movement reflecting a fleeting moment of life.
Everything seemed to whisper terrifying sounds behind the icy silence: old books, sketches, and indecipherable marks lay scattered on the table, perhaps meaningless scribbles included.
Dusty pages revealed symbols in black ink, alive as if watching human eyes.
A black stain at the edge of one page reminded him of a restless hand from long ago.
A faint scent of burned wood mingled with the bitter tang of rusted metal in the air.
The smell was familiar yet vague—like a foul memory settling in the heart.
The wall clock had no "tick-tock," but the heartbeat seemed to press upon him.
With each beat, the air in the room shivered, as if this sound were the final connection between life and death.
Some force, like a falling human from the sky, or drunken laughter from outside, created an unnatural unease.
The strange laughter was vivid—part of life, yet not emotionally alive.
Someone called his name:
"Rustam Tursunov, wake up..."
Whether dream or thought—he could not tell.
A sound wedged between his eyes—this was no heartbeat.
Hearing it, he realized he was afraid to open his eyes. For he knew: opening them meant no turning back.
Yet before he opened his eyes, his fingers felt the cold wood beneath him.
A tension ran across the surface, as if beneath each fiber, the breath of silent ice from afar was moving.
Perhaps it was not wood at all, but something harder… as if gripping a body already turned to stone.
The coldness beneath his hands seemed to carry a secret from nature itself.
When he opened his eyes, the candlelight danced on his face like young children; every breath made the flame tremble, as if the room breathed along.
But it was not warmth. Each inhalation made the air feel like a transparent, living entity observing him.
Cold sweat ran down his face, along his cheeks, as if turning to ice in his throat, or perhaps, like the frost of a bitter winter spreading across the body.
He tried to stop the shivering, but his body would not obey.
Each breath was alien, heavy; each intake felt like a visitor entering his body, not his own.
As if some unknown presence had walked behind every inhalation.
Or perhaps he had just awoken from a terrible dream, yet his heart was unsteady, uneasy.
He listened to his heartbeat—it felt foreign, as if it belonged to another.
As the candlelight dimmed, his eyes could not adjust to the darkness, and pain surged as if seeking to burst from under his eyelids.
The pain came from inside, but its source could not be traced.
Even this pain seemed borrowed from his own body.
The air in his lungs compressed; he swallowed it down, hearing soft hissing among invisible breaths.
Unable to pass the air through his nose, his inhalations were constant gasps; his face perspired, a choking sensation overwhelming him.
With each breath, he felt the thin line between life and death.
The room's air was unbearably heavy, as if dust and silence had stuck together.
Every inhalation penetrated him, pulling at his spirit.
The candle's flame flickered not only on his face—it seemed to recall or forget something with every quiver.
The flame trembled… as if it secretly cried, remembering the room's mysteries.
This was the unnatural aspect—it was not a dream.
The discomfort was like wearing another's clothes, fitting yet alien.
He could feel the body, but its spirit had not fully arrived.
Rustam raised his head.
The weight under his neck remained, as if an invisible hand pressed from behind.
He glanced around—the space was unfamiliar.
Old wooden furniture stood silent, as if having absorbed years of stillness; coldness and the musty smell of wood emanated from their surfaces.
The rug was filthy, worn, stained like traces of a dead life.
Outside the window lay the city in darkness—silent under a red, bloodlike moon, peaceful yet infuriating to the heart.
He looked at the sky: stars dead, only the red moon vivid—like a bloody curse draped over the city.
He felt as though he had fallen into another world, like in a webtoon.
But this was not excitement—it was quiet terror.
A void opened in his mind, from which no sound emerged, only the echo of fear leaking from cracks within his heart.
"Where am I?... No, I don't recognize this place."
He did not hear his voice—the thoughts were inside, yet too loud.
It seemed this voice did not return from the walls but resonated within his skull.
His eyes fell upon a diary.
The old diary lay open, air stagnant between its pages.
Sometimes the letters and symbols seemed to shift; if he stopped looking, the writing stayed still; if he looked again, it moved like silent living creatures.
"What is this… curse," he said, trembling.
Rustam pushed himself back with the chair.
Falling, he gasped—"h-oo-o-p..."—struggling to inhale; his mouth opened wide, but even air resisted, unwilling to enter.
The blood pressure in his body did not match his heart; his heart's rhythm faltered, circulation accelerated.
This slowed down the perception of the situation—he felt the world move with him, yet he was not ready.
"I'm falling… yes, I see it.
My eyes witness every motion, my body feels the weight hitting the floor with this chair…
My heart races, probably from fear…
I cannot stop myself, yet my fall is certain..."
He struck the carpet hard.
Pain radiated from his skull across his body, yet he still clutched the diary.
Without looking, without thinking, he tossed it toward the wall.
The table hit the wall, tilting.
Then he looked at his hands.
His fingers felt alien—each independent, each with its own life.
Their movements were not Rustam's; some invisible being seemed to control them.
He tried to stop them—but the fingers resisted, moving slowly, strangely, as if someone felt this world through them.
"Where am I?" he shouted.
His voice was muffled—the air thick, saturated with dust.
"Who brought me here?" The words pressed against his voice, sounding whispered, faint.
The sound hit the walls and faded, as if the room swallowed his voice—only the heavy silence remained.
For a moment, he even heard his heartbeat—uneven, strange.
The whisper returned, soft, low, almost like another place, emerging from his own thoughts.
Rustam gripped his throat and turned toward the window.
A burning pain in his throat, as if something inside tore.
His jaw throbbed; the pain intensified, then spread to cover his head.
Blood filled his eyes; the world outside the glass looked dim, reddish, like thick liquid.
Nothing was visible—no moon, no stars—only darkness.
He felt alive, shaking the window from inside; the glass shivered like breath mixed with cold.
Touching it with his palm, the cold seeped through; his hand trembled.
His voice grew heavy, sharp as a knife, a thin sting piercing him—he could not bear it, he groaned aloud.
The sound was low, yet it cut the heart.
Even the air reacted—the dust stirred silently.
This torment was real; in his mind, he felt as though he had descended into hell.
Warmth and cold chased across his body; a fine, needlelike shiver ran along his skin.
Even when trying to scream, only tears came.
The area under his eyes burned, red veins bulging.
His head throbbed ceaselessly, as if someone shook his brain from inside.
In his mind:
"What is this? It hurts—it hurts, as if my soul leaves my body… I must endure it."
He held his throat, pain reaching its peak, then gripped his head.
Fingers cold, joints stiffened.
Half a minute later, the pain eased slightly.
Silence returned—the room as if nothing happened.
Then…
"This is not your place," whispered some unknown voice in the stillness.
Soft, yet direct inside his ear.
Rustam recoiled.
Air seemed to press on him—the void behind him felt alive.
"Who is that?" he asked in fear, facing the mirror with weight and pain.
But no one was there.
Yet he knew—the words did not come from outside.
His heart skipped a beat.
Rustam clenched his teeth and stood.
The floor's cold rose from his feet to his heart.
All pain somehow directed by his conscious mind to his heart.
It felt as if pain enveloped his heart—he felt not only the pain but his very existence.
"Now go… just walk, but why toward this dreadful mirror?" said an inner voice.
He realized he stood, yet did not know whose movement this was.
His body heavy, joints creaking, legs unyielding.
The air carried the smell of cold metal, dust, and rotting wood, weighing each breath.
The mirror—there it was.
Across the room, yet no one, not even a shadow.
Its black smooth surface seemed alive, moving; no light, only darkness swallowing silence.
A cold wave ran through him, his heart pressed from behind.
As Rustam approached, his heartbeat accelerated—each beat thundered in his ears.
He expected his reflection, perhaps a stranger—but only black mist.
The mirror seemed lifeless, yet still swallowing, still breathing.
Rustam closed his eyes tightly, inhaling deeply.
The air left a metallic taste on his throat.
He repeated it several times, but the fear in his heart did not weaken.
Raising his left hand, fingers slightly trembling, veins pumping blood visibly.
His index finger touched the cold surface.
For a second, something shifted—but not his own movement.
A gentle ripple ran through the mirror, as if someone beneath the surface stirred.
He did not flinch.
Rustam thought:
"Nothing unusual… why is this strange mirror pitch black?"
He touched fully with his left hand.
The cold sensation climbed from his palm to his wrist, then shoulder.
Fear made his legs tremble, muscles tighten.
Nervously, he also touched with his right hand.
The heartbeat's tremor ran through his entire body—the scene felt like a modern bloody film, yet more alive with terror.
Rustam Tursunov thought:
"This is truly strange..."
Feeling nothing, something inside snapped—cold, or fear, he could not say.
"Now it does not matter!" he said, voice choked with anguish.
He opened his eyes.
The mirror was cloudy, black.
A shadow moved slowly inside, he could not tell if it was himself or something else.
It felt unnatural; Rustam looked at the lower part of the mirror, candlelight trembling across his face one last time.
He opened and closed his eyes again.
The air was no longer warm, as if the room itself breathed.
Then he whispered:
"I will manage this..."
and with that, his body shivered involuntarily, lifting his head quickly.