Frostbite 2 – The True Name. [2.2. God’s Chosen One]
On November 26, 2024 By Fang Dokja In Arc 2.2. God's Chosen One
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This story contains intense and distressing themes that may be triggering or unsettling for some readers. Please take care when proceeding.
* Psychological and emotional trauma: The narrative explores deep emotional distress, anxiety, and feelings of isolation and abandonment, particularly in relation to neglect and emotional abuse.
* Panic attacks: There are descriptions of panic attacks, including hyperventilation, racing heartbeat, and uncontrollable physical responses.
* Intense fear and terror: The characters experience profound fear and paranoia, which may be unsettling for some.
* Physical and emotional abuse: The text alludes to past abuse, though no explicit scenes of physical violence are shown.
* Involuntary submission and emotional vulnerability: There are depictions of characters struggling with fear and helplessness, which may be disturbing for some.
* Confusion and dissociation: The story includes moments of psychological confusion, identity loss, and a sense of dissociation.
* Themes of self-worth and undeserved affection: The protagonist grapples with feelings of unworthiness and fear of receiving care or comfort, which may resonate with readers who have experienced similar emotional struggles.
* Mental health distress: The story contains themes of emotional and psychological anguish, including intense feelings of hopelessness, despair, and confusion.
* Suicidal ideation: There are references to past self-harm and suicidal thoughts.
* Violence: Some descriptions of psychological and physical torment, though not overly explicit.
* Body horror: Glitching and strange physical transformations are briefly described, including sensations of power and disorientation.
* Intense confusion and disorientation: Characters experience moments of altered realities, causing distress and lack of clarity.
* Psychological manipulation and control: Themes of being trapped in a system or situation that feels inescapable.
* Alienation and isolation: A strong sense of emotional and physical isolation pervades the narrative, with characters experiencing detachment from their own lives.
* Nausea and physical discomfort: Descriptions of physical sensations that induce nausea or discomfort.
* Unresolved trauma: Flashbacks to painful and confusing memories, adding to the sense of being trapped in an endless cycle of suffering.
The story includes moments of surrealism, existential dread, and disturbing metaphysical elements. Please be advised that these elements may be unsettling for some readers.
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Status: Draft #1
Last Edited: November 26, 2024
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The world slips away like sand through trembling fingers, and for a moment, there is nothing. No pain, no weight, no blood. Just an emptiness that stretches on forever, an endless abyss of pure silence. The crushing burden of existence dissipates, leaving her with only the dull echo of her heartbeat, like a distant drum calling her to a place unknown.
But then—there is light. The purest white light, blinding and cold, a light that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. She cannot look away, cannot shield her eyes from its all-encompassing radiance. It consumes her, fills her with a strange sense of both peace and unease, as if something ancient and unknowable is watching her from the edges of this whiteness.
Is this death?
Is this the end of her suffering? The end of the burden she has carried all her life? Has the darkness finally claimed her, finally freed her from the endless torment of being unwanted, unloved, and out of place?
Her body feels weightless, suspended in this infinite sea of blank nothingness. She floats in this sterile, alien space, and it makes her feel small—smaller than she’s ever felt. The sheer nothingness presses in on her, both a cocoon and a prison.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been here. It could be seconds. It could be lifetimes. Time no longer has meaning. But she feels it—the heaviness of it, of her own existence. The hollow echo of her breath, the chill on her skin, and yet, despite it all, there is a faint trace of warmth. Something in the space, something just beyond her reach.
And then, she feels it—a presence. A presence that stirs the air around her. A whisper of movement, an unseen shift in the fabric of this white, empty world.
She turns.
A man. A figure. A blur in the periphery of her vision. His form is tall, too tall for her, too perfect for someone as broken as her. A figure draped in elegance, draped in grace, like a being sculpted from the very essence of divine beauty. His face is… fuzzy, his features blurred, slipping in and out of focus like an abstract painting she cannot fully comprehend.
But she can feel him—his presence is overwhelming. The air around him hums with an energy so potent, so powerful, it makes her chest tighten. She steps back instinctively, a part of her screaming to run, to flee from this strange, unknown figure. Her heart races as panic swarms her mind, like the gnashing of unseen teeth. Who is this? What is this place?
He doesn’t speak at first. He just stands there, tall and looming, yet there is something almost serene about him, something peaceful that seems to radiate from his very being. The air grows warmer, softer, despite the overwhelming cold of the void around them. But it is an unsettling warmth, one that makes her skin prickle in fear.
He’s not supposed to be here. This can’t be real. This can’t be real.
“Fang Yang Tojo.“
The words shatter the fragile silence, pulling her back to herself like a shock to the system. Fang Yang Tojo?
Her blood runs cold. Her body freezes, every nerve screaming in confusion and terror. That’s not her name. She is Deon Fonias. Deon Fonias—not this name. She doesn’t know this name. She’s never heard it before. But it hangs in the air, heavy, like a taunt, like a riddle she isn’t meant to understand. Who is this?
She stumbles back, her heart slamming against her ribs. Who is this man?
Is he here to punish her? Is he death, come to claim her, to finish what she had started? Or worse—has he come to drag her deeper into some unknown abyss? She doesn’t know, and that makes him more terrifying than anything else. Her instincts scream at her to run, to escape this nightmare, to get away from the face she cannot yet comprehend.
She turns and runs. Her feet barely touch the ground. The white void seems to stretch on forever before her, an endless horizon of nothingness, and yet, she feels as though something is holding her back. The air thickens, the space itself pushes against her, weighs her down, pulls her to the ground. She tries to move faster, but the more she runs, the heavier her legs become, as if the world itself is trying to pull her under.
But the man—he doesn’t chase her. He doesn’t run after her, doesn’t scream or try to stop her. He just walks, slowly, calmly, like he knows she cannot escape. Like he knows she cannot outrun him, even if she tries.
Why doesn’t he stop me?
Her breath comes in ragged gasps, and her muscles burn with the effort to keep moving, but each step feels more sluggish than the last. She feels trapped in an infinite space, the white void bending and twisting around her as she runs in circles, endlessly. It’s like she’s running in place.
The man’s voice calls out again, low, soothing, and terrifying all at once. “I won’t hurt you, Fang Yang Tojo.“
The words reverberate through her skull, like thunder in a storm she cannot escape. That’s not her name! That’s not her name!
But the stranger, the man, doesn’t chase. He doesn’t move faster. He doesn’t even seem concerned. He just walks forward, his presence calm and assured. The light around him flickers—is it him? Or is it her? Her vision spins, her mind unravels, and in the midst of it all, she feels something—something unfamiliar against her chest.
The jewel.
The pendant—the diamond-shaped pendant that had appeared around her neck, so ordinary yet so… familiar. It glows white, bright and impossible, as though it has come alive in the emptiness.
She can’t remember when she put it on. She doesn’t remember ever wearing it, but now, it burns against her skin. Why is it glowing?
A panic so sharp cuts through her thoughts, and she looks down at it, her fingers trembling as she touches the jewel. This wasn’t supposed to be hers.
The man doesn’t stop. He just walks closer, his figure growing clearer, but still, his face—his face remains an enigma, slipping in and out of focus, like a dream she can never fully grasp. He’s here to take her. He has to be.
The space stretches on forever. The coldness tightens in her chest, but the warmth around him begins to reach her, slow and suffocating. He doesn’t seem to care that she’s running. It’s almost as if he’s letting her.
And still, he calls her the name she cannot accept: “Fang Yang Tojo.“
Her heart races. She wants to scream, but her voice is lost. She tries to run again, faster this time, pushing her body to its limits, but the world around her is infinite. It is endless. And no matter how far she goes, the man is always there, always walking slowly toward her, closer, and closer still.
Who is he? Why is he calling her that name?
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The warmth is unfamiliar. It invades her like an uninvited presence, a sensation so alien, so foreign that it stirs something deep within her—a feeling she’s never known, something tender yet terrifying. The pure, ethereal heat radiates from the man before her, seeping into her skin, curling around her heart. It is like the embrace of a flame, but not one that burns—no, this warmth does not consume her, it comforts. And that terrifies her more than anything else.
She doesn’t understand it. She’s not used to this. It makes her feel… small. Vulnerable. Exposed. The terror of being held, of being cared for, wraps around her like an invisible chain, tighter than the suffocating grip of her family’s neglect. It’s a softness that feels like poison. She doesn’t deserve it. She can’t handle it. She wants to escape.
Her heart pounds violently, the rhythm so loud it drowns out all else. She runs, her tiny legs moving desperately across the expanse, her feet pressing into the unyielding whiteness beneath her, but there is no direction. No exit. No way out. The world itself is endless, unbroken, a sprawling abyss of nothingness. Her eyes burn with the light—too bright, too pure. It hurts. It hurts.
But she keeps running. She has to. The terror claws at her throat, drags her forward like a beast tethered to its prey. She doesn’t understand this. She doesn’t understand him. She doesn’t understand this place. Her thoughts are disjointed, scattered fragments of panic, of confusion, of dread. She needs to get away, she needs to escape, to outrun whatever this thing is.
Her breath comes in ragged gasps, her lungs burning, but the ground stretches on and on, infinite, stretching farther than any horizon she’s ever seen. She doesn’t know where she’s going, but she knows she can’t stop. She can’t give in. Not now. Not ever.
But then—she falls.
It’s not the ground that catches her, but the crushing weight of something else. A force, invisible yet powerful, pressing down on her. It suffocates her. Her chest caves in under the weight, her limbs grow heavy and useless, like gravity itself has turned on her. Her body crumples to the floor, but it doesn’t end. She can’t move. She can’t breathe. Her limbs won’t respond. It’s like she’s been chained to the very air around her, the nothingness, unable to escape.
Her heart thrums in her chest, frantic and raw, the blood rushing in her ears, drowning out the silence. The void around her presses in, making her feel like the world is crushing her, tightening around her ribs until she can hardly feel anything but fear. The terror she’s been carrying for so long, the fear of not knowing, of never understanding, is consuming her.
She doesn’t look up. She can’t. She won’t.
But still, He is there. That warmth. That light.
She shudders, trembling violently, every nerve alight with a terror so pure it paralyzes her. Who is this man? Who is he?
Her body shakes uncontrollably, a frantic tremor running through her like a deadly fever. Her vision blurs, a veil of tears clouding the edges, and the world spins faster and faster until it feels like everything is about to collapse in on her. Her breath stutters, a hitch in her chest, the panic clawing at her throat like an animal desperate for escape. The sensation overwhelms her, floods her mind with irrational terror. She can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t—
Then, he touches her.
The air around her shifts, soft, like the touch of a feather, and for a split second, she feels… held. The weight of the world is gone, as if some unseen force has decided she is worthy of being held. His arms—his arms—wrap around her, pulling her up, lifting her from the endless, aching emptiness. It is not a cruel touch. Not like the way her family had once touched her, not like the cold, calculated embrace of obligation.
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This… this feels real. It is gentle, warm, almost affectionate. A tender comfort, something so alien to her that it makes her want to scream. His body is warmth itself, a soft light that swallows her fear and replaces it with something far more dangerous—hope.
She doesn’t know what to do with it. She doesn’t know how to process it. She doesn’t deserve it.
She tries to thrash. She jerks, tries to break free from his grasp, from this unfamiliar peace. Her small fists pound against his chest, weak and desperate, but she cannot escape it. She cannot escape him. Her mind is reeling, spinning, a cyclone of terror and disbelief, and she wants to push him away, to run again, but her body betrays her, weak and trembling in his arms. The panic seizes her throat again, tightening until she can’t speak, can’t breathe. The fear is so thick it chokes her.
Who is this? What is he doing to her?
Her eyes squeeze shut. She doesn’t want to look at him. She can’t look at him. She’s afraid of what she might see. She’s afraid of what this man might want from her. She doesn’t trust him. She can’t trust him.
But despite her terror, despite her panic, he doesn’t let go.
The man doesn’t speak. He doesn’t shout or demand anything from her. He just—holds her. Cradles her like she’s something precious, something worth caring for. The warmth of his embrace wraps around her like a blanket, soothing her frenzied heart. She shudders, her body still shaking with the remnants of her panic attack, but his presence does not push her away. It calms her, a warmth that feels like sunlight, like an ocean of peace washing over her like a tide. The tenderness in his touch is unlike anything she has ever known.
And still—he calls her name.
“Fang Yang Tojo.”
It is the name that does not belong to her, the name that is not hers, the name that brings only confusion and dread.
But still, she cannot escape it. The warmth, the peace, the comfort. It is so foreign, so unlike everything she’s known. It scares her. But even in her terror, she feels something stir deep within her. Something she can barely name.
The darkness—the never-ending darkness—has been her only companion, and now, this light, this man, is all that stands between her and the abyss. She can’t tell if he is her salvation or her damnation. She can’t tell if she can trust him.
But as his arms tighten around her, as the warmth envelops her trembling body, she does not want to let go.
She doesn’t know why.
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The panic rushes over her like a tidal wave, a suffocating grip that twists and rips through her chest. It claws at her lungs, dragging out every breath until her chest is raw with the strain of trying to breathe. Her heartbeat races, a rapid drumbeat of terror, each thump feeling like a death sentence, a warning. The air is thick, impossible to draw in, as if her very existence is being smothered. She gasps, shallow, jagged breaths, the staccato rhythm of her panicked gasps ricocheting off the walls of her mind. Her hands, tiny and frantic, claw at her own throat as if she can tear away the suffocating air, the crushing weight of the fear, but it’s inescapable. It presses down on her, pushing her further into the void.
She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe.
Her heart doesn’t just beat, it pounds. It thrashes against her ribs, desperate to escape, to run from this terrifying reality that has twisted around her, drowning her in the terror of the unknown. She feels like she’s drowning in a flood of panic, unable to stop it. The walls close in, spinning, the ground beneath her feet trembling as if the universe itself is shaking in the grip of her terror.
Her body is no longer her own. It’s an animal, fighting, clawing, thrashing against the invisible chains that bind her, pulling at her limbs, begging for release. Her fists strike at the man who holds her, weak and trembling, but each movement feels like it’s pulling her deeper into the nightmare. She screams, a sound she has never made before—loud, unrestrained, an animalistic wail that bursts from her throat in a jagged scream of desperation. The sound is raw, tearing at the fragile threads of her sanity.
Her body fights, every muscle locked in panic, trying to pull away from him, trying to escape. She kicks and twists in his arms, like a frightened animal, her feet stamping uselessly against the air. She can feel the frantic pulse of her blood, her skin burning as if it’s being seared, every touch of his hands against her skin making the fire of fear worse. She thrashes harder, throwing her head from side to side, her voice cracking as she sobs, “Let me go! Please, please, let me go!”
The sound is raw, broken—a child screaming for salvation.
Her vision is blurred with tears, the world spinning around her like an uncontrollable storm, and still, the man doesn’t release her. His arms, firm yet impossibly gentle, encircle her tightly, unyielding. She can feel the warmth of him, but it feels like a suffocating thing. It’s too much.
“Stop it,” she wails, her voice hoarse from the screams that have torn through her throat. “Stop it! You’re scaring me! Please stop!”
But the man doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let go.
His touch, still gentle, still firm, never wavers. It feels like he’s holding her together, holding her in place as the fragments of her mind scatter, but there’s no escape. No relief. The fear seeps into every corner of her body, every part of her existence, and she feels like she’s on the edge of being consumed by it. Her chest burns. The air feels thick and choking, as if the very world is collapsing in on her.
She can’t think. She can’t escape. Everything is dark.
But still, the man remains. His presence, calm, unwavering, anchors her in the abyss, but it does nothing to ease the terror that rages within her. He holds her close, pressing her small form to his chest, offering only warmth, only the soft caresses of his hands against her trembling skin.
“Shhh… it’s alright,” he whispers, a voice like silk, soft and tender, brushing against her panic like the wings of a moth in the night. “You’re safe now. It’s alright. You are safe.”
Her body shakes uncontrollably, the tears flow down her cheeks, soaking into the fabric of his robe. She wants to break free, wants to tear herself away from this strange, terrifying sensation. The warmth makes her feel like she’s drowning in a sea of emotion she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t know how to exist here, in this strange, glowing warmth, where everything feels too bright, too peaceful for someone like her.
“Please…” She whispers through her sobs, her voice so small, so fragile. “Please… don’t let me go.”
But her pleas are lost in the vast, endless space of white that surrounds them. His hands cradle her with the gentleness of a father, his whispers so tender that they almost make her feel like she’s allowed to rest in his arms. The panic, however, doesn’t relent, doesn’t stop its ruthless assault on her mind. Her body continues to tremble, the fear clawing at her from all sides, until her limbs are weak and her muscles burn from the exertion.
She fights for what feels like hours, her chest heaving, her head spinning, the world around her slipping further and further out of focus. She can’t keep her eyes open. She can’t hold on any longer. The terror is too much. The fear is too heavy.
She stops thrashing. Her body goes limp in his arms, and her breath comes in ragged, shallow gasps as she shudders one last time. The world slows, the terror receding like a fading nightmare, and in its place, a strange, oppressive calm settles over her.
Her sobs quiet. Her body, exhausted, gives up its fight. Slowly, gently, the trembling fades, and she sinks into his embrace like a child who has no more strength to run, to scream, to fight. She just lets go.
And in the silence, the man holds her, still whispering soothing words, his voice a soft lullaby that drifts through the white expanse like a feather on the wind.
She falls asleep in his arms.
A child, too tired to scream, too broken to resist.
Her mind a hazy, blurred emptiness, the terror fading into nothingness.
And still, he holds her. As the child sleeps, cradled in his warmth, wrapped in the comfort she has never known. The warmth that she has never been worthy of.
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The white expanse stretched infinitely in every direction, a void without shadows, without texture. Deon sat motionless on its cold surface, her small frame rigid, her fingers curled lightly over her knees. Her wide eyes, still swollen from the panic and tears, flicked to the blurred figure standing before her. The man’s face was an enigma—a smudged smear of existence, unidentifiable, unknowable. Yet, his presence was unnervingly calm, like an ocean tide that rose without warning yet carried no malice.
“Who are you?” Her voice came as a soft whisper, hoarse and uneven, like a fragile bird trembling against a storm.
The man offered no answer, and the silence stretched thin, taut like a blade against her mind. Yet, there was no hostility in his silence. Instead, his hand—graceful and slow—reached forward, his movements deliberate. His fingers brushed against her tangled hair, an affectionate stroke that was alien to her, and the gentle warmth he radiated gnawed at her defenses.
Deon froze, her breath catching. The soft motion of his hand neither soothed nor hurt her, but it unsettled her deeply. It was unfamiliar, unnervingly tender—a touch she didn’t know how to interpret. The emptiness around them swallowed any further attempt at thought.
And then, the stillness shattered.
A blood-red rectangle tore through the void like a gaping wound, splitting the purity of the white space with its stark violence. The texture of the window was almost fleshy, as if it were alive—its edges pulsed faintly with something viscous and wet. The red surface flickered, spasming between a cold, clinical blue and a stark white, as though undecided between neutrality and menace. Finally, it settled back to its crimson glow, a single title emblazoned across the top in jagged, raw text:
“GOD’S PROTAGONIST SYSTEM” (GPS).
The letters appeared carved into the surface, not written—each stroke of the text looked like a violent incision, the edges dripping faintly with what might have been blood or something darker. It glistened unnervingly, and with every faint pulse of the window, the words seemed to twitch as though alive.
Deon’s breath hitched, and she glanced back at the man, her body frozen between curiosity and fear. His response was wordless. He continued to stroke her head, a patient, calming presence that contrasted sharply with the violence of the display. Slowly, he extended his other hand, pointing toward the center of the glowing, pulsating rectangle.
A START button emerged, dull and unassuming against the grotesque backdrop. Its surface was a muted white, bordered by sharp, thin lines, and it glowed faintly, beckoning her. The man’s gesture was warm, encouraging—yet something about the stillness of his blurred face made her stomach churn.
Deon’s gaze darted between the man and the window. Suspicion coiled in her chest, but the emptiness of the void left her no other options. After a moment’s hesitation, her trembling fingers moved toward the button. With a sharp exhale, she pressed it.
The window convulsed violently, the pulsating red intensifying as the world itself seemed to shudder. A sharp screech, like metal scraping against bone, filled the air as the red surface shattered into fragments that evaporated like ash.
What replaced it was equally strange—a new window, its design simplistic yet unnervingly pristine. “Welcome, Fang Yang Tojo,” it read, the name etched in thin, silver lines that gleamed faintly against the backdrop. The elegance of the text felt out of place, its simplicity almost mocking in the face of the visceral horror that surrounded it.
Deon blinked at the name. It wasn’t hers. It didn’t belong to her. Yet the window didn’t acknowledge her confusion—it shifted before she could question further.
The interface now displayed a minimalist game menu, its layout stark and mechanical. Each button sat in its own sterile rectangle:
* SAVE: Its lettering seemed cracked, the edges faintly glowing as if the button were barely holding itself together.
* LOAD: This one shimmered unnaturally, its surface rippling like water disturbed by an unseen force.
* RESET: The text was perfect, unnervingly smooth, as though untouched by time. Yet, there was something menacing in its symmetry.
Deon’s fingers twitched in her lap, her eyes scanning the unsettlingly clean interface. She didn’t understand what any of this was—video games weren’t part of her bleak reality, and this alien concept only deepened her unease. The buttons pulsed faintly, almost like breathing organisms, their presence oppressive against the stark white void.
“What is this?” she whispered to herself, her voice cracking under the weight of her confusion.
The man knelt beside her, his blurred face inclining gently toward hers, but he didn’t speak. Instead, his fingers reached out again, stroking her head with the same unnerving tenderness. His other hand gestured faintly toward the window, his actions steady, as though guiding her through something inevitable.
Deon hesitated. Her breathing quickened as the world grew unnervingly silent again, the pulsing glow of the menu the only movement in this endless void. Something deep inside her told her that whatever choice she made here would change everything, but what was there to change? She had no idea where she was, who she was anymore, or even what this… system wanted from her.
Her gaze flickered back to the man, and despite the warmth he radiated, her hands trembled. The void stretched around her like a prison, and the buttons on the screen seemed to mock her ignorance.
She didn’t press anything yet. Not yet.
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The menu screen loomed in front of her, its red glow casting a sinister pulse through the white void. Deon stared at it, her hollow eyes scanning its sterile buttons: SAVE, LOAD, RESET. The simplicity should have been calming, but the energy radiating from it was anything but. It wasn’t the red itself that unnerved her, but the feeling—an oppressive, malevolent presence that clung to her skin like static, as though the screen wasn’t just a window but a watching thing.
Her fingers flexed instinctively at her sides, and her breath came shallow. What was this? Some cruel punishment? A mockery of her existence? She glanced at the man beside her, his hand still resting lightly on her head, his blurred face offering no answers, no clarity. He didn’t seem menacing—if anything, he radiated calm, even warmth. Yet his very presence made the air feel heavier.
Deon reached forward hesitantly, her tiny fingers trembling as they hovered over the SAVE button. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to touch it, only that it felt like the screen was silently daring her to. But as her hand moved closer, a sudden jolt—a glitch, like static breaking reality itself—rippled through her.
Her body warped for the briefest moment, her vision flickering between her childlike form and something else. Something… more. Her limbs grew leaner, stronger, her muscles defined in ways that made her feel alien to herself. A flash of power coursed through her veins, but it vanished before she could even process it, leaving her head pounding and her stomach turning violently.
The menu flickered erratically, its edges crackling with the same glitching energy. Deon clutched her head, groaning softly as if something were grinding her skull from the inside out. The man, ever silent, didn’t move or speak. His hand rested on her shoulder now, steady as a mountain, as though grounding her against the overwhelming chaos.
“Just stop…” she whispered hoarsely, more to herself than to him. “What is this? I thought I… I thought I was done…”
She rubbed her temples, exhaustion pooling in her bones. The void around her seemed to hum faintly, like a far-off engine revving with no destination. The name—Fang Yang Tojo—flashed briefly on the screen again, as if mocking her confusion. She glared at it, wanting to scream, but no sound came. Her energy was spent, her limbs sluggish and unwilling.
Then, without warning, everything vanished.
The white void collapsed into blackness, an abyss so deep and cold it swallowed even her thoughts. For a moment, there was nothing but silence—true, deafening silence. And then, through the darkness, came the faint echo of a voice:
“Fang Yang Tojo.”
The name wrapped around her mind like a noose, pulling her consciousness under.
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Deon awoke abruptly, her body sprawled on the icy floor of her room. The cold bit into her skin, a stark reminder that she was alive—if this was what one called living. The minimalist walls stared back at her, lifeless and gray, their chipped paint a canvas of despair. The room smelled of dampness and neglect, every corner whispering of a life unloved.
Her head throbbed dully as she tried to sit up, but the effort felt monumental. She noticed then, with a detached sort of shock, that her wrists were unmarked. No blood, no scars, no evidence of what she’d done. She pulled her sleeves back mechanically, her breathing hitching as she stared at the pale, unbroken skin.
“What…?” Her voice cracked, barely audible.
Her mind reeled, but it couldn’t grasp at anything solid. That place—the void, the man, the system—it all felt like a fever dream. Yet her wounds were gone, her body whole again. Her fingers trembled as she reached for her neck, feeling for the phantom weight of that jewel she’d seen. There was nothing. No trace, no proof of anything except her lingering confusion.
Her eyes closed tightly as a wave of nausea washed over her. Was this some kind of punishment? Some cruel joke? She thought she had escaped—thought she’d finally freed herself from the unbearable weight of existence. But here she was, back in the suffocating cage of her life, the icy floor beneath her mocking her with its indifference.
Too tired to think, too drained to cry, Deon slumped back against the floor. The air felt heavier than usual, pressing down on her chest until she could barely breathe. Her muscles ached from nothing, her mind screamed in silence, but none of it mattered. She was so tired.
Tired of trying. Tired of failing. Tired of being.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she let herself drift, sinking into the oblivion of sleep. It wasn’t peace, not really, but it was all she had.