Sleep returned quietly.
Vicky lay against the broken stone floor of the mansion, eyes closed, breathing steady. The ruins around him were silent, unmoving, as if even the darkness had decided not to disturb him.
The headache faded.
The world slipped away.
And then—
He was no longer there.
Warmth surrounded him.
Not light.
Not darkness.
Something in between.
Vicky felt himself standing, though he could not see the ground beneath his feet. The air was calm, almost gentle. A strange familiarity settled in his chest, as if he had been here before—long ago.
Then he felt it.
Hands.
Resting on his shoulders.
Pressing gently.
Kneading slowly, as if easing away exhaustion he didn't remember earning.
Vicky stiffened.
The touch was real.
Too real for a dream.
Behind him, a voice laughed softly.
Not cruel.
Not mocking.
Comforted.
"You always carry too much," the voice said, still unseen. "Even now."
Vicky's breath caught.
That voice.
He had heard it before.
Recently.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice steady despite the tension rising in his chest.
The hands paused—only for a moment—then continued.
"Still asking that?" the voice replied with quiet amusement. "How unlike you."
The warmth deepened.
The pressure behind his eyes stirred again, faint but present, as if memories were brushing against something sealed.
"You don't remember," the voice continued, almost fondly. "I wondered how long it would take."
"Remember what?" Vicky demanded.
The hands leaned closer, and he felt breath near his ear.
A whisper followed.
"Do you remember the promise you made to me?"
Vicky turned—
And the world shattered.
He jolted awake, breath sharp, heart pounding.
The mansion was dark and silent once more.
No hands.
No warmth.
Only the echo of laughter lingering in his mind.
Vicky stared at the cracked ceiling, eyes wide.
A promise.
One he could not remember making.
Yet somehow—
He knew he had.