As Draven pushed open the creaky basement door of his apartment, pstic grocery bags hanging from each hand, he froze mid-step.

  There, lying conspicuously on the floor just past the threshold, was a business card—bck with faded gold trim. On top of it, a small scrap of crumpled paper rested, clearly torn from a notebook.

  He dropped the bags on the counter without a word, then crouched down and picked up the note.

  The handwriting was rushed but legible:

  "Meet me at Sigmart Alley, East Vallence District. Tomorrow. 12:00 PM. —Journalist man"

  Draven stared at the note for a moment, unmoved. Then he gnced at the business card.

  It was old, water-stained—belonged to the same man whose child he had watched die just days ago.

  He slid both the note and card into his jacket pocket, then quietly returned to unpacking the groceries. No reaction. No questions.

  Just a brief murmur to himself, under his breath—

  “…Should’ve thrown that card in with the head.”

  The fridge clicked open, welcoming the silence that followed.

  Draven tried to brush off the lingering weight of the note, stuffing it into his coat pocket without a second gnce. He stepped into the dim glow of his basement apartment, the familiar scent of blood and iron greeting him like an old friend.

  With a sigh, he opened the fridge. Inside, neatly wrapped cuts of marinated flesh sat in silence, cold and waiting. He grabbed a portion, unbothered by the faint crimson that stained the pstic wrap. But just as he shut the fridge door, the voices returned—low, overpping whispers like wind through cracked bones.

  Deadman Whisper.

  He stood still for a moment, eyes narrowing.

  Not now.

  He reached for his phone and scrolled until he found the right pylist. A thumping industrial track started bring through the room, drowning out the murmurs cwing at the edges of his mind. Finally—peace, or something like it.

  He worked with precision, moving through the cramped kitchen like a well-oiled machine. The meat sizzled the moment it hit the pan, the aroma rising with a sharp hiss. Draven didn’t flinch. He flipped the meat with the confidence of a man who’d done this more times than he could count. Bde in one hand, spatu in the other—he was a killer in and out of battle.

  And as the scent filled the room, he leaned against the counter, silent, as if waiting for something. Or perhaps, for the whispers to return.

  Draven opened his eyes—not to the dim ceiling of his basement apartment, but to a vast, endless void.

  There was no sound, no wind, no walls—only silence and the thick, metallic scent of blood. He stood alone in a shapeless space, the ground beneath him dark and wet. As he looked down, he realized he was standing ankle-deep in a shallow pool of blood, its surface eerily still.

  The liquid reflected his face perfectly—his pale skin, his half-lidded, tired eyes, and the faint scar near his brow. But something felt off. The reflection stared back with a colder expression than he ever remembered wearing.

  It wasn’t just a mirror.

  It was watching him.

  Draven crouched slowly, bringing his face closer to the surface of the blood. The reflection did the same, but with an unnerving dey, as if hesitating… or resisting.

  In the swirling haze of the nightmare, the whispers returned—low at first, then rising in intensity, like a chorus of unseen phantoms cwing at the walls of his mind.

  "Draven..."

  "Draven..."

  "Draven..."

  The voice, once a soft echo, grew sharper—piercing, shrill, unbearable. It wasn't a whisper anymore. It was a scream. His name was being dragged through his ears like broken gss, and it wouldn't stop.

  "Draven... wake up."

  Suddenly, everything around him shifted.

  The void of blood was gone.

  Now he sat at a small wooden table, sunlight spilling softly through the worn curtains of a humble home. His legs didn’t touch the floor. He was small. A child again.

  And across the table—smiling gently—was his mother.

  She wore a faded apron, her eyes warm and tired, her voice far too kind for the world they lived in.

  “Eat your soup, Draven,” she said, pushing the warm bowl closer to him. “You need to grow strong, remember?”

  Steam rose from the bowl. The scent was familiar. Too familiar.

  He blinked. Confused. Trembling. Somewhere deep inside, he realized this wasn’t real.

  His small hands gripped the spoon shakily, and he brought a mouthful of the soup to his lips. The taste was heavy, rich, metallic. Yet warm.

  His mother leaned forward slightly, watching him with hopeful eyes. “How is it?” she asked softly.

  Draven chewed, paused, then tilted his head. “The meat’s not tender enough,” he muttered, scrunching his nose just a bit.

  She ughed—light and genuine, like the chime of a bell. “You always say that,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Even when I spend hours on it.”

  “It’s true,” young Draven replied, a hint of mischief in his tone. “You need to marinate it longer.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said, crossing her arms with a teasing smile. “So now you’re the expert, huh?”

  Draven smirked proudly. “Maybe I should be.”

  She reached out, gently ruffling his hair. “Maybe you should. You’ve always had a good tongue for taste. Who knows? One day, you might become a great chef… the kind that makes even the cruelest soldier cry with just one bite.”

  Draven looked up at her, his expression softening. For a moment, the war, the blood, the pain—none of it existed.

  Just a boy, and his mother, sharing soup in a world far too kind to be real.

  Suddenly, a sharp sting buzzed through his ear, and Draven’s eyes snapped open.

  His arm was bring—bsting distorted guitar riffs at full volume from the speaker of his phone lying on the floor. He groaned, dragging a hand across his face. His cheek felt damp. Drool.

  He sat up slowly, rubbing his temple as he muttered under his breath,

  “Tasty dream…”

  Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gring at the phone like it had just ruined something sacred.

  By noon, the sun hung high but failed to chase away the gloom that clung to the narrow Sigmart Alley. Shadows stretched between rusted pipes and stained brick, giving the pce a smell of oil, rot, and something old—forgotten.

  Draven leaned against the damp wall, arms folded, earbuds tucked away. When he heard footsteps, he gnced up to see the familiar worn coat of the journalist.

  The journalist looked thinner than before, like something had been drained from him. He didn’t say much. Just handed Draven a fsh drive with a trembling hand.

  "Give this to the head of the Journalists’ Union," he said, voice low, almost hollow.

  Draven narrowed his eyes. “Why not do it yourself?”

  The journalist gave a weak, broken chuckle, then looked up at him with tired eyes. “'Cause I’m a miserable man.”

  He stepped back a little, pressing his hand against his chest like he was holding in something fragile. “You said it yourself, remember? Life’s meaningless… and the only way to find meaning is to die.”

  Before Draven could answer, Fred added softly, almost casually, “Oh right. My name’s Fred.”

  Then, in one smooth motion, he pulled out a small pistol and pointed it at his own head.

  “Wait—” Draven stepped forward, hand reaching out.

  But the shot rang out.

  And Fred colpsed, blood blooming beneath him like a cruel red flower on the cracked alley floor.

  Draven stood there for a moment, silent, staring at the lifeless body sprawled across the alley. The scent of gunpowder lingered in the air, mixing with the stench of the city. Without a word, he crouched down, picked up Fred’s pistol, and tucked it into his coat.

  He gnced once more at the crumpled figure, then muttered quietly, almost like a farewell, “I hope you find your answer... Fred.”

  Then he turned away, his steps echoing against the alley walls as he disappeared into the city’s shadows once again.