The slums stank of piss and despair. Same as always.
Sunniless sat with his back pressed against a crumbling brick wall, knees drawn up, clutching a still-warm loaf he'd lifted from a bakery three alleys over. The crust was golden; the inside soft enough to make his mouth water—a luxury he hadn't tasted in months. Tomorrow, he would be dead anyway, so why not die with the taste of real bread on his tongue?
He tore off a piece and shoved it in, chewing slowly, letting the warmth spread.
"This is good," he mumbled through a full mouth, voice hoarse from disuse.
The second bite never made it.
A gust of wind—sharp, unnatural, cold as a grave—snatched the loaf from his fingers. It tumbled down the alley, bounced once, and vanished into a storm drain.
Sunniless stared at his empty, flour-dusted hands.
"…Of course."
He laughed once, dry and cracked. "Even the bread hates me."
Rising on aching legs, he shuffled forward. Pale pajamas hung off his skeletal frame, fabric so thin and torn it barely qualified as clothing. Bare feet slapped against broken concrete. His black hair clumped with grease; dark circles carved hollows beneath bloodshot eyes.
Eight days without sleep.
Not because he didn't want to. Because he was terrified.
Everyone had heard the rumors.
They called it the Nightmare Shroud—a curse that came in your sleep. One moment you were snoring in your bed. The next, you woke somewhere… wrong. A realm stitched from humanity's worst fears. Monsters wore your childhood traumas as skins. Trials broke minds long before bodies. Most never woke again.
Governments tried to study it. Scientists published papers. Rich parents hired ex-special forces tutors to drill their teenagers in swordplay, marksmanship, survival—anything to give them an edge when the Shroud dragged them under.
The poor? Nobody was hiring tutors for gutter rats.
Sunniless rubbed his eyes with filthy knuckles.
"Just a creepypasta," he told himself for the thousandth time. "Internet bullshit to scare kids."
Yet every night, the news added new names to the death toll. Every morning, another empty bed in the slums—just like this one.
He was so tired his bones buzzed. Eyelids felt like lead curtains. Hallucinations flickered at the edges of his vision—shadows that moved wrong, whispers tasting of rust.
He couldn't keep going. Another day, maybe two, and he'd collapse in the street. Pass out on the sidewalk, and if the Shroud had marked him… better to choose where he fell asleep. At least that way, he had some control.
Sunniless took a shaky breath—garbage, smoke, distant yeast—and started walking.
Ten minutes later, he pushed open the reinforced door of the 19th Precinct.
The lobby looked like a war zone abandoned halfway through cleaning. Bulletproof glass spider-webbed with cracks. Steel plates bolted over walls. Old bloodstains left unswept.
Behind the counter sat a middle-aged officer—uniform rumpled, stubble flecked with gray, eyes carrying the same dead exhaustion Sunniless saw in every mirror.
The officer glanced up once, then back to his paperwork.
"You lost, kid?"
Sunniless's throat clicked when he swallowed. His voice came out smaller than he wanted.
"I'm here to turn myself in."
The man leaned forward, elbows on the counter, studying the barefoot scarecrow in front of him.
"Turn yourself in… for what, exactly?"
Sunniless met his gaze. Words felt heavy as stones.
"I think I've been cursed by the Nightmare Shroud."
Silence.
The officer's chair screeched backward. His face drained of color so fast the stubble stood out like iron filings.
"You're serious."
Sunniless shrugged. "Symptoms started a week ago. Haven't slept since. If I pass out on the street…" He trailed off.
The officer's hand was already under the desk. A red button clicked.
"Attention all units—this is Dispatch Nineteen. Code Red, main lobby. I repeat, Code Red—confirmed Shroud candidate, conscious and requesting containment. Move!"
Boots thundered. Rifles clacked as safeties flicked off.
Sunniless didn't resist. Rough hands forced him into a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor. Thick canvas lined with cold iron straps cinched around his wrists, ankles, waist, and throat.
Someone slapped a medical patch on his neck—sedative, probably—to keep him under control once the curse took him.
Eight days without sleep crashed over him like a tidal wave.
The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him was the officer leaning close, voice oddly gentle:
"Hang in there, son. Whatever hell you're about to walk into… try to walk back out."
Then the world dissolved.
Somewhere beyond waking, something ancient and hungry opened its eyes.
The Nightmare Realm had been waiting.
And it had been waiting for him—for a very, very long time.