Damian sat floating in empty darkness. The world around him had completely disappeared, leaving his lone figure submerged in a sea of nothing. The clothing and mask he bore all had vanished as well—returning him to his original malnourished and ragged look. Next, cool dampness slowly spread onto his arms, followed by a subtle burning sensation. Wincing at the pain, he dropped his eyes to inspect his arms, and was left utterly astonished:

Complex foreign writing crawled up Damian's arms. The strange runes painted his thin arms in a deep black, contrasting his pale skin. A second change, or rather something that had actually remained from earlier, was the glove he had been wearing ever since he ended up in this strange place. With everything else gone, the glove still remained.

Before he could comprehend these new developments, however, a sharp pain encompassed his eyes—forcing them shut. While the pain continued, he slowly felt himself falling as his mind twisted erratically before suddenly, everything stopped.

Carefully opening his eyes, Damian blinked in exhausted surprise. Everything had vanished. The pain, the noise, the land around him, and even the horrible skull all disappeared. He himself changed as well. Lying on a plain concrete surface, his eyes pick up on the scenery around him. Rows of chairs decorated the hall as tall windows shone a dull morning glow directly into his eyes. On his side, he saw past a collection of wooden seats whilst at eye-level with the floor. At the far back corner of the hall, he spotted a small children's doll tucked beneath a seat in the back.

'...I'm home…and alive…'

Damian sat himself up—his mind left nervous and uneasy. His eyes wandered around the church before quickly noticing a statue broken on the floor next to him. Fearfully, he crawled backward at a frantic pace before colliding with a dull wooden seat. Inspecting the fallen faceless statue, he then quickly looked to the others still sitting on their podiums. Slowly, he gazed toward the face divided in black and white; its eyes carved as the sun and moon. That same statue of the church he had been transported to. Observing the towering stone with a skeptical gaze, his anxiousness eventually began to fade. As irritating as it was, he was very happy to see those same familiar stone friends of his. It was proof that he was truly home. Finally, his mouth curled into a beaming smile:

"I've done it! Hahaha, I'm alive!"

Standing up, a newfound energy surged through his body; catching him off guard. An expression of intrigue formed as he adjusted himself—ready to look into the strange changes that occurred to his body.

The most prominent of them was a series of black esoteric runes tattooing his pale arms, all the way up to his elbows. However, what threw Damian off completely was that he could actually piece together some of the runes to make sense of what they read.

'...How is this possible..?'

The ancient writing immediately caught his attention—each line reading a short and cryptic story-telling. Inspecting the runes, he recited the ambiguous text with ease:

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``He who paints the world...requires the eyes of an artist: You have been gifted with...Rune Interpretation.``

Immediately after reading the short passage, Damian found himself in excruciating pain. Staggering to the floor, he attempted to cope with the sudden splitting headache and nausea. From his tightly shut eyes, tears fell down his cheeks uncontrollably. Hunched over, Damian lay resting on the dusty concrete floors of the church. Steadily, he recovered as time passed, albeit painfully slowly.

Stumbling to a stand, Damian carefully sat himself at one of the wooden benches lining the church in rows. Warily, he forced his blurry blood-shot eyes open:

'What the hell just happened! Can I not read in peace!?'

Recovering from the violent and unexpected pain, Damian relaxed his scrunching brow and calmed himself:

'Alright alright, there's no way this happens simply because I'm unlucky or something. Obviously, something must've caused this. And that something could only be one thing.'

Damian cautiously revisited the runes painting his arms. Upon eye contact, the pain began to reemerge. Panicked, he looked away with a shocked expression.

Discovering the source of the pain, Damian frowned somewhat surprised by the damage his own body had caused to him.

'Ok, so reading the runes turned out to be a really bad idea. Good to know, but even after reading the runes, I still don't have a clue about what it could possibly mean.'

"Am I just stupid? What exactly am I supposed to make of this situation? I know runes are tailored to magic, but…-oh wait there's more writing."

Brushing off his disappointment, he swiftly scanned his arms for any other lines of text possibly marking his body.

'Jeez, there's even more rune text on my left arm too. Haa. no more. I feel like my head will explode if I continue.'

Ignoring the rest of the esoteric writing on his arms, he brought his attention to the fascinating glove equipping his right hand:

'At least this thing won't kill me if I look at it. Probably?'

With subdued eyes, Damian studied the mysterious glove:

'Hmm, it's really interesting. Even though it looks sorta plain, it's got a strange attraction about it.'

The glove wrapped snuggly around Damian's hand, colored in a bizarre warping grey and black. If inspected closely, its synthetic material could be spotted moving as if it were alive. The entire feel and design felt superb yet alien and unsettling.

'It's so cool. How does anyone even go about creating something like this? Not to mention, what was it even built for? It feels a little too odd to just serve as armor for your hand. I've got too many damn questions.'

'And…since I've got runes on my arms…does that make me an Imprinted?'

Struck with the obvious realization, Damian found himself at the precipice of a possible fresh and successful future.

"Oh, my god. If I'm an Imprinted, I can finally get out of this hellhole! I've gotta head home and let the old man know! Maybe he can even help out with the rune text. Not to mention I've also gotta figure out where the hell I'm supposed to even go to get…recognized? What are you even supposed to do you do when you become an Imprinted anyway? It would be nice if they could just hand me some money.'

Suppressing his curiosities, Damian rushed to the old wooden entrance—preparing to leave the old church hall. Before his departure, Damian's irritated red eyes scanned the room one last time. After a single glance at the collapsed faceless statue, horrible recent memories replayed in Damian's entire being—causing him to shudder at the near past:

'You stone gremlins can rot in hell for all I care, but…thanks for the cool tattoos I guess.'