I Deadass Thought This Is The Sandman U Like When I First Saw U Like Sandman

I deadass thought this is the sandman u like when I first saw u like sandman

From rise of the guardians 😭

i LOOOOOOOVE his look in books of magic. i feel like a man seeing woman's ankle in victorian era 😩 i just wanna ruffle his hair and snuggle into his cloak

Chapter 6: What time took from me: Temporal Cipher

Content Warning for Chapter 6 This chapter contains depictions of psychological distress, hallucinations, paranoia, mentions of therapy, and unsettling imagery (including gore-like descriptions, though not physical). Reader discretion is advised, especially for those sensitive to topics related to mental health struggles and dissociation. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

there's fluff despite everything, dw, you're not just a reader! there's aftercare.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Another day. Another twisted activity waiting for us.

We were all gathered in a cramped, windowless room today — air thick with tension and the faint metallic tang of stress-sweat. Proctors paced back and forth, handing out assignments, their shoes tapping like countdown clocks against the tile.

Every student had their own task: someone bent metal into intricate symbols; another whispered to a bowl of water until their reflection screamed back; one kid calculated endless numbers, their fingers twitching like flesh calculators.

And me? I got the box.

It sat at the center of the room, black and heart beating, almost alive. When the proctor called my name, my gut twisted painfully — the same way it did when I first learned my mother died. A slow-blooming nausea that whispered, This will change you.

I obeyed anyway. Because what else could I do?

The moment my fingertips brushed the box, everything around me ruptured.

The walls melted, my classmates vanished, and suddenly I was standing on a bridge suspended over nothing. The sky churned with black oil clouds, and the only sound was my own pulse, loud and thunderous, rattling my skull from the inside out.

The first puzzle piece was easy — a small section of the box slid away under my touch, clicking into place like a child's toy. Too easy.

The second piece? It bit into my skin. Razor-sharp edges slid under my nails, prying them up like peeling fruit skin. Blood welled fast and slick, dripping down my wrists — but I couldn't stop. My fingers moved like puppets under some crueler hand, and the more I solved, the more reality warped around me.

I saw my mother's coffin. Even though in reality, I never had the chance to give my mother a proper burial.

It was standing upright beside me — nailed shut, but not enough to stop her hand from slipping through the crack. Bone-thin fingers, nails ripped clean off, reaching for me.

Behind me, Clara stood with her throat slit wide open — petals growing from the wound like some macabre garden, blooming faster every time I blinked.

Worst of all, in the mirrored shards scattered on the ground, I saw myself. Or versions of me.

One had no eyes, just empty sockets filled with writhing, ink-black worms.

One had my lips stitched shut with golden wire, my hands folded politely like a corpse.

One stood with her back bent at a grotesque angle, head hanging loose by a thread of skin.

I should have screamed. I should have stopped. I didn't.

Because the box wouldn't let me.

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With every new piece, the puzzle took more from me.

My left eye burst — or at least, it felt like it. A blinding flash of pain seared through my skull, and something thicker than blood leaked down my cheek. I wiped at it, trembling, and my hand came away soaked in black ink, dripping like melted shadow.

My fingers began to crack and splinter, bone peeking through skin. Every time a piece slid into place, my own flesh unraveled — as if solving the puzzle meant dismantling myself.

But I couldn't stop.

Time twisted in knots around me. The bridge collapsed and rebuilt itself beneath my feet, forcing me to step forward, backward, sideways — every wrong step dropped me into another memory.

I fell into my childhood bedroom, staring at my mother's empty bed.

I fell into the schoolyard, watching Clara wave before a flower pierced her hand.

I fell into my own grave, dirt filling my mouth until I couldn't scream.

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Somewhere, some tiny rational part of my mind knew the truth.

This wasn't real. None of it. This was the test — a psychic simulation planted directly into my skull by the proctors. My body was still standing in that tiny room, trembling, hands clutching the real box.

But the rest of me? I was dying. Over and over and over.

This was how they forced my powers to awaken. Not through training — through terror. Through stress so violent my time magic would activate by instinct.

They were ripping me open, not to teach me, but to see if I could survive it.

When the final piece slid into place, I hit the ground hard. My knees split open against jagged stone, and for a moment I could taste my own blood, bright and sharp like a warning bell.

The bridge shattered beneath me, sending me into a free-fall through my own memories, my own past mistakes. I relived my mother's death in reverse, watching her rise from the grave, heal from her sickness, smile at me once more—

And then I woke up.

Back in the room. Hands trembling over the very normal, very wooden puzzle box. The proctor nodded once. "Good work." My gaze fell to the woman by his side. It was Ms. Renée

She didn't ask questions. Didn't tell me it was all fake, because she knew it didn't matter. My mind couldn't tell the difference. My body still remembered the agony, the trauma. The phantom pain lingered, too deep to scrub out.

She knelt beside me, hands warm on my frozen skin. "Hagarin, You're okay."

I couldn't even answer. My throat felt stitched shut.

She wiped my face gently — her sleeve coming away soaked with cold sweat and tears. No blood. No ink. Just a terrified kid they pushed too far.

The walk home is as though paranoia grips through my skin, it causes me to shiver to no end, no relief, no warmth.

Ms. Renée walked me home, her arm never leaving my shoulders. Every step felt like it existed in three different timelines — one where I fell, one where I ran, one where I stood still until time ate me alive.

When we reached my door, I froze.

It wasn't my house. It was my mother's funeral home, twisted into the shape of my front door. Her coffin was waiting inside — not real, but my brain didn't care.

I collapsed to my knees, trembling so violently I thought my bones would rattle apart.

Ms. Renee held me, whispering, "You're here. You're real." I didn't believe her.

I still don't.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at my hands.

The injuries were gone. My fingers were whole. My eye was intact. My skin was clean.

But when I clenched my fists, the air shimmered, rippling faintly like time didn't fully trust me anymore.

Every time I blinked, I saw the stitched-mouth version of me sitting at the foot of my bed, watching, waiting for me to break again.

Time didn't just test me today. It claimed me.

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Morning light gently seeped through the veil of my curtains, painting fragile gold across the room and...

Sleep didn't come.

When I closed my eyes, I fell into the bridge again. Into the coffin. Into my own corpse.

I woke up gasping, fingers clawing at my throat, convinced it was still sewn shut. I vomited once — black sludge that vanished the moment I blinked, leaving me doubting if it ever happened.

Time magic is supposed to be beautiful. But mine feels like a curse — a parasite gnawing at my spine, whispering, You don't deserve control. We do.

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The next morning—another morning. I saw my reflection.

My face was fine. But my shadow moved slower than me, lagging by just a fraction of a second — like time itself didn't fully trust me anymore.

At breakfast, my cup cracked when I picked it up — age speeding up around my fingertips until the glass simply couldn't hold itself together.

I was unraveling. And no one could see it but me.

They wanted me to learn control.

What I learned instead is that time has teeth — and every second you touch will bite back.

I'm stronger now. But I'm also haunted.

Because every time I close my eyes, I still see that stitched-mouth girl — still sitting at the foot of my bed, still waiting for me to break her free.

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The past five days unraveled like a slow, cruel unraveling of thread — paranoia soaked into every corner of my mind until it left me disheveled, barely standing today. My fingers now brush against the fragile edges of reality, where I could finally distinguish what was real and what was only a phantom born from my fear.

Guilt curled itself around my throat like a noose, tightening with every breath I took. I never gave Hanari the explanation she deserved — I simply pushed her towards Ms. Renée, too ashamed, too fractured to speak for myself.

The school excused me for a month, a mercy disguised as punishment. They said I needed time to recover, as if time alone could soothe wounds carved into my mind. Even now, I'm not sure if healing is something I can reach.

A therapist was assigned to untangle my chaos, but how do you calm nerves that still vibrate with phantom pain? How do you silence a storm that's made a home inside your head?

The day I finally told Hanari the truth, the weight of my own words crushed me. I cried. I broke. I admitted I was not okay — and somehow, saying it out loud made it all feel so much heavier.

When the tears finally fell, Hanari pulled me into her arms — no words, no questions, just the quiet strength of her embrace. It was her way of reminding me that I was still here, that I was alive, even if my mind had long wandered into the graveyard of my fears. Her warmth bled into my skin, thawing the frost left by endless nights of paranoia. And in her arms, I could finally...

Breathe.

And for the first time in days, I drifted — not into nightmares, not into fractured time loops or restless visions, but into something tender and whole.

I slept in peace.

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Days slip through my fingers, and still, my feet refuse to touch the school grounds. I've let procrastination drape over me like a second skin, curling into my blankets as if they could protect me from everything I'm not ready to face. I feel better now, at least my body does — but my spirit won't rise.

Not yet.

There's a whisper in my mind, one that tells me to step forward, to walk into the unknown, because life rarely waits for those who hesitate. But I'm too tired, and for once, I want to be selfish enough to stay still — to let my bones sink into rest without guilt gnawing at me.

So my world shrinks to something soft and familiar: cooking for my sisters, sweeping the floors, folding laundry, turning ordinary moments into quiet lanterns that light my way back to myself. I even let myself imagine a life of simple domesticity.

But no — a housewife I could never be. Not in this life, not in this body.

I was tracing meaningless lines into my sketchbook when the silence broke. A knock — sharp, loud, persistent — rattled the door. A knock so familiar, I already knew whose hand it belonged to.

I wasn’t wearing my mask, so for a brief moment, I caught a small glimpse of the future. It was them — Ezra, Clarence, and Clara. Oddly enough, my mind felt calm, as if the usual storm had finally settled. Maybe it was because I was relaxed, and for once, my powers weren’t overwhelming me.

Perhaps the only real weapon against my own abilities was something as simple as staying calm. Maybe that was the key all along.

I walked toward the front door, and just as my vision predicted, there stood Ezra.

"Oh, my dove! I missed you!" Before I could even process the moment, Ezra swept me off my feet — quite literally — pulling me into a hug so sudden it forced a yelp out of me. Strangely enough, my little glimpse into the future never warned me about that.

The second he set me down, Clara stepped forward, pulling me into her own embrace. There was a warmth in it that made my heart ache in the best way. In that moment, surrounded by people who cared, I felt alive.

"I’m so glad you’re okay," Clara said softly, her voice trembling as unshed tears gathered in her eyes.

"Hey, don’t cry. I’m here — I’m okay now. Sane as ever," I reassured her, though my smile was just a little wobbly.

"Ooh, nice house." Ezra’s eyes darted around, already scanning every corner like a curious child in a new playground.

I let out a quiet groan, fully expecting him to start touching everything he could get his hands on.

"I’m really glad you’re okay now, Hagarin," Clarence said, his voice softer than usual. "When we saw you leaving school with Ms. Renée, you looked... not great."

I nodded, the memory making my shoulders tense involuntarily. "It was hell," I admitted. No sugarcoating, just the raw truth.

I led them into the living room, only to find Ezra already making himself at home, flipping through the movie collection like he owned the place.

"Have a seat, guys. I own the place anyway," Ezra joked, sprawling dramatically across the couch like a king claiming his throne.

Without a second thought, I grabbed a cushion and threw it straight at his face. Clara and Clarence burst into soft laughter as they settled into the room, filling the space with a comforting sense of normalcy I hadn’t felt in a while.

And it was nice — really nice.

I didn’t feel alone.

I had them, too.

They might each carry their own ghosts, their own cracks and sharp edges, but knowing we all had our struggles somehow made it easier to breathe. I wasn’t drifting aimlessly in isolation anymore. I had my people—chaotic, flawed, and human—right beside me.

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chen-nn

1 month ago

Prologue - Blood Stains Don't Wash Off

Tw: mentions of abuse, and violence. Dead dove, do not eat.

There are countless ways to avoid violence. But avoidance doesn't mean survival.

Violence is stitched into the seams of existence — a pulse running beneath every century, every age. It thrives, adapts, becomes more creative, more cruel. We like to pretend we are better than our past, but reality doesn't flinch under the weight of our illusions. Even in a world infused with magic, people are still monsters. And monsters don't need fangs or claws. Sometimes, they wear the faces of your neighbors. Or your own family.

Hagarin was not the victim that day.

She was the witness.

A child, too young to spell her own name properly, stood paralyzed in the doorway as her mother's body became a canvas for violence. A fist to the ribs, a boot to the spine. Blood, spit, sobs. The kind of sounds that become permanent residents in your skull. Hagarin clamped her small hands over her eyes, praying that darkness would protect her, but the sharp metallic click of a pistol tore through the air.

"Watch."

A command. Not a plea. A curse.

She was forced to see it all — her mother's skin bruised into unrecognizable shades, her breath turned into shallow gasps until there was no breath left to take.

Hagarin's mother died that night, leaving behind three little girls and a silence too loud to bear.

In a world glutted with magic, you'd think there would be a spell for justice. But magic didn't save her. Magic was a luxury — one used more often to destroy than to heal. Power and violence walk hand in hand like childhood friends, both feeding off each other's hunger. Hagarin understood this at an age when most children only understand fairy tales.

Those who crave chaos? They are not misguided souls. They are predators, drunk on their own sense of invincibility, poisoning everything they touch. They rip the seams of peace just to see what spills out.

And Hagarin? She learned young that survival is not a right — it's a skill.

At seven years old, she became a mother, a protector, a builder of shelters, a scavenger of scraps. She wasn't good at any of it. But no one else was left to try.

She used magic to knock down trees because her hands were too weak. She built a shack with trembling fingers and whispered prayers that the walls would hold for at least one night. Her sisters clung to each other for warmth, while Hagarin stood guard at the entrance, eyes fixed on the sky. The moon was too bright — like it was exposing their helplessness for all the world to see.

That night, her lips moved in silent prayer — not to gods, but to whatever force was out there listening.

"Please. Let me be strong enough. Just for them. Even if it breaks me."

Tears traced down her dirt-streaked face, and for the first time, she allowed herself to feel the weight of what had been taken from her. But grief is a luxury you can't afford when you're responsible for someone else's survival.

They walked for days — blistered feet on broken ground — until the steel skyline of Aloy City appeared like a mirage in the distance. Aloy, the City of Metals. A place where survival was possible, but only if you were useful.

"Are we almost there?" the youngest sister asked, her voice soft from exhaustion.

Hagarin squeezed her hand. "Just five more hours." She wasn't sure if that was true. But hope tastes better when you lie with confidence.

"You're just guessing," Hanari, her twin, muttered.

"Obviously." Hagarin shrugged.

Hanari, loud and bright despite the darkness they carried, was everything Hagarin was not. They bickered like breathing — every argument a strange lifeline that reminded them both they were still alive. Still sisters.

Aloy was both salvation and sentence. A city where children like them became projects — charity cases processed and filed into the system. At the help center, they sat across from a woman who asked too many questions with too soft a voice. What happened to your parents? What did you see? How do you feel?

Hagarin wanted to scream. Instead, she said nothing. Hanari did all the talking — filling the silence with half-truths and protective lies, all while Hagarin's hands dug crescent moons into her palms beneath the table.

When they were placed onto a bus, bound for an orphanage disguised as a "facility," Hagarin didn't cry. She just stared out the window, watching her reflection blur against the world passing by.

Life at the facility was not kind, but it was stable — which was almost the same thing. They were clothed, taught to read, trained to summon spells from nothing but breath and willpower. Time passed, and they grew taller, sharper, harder. But Hanari never lost her brightness. The little sister never lost her innocence.

And Hagarin never lost the weight in her chest — the cold iron reminder that peace is temporary, and safety is always conditional.

She watched from the window as Hanari and their sister chased each other through the grass, laughing like the world hadn't tried to crush them under its boot.

For a moment, Hagarin let herself believe it was possible — that they could outrun the ghosts, the memories, the trauma woven into their bones.

But only for a moment.

Because Hagarin knew better than anyone: The past never stays buried.

And the worst monsters aren't the ones hiding in shadows. They're the ones smiling in the light.

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2,731 words.

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chen-nn

2 weeks ago

Chapter 10: When the Silence Breaks

TW ⚠️

Emotional and psychological trauma, Implied domestic abuse (Clara’s backstory. Not that detailed tho), Medical scenes and mild body horror (organ-like dream realm), Brief discussion of death, Mild violence and unsettling imagery, Mental disorientation / hallucination & Light profanity and dark humor

It had been days since everything happened. I’d been waiting—hoping—for an announcement that would finally let me take part in the journalism program.

But today… it was raining.

Raindrops tapped softly against the glass of my bedroom window, each one leaving a faint trail as it slid down. I stayed cocooned beneath my blankets, the quiet hum of the rain wrapping around me like a lullaby. For a moment, there was peace.

Then came the restlessness.

I wasn’t sure where the restlessness came from. Maybe it was the waiting. Maybe I just needed to move—to be somewhere else, even for a while. That had to be it.

So, I decided to go for a walk, rain or not.

The pavement shimmered under the drizzle as I stepped outside, the gentle patter of raindrops drumming softly on my umbrella. It was oddly soothing, like the world had quieted down just for me.

As I strolled through the streets, the rain gradually faded to a light mist. Eventually, the clouds began to part, and the sun peeked through, casting a golden warmth across the damp streets of Aloy.

Before I knew it, I was standing in front of the National Museum—Metallica. That’s one thing about living in the city: you can stumble upon places like this without even meaning to.

I looked up at the massive structure towering above me. A chill ran down my spine—not the kind that warns, but the kind that hums with something unspoken. Like clouds rolling in with no promise of rain. Oddly enough, it felt… inviting.

So, I took a step forward, and walked inside.

Inside, dim lights welcomed me, casting soft shadows along the museum’s quiet halls. Every artifact seemed to hum with its own presence—each one whispering a different kind of power. I could feel it in my chest, in my fingertips.

And it made me feel so…

Nice.

Until—

I stopped.

There, right in front of me, stood a statue.

“Oh…” The word slipped from my mouth as it fell open slightly.

My eyes locked onto it—unmoving, unblinking.

The Statue of the God of Time.

“Temureth,” I whispered, stepping closer to the statue.

There was a weight in the air—heavy, ancient. I was still caught in that silence when a familiar voice broke through.

“Hagarin! You’re here too?”

I turned. It was Clara, her eyes bright with surprise.

“Yeah,” I said, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I was just strolling, and somehow ended up here.”

She nodded, her voice softer now. “I always come here alone when I feel lonely. My mom used to bring me.”

I nodded, understanding her sentiment. “I don’t blame you,” I said gently. “If there’s any place—or anything—you hold close, of course you’d cherish it.”

She gave a soft smile, then sighed. “Wanna have a drink?”

I deadpanned. ———————————————————————

At first, I thought she meant alcohol.

But now we were sitting in a café. The sun had fully broken through the clouds, casting warm light across the windowpane.

“Y’know, Hagarin,” Clara said, eyes on the menu, “you remind me of my older sister.”

“Oh?” I asked, absentmindedly flipping through a spare menu. “How so?”

“She was… chill. A lot like you. But she’s not around anymore.” Clara’s voice dipped, but she kept talking. “I’ve got a brother too. He’s a doctor. Busy guy.”

She paused. Then, after a breath: “My mom… she died. My father abused her.”

The silence that followed was heavy. I looked at her, then exhaled.

“You don’t have to tell me if it’s too much,” I said quietly. “It’s okay. You’ll find a way to carry it—maybe even grow past the pain someday.”

Clara gave a quiet nod just as the waitress approached our table to take our orders.

“A salad, please,” Clara said as the waitress nodded, jotting it down.

“And a slice of apple pie,” I added with a small smile.

When the food arrived, we fell into easy conversation—talking about anything and everything.

“Speaking of school, I’ve finally caught up on everything,” I said.

Clara groaned lightly. “And here I am, still needing to go back just to pass some things.”

“Really? What is it?”

“Well… I was sick the other day, so I’ve got to hand in everything I missed.”

“I’ll come with you,” I said, without thinking twice.

The good atmosphere lingered even after we finished eating. There was something comforting about it—like we’d both needed that quiet hour more than we realized.

The sun had taken its rightful place in the sky, high and golden, casting long shadows across the street as we made our way toward school. The sidewalks were still damp, glistening faintly, and the air smelled like wet pavement and leaves.

We didn’t talk much on the way. We didn’t need to. There was something about shared silence that felt more intimate than words.

When we reached the school, Clara turned to me and gave a small smile. “I won’t be long.”

“I’ll wait here,” I replied.

She disappeared through the doors, her footsteps echoing faintly down the hall as she made her way to the faculty room. I lingered just outside, near the row of lockers lining the hallway. A few students wandered past, chatting among themselves, laughter echoing in snippets that came and went like passing winds.

I leaned against the cool wall, folding my arms. The stillness gave me too much room to think.

The image of Temureth’s statue flashed through my mind—how the stone felt alive, how his name tasted strange on my tongue, like something forgotten yet familiar. There had been a presence in that room, subtle but undeniable. Like something old was watching. Waiting.

I shook my head a little, trying to bring myself back to the present. Still, the feeling lingered.

The silence around me wasn’t as peaceful now. It felt suspended. As if time itself had slowed, stretching out the seconds into something just a little too long. Just a little too still.

And then—I felt it again.

The same chill I felt at the museum. Faint, like a whisper running along the edge of my spine. Not cold enough to shiver, but enough to notice.

I looked around. Nothing out of place. Just lockers, bulletin boards, classrooms with doors slightly ajar. The ordinary shape of a school afternoon.

But something felt…off. Like a ticking clock had skipped a beat.

That is, until I heard it.

A shriek—sharp, panicked, and startlingly loud. What made it worse was that it came from a man.

The sound cut through the hallway like a blade, jolting me upright before I even had time to think. My instincts kicked in. I didn’t call out. I didn’t hesitate. I just moved.

I followed the direction of the sound, my footsteps echoing softly against the tiles as I passed one hallway after another. The school, once familiar, now felt unfamiliar—twisted slightly by the weight of something I couldn’t name.

Eventually, I reached the stairwell.

The air felt heavier here, like the very space was holding its breath.

I climbed the steps slowly, cautiously, my hand brushing the rail. With each step, the atmosphere grew more tense, more… off. Like walking into a place that time had forgotten.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway was dim. Lights flickered above, struggling to stay alive. A faint hum buzzed from a nearby socket, but it was the only sound besides the soft thud of my heart.

Then I saw it.

A room—its door slightly ajar, pale yellow light leaking from the gap. The windows were completely covered by thick curtains, drawn from the outside. The whole space looked swallowed in shadow.

I approached slowly, heart beating a little faster.

And then I saw the sign on the door.

Faded lettering. Nearly rubbed away by time and cleaning.

But still readable.

“Time Studies - Research Archive Room 3”

“What are you two doing here?!” the teacher’s voice boomed, sharp and urgent—but it sounded far away, like I was hearing it through water.

Everything was fogged, muffled.

“I—I don’t know why she was here!” Clara’s voice cracked, panicked, as she held onto me.

Then—darkness.

I didn’t get to hear what came next. The pain in my chest spread like ink in water, and the world around me unraveled. My limbs gave out. My mind slipped.

And I passed out. ——————

Is this real life? Or is just fantasy?

I heard cackles.

Sharp. Echoing. Wrong. It was Ezra’s laugh. Twisted and distant, like it didn’t belong to him—or maybe like it did, and I’d just never heard it this way before.

“Ezra?” I jolted awake, gasping.

But it was just a dream… wasn’t it?

I blinked. My vision blurred, then settled.

“Ezra…?” I whispered again. His giggle still lingered, soft and persistent, like it had taken root in the walls.

The room around me pulsed faintly, cramped and alien. The walls weren’t made of stone or wood—they were… flesh-like. The color of organs, deep reds and purples, squirming gently as though alive. Veins, maybe. Or shadows.

I couldn’t tell where I was—but it was definitely not the school anymore.

It was disturbing. Claustrophobic.

And still, I could hear Ezra’s giggle.

Light, childlike.

Wrong.

“Hagarin… Hagarin!”

His voice echoed everywhere. Not just once. It multiplied—clashing against itself in distorted waves, rising and falling like laughter buried beneath madness.

It was Ezra’s voice. But it wasn’t Ezra.

Each syllable struck like a drumbeat inside my head, louder, faster—relentless.

I clutched my temples, stumbling back as the space around me pulsed like a living thing. The squirming walls grew tighter, the colors deeper—veins bulging, floors rippling beneath my feet.

My breath hitched. Confusion swelled. Panic followed.

And that’s when I felt it—my powers flaring uncontrollably.

Like a storm breaking inside my chest.

No direction, no form—just raw energy reacting to the fear, the disorientation, the voice.

It was overwhelming. It felt like being stripped back to zero. Like all the control I’d built up until now had been burned away in a second.

I fell to my knees.

“Hagarin…” Ezra’s voice whispered again, this time gentler, but no less twisted. “Why are you afraid of what you already are?”

“Get… get out of my head! Ezra!” I cried out, my voice cracking, heavy with panic. My hands trembled as I broke down into sobs, unable to hold it together any longer.

And then— Silence.

The giggling stopped. The echoes dissolved. Even the room… settled.

The walls no longer squirmed in chaos. They pulsed slowly now—steadily. Like a heart at rest.

And that’s when I felt it.

A sharp sting in my palm.

I looked down— A clean cut had appeared across my hand, fresh blood welling at the surface. It wasn’t from the dream. It was real.

Pain flared. The world snapped into place.

I gasped, sucking in air like I’d been underwater.

My eyes flew open.

Bright lights. A ceiling. The sterile scent of antiseptic.

I was back.

Breathing hard, my chest rising and falling rapidly, I scanned my surroundings—disoriented.

Hovering above me were three figures. Clara—her brows knit with worry. A nurse gently checking the IV line in my arm. And a teacher standing behind them, arms crossed tightly, eyes unreadable.

Sir… Evan?

I blinked. Focused.

His school ID swayed slightly from a lanyard around his neck. Evan M. Soriano, it read. Faculty, Temporal Studies Division.

I was shaking.

Not from fear—at least not just that. It was exhaustion. Discomfort. A heaviness that settled in my bones like I’d run a marathon inside a nightmare.

What the hell was that even? Was that… Ezra’s power?

I clenched the blanket over me, trying to stop the tremble in my fingers, but it didn’t help. My body still remembered the chaos—even if my mind couldn’t fully make sense of it.

And that place—ugh.

I swallowed hard as the memory returned, vivid and raw.

It was like I had been trapped inside a living organ—walls that pulsed, colors that moved and squirmed like tissue under a microscope. The floor wasn’t solid. The air felt alive.

It wasn’t a dream. Not completely.

Because the pain was real. The cut on my palm was real.

The bolt of darkness, Ezra’s eyes, that voice—

I wanted to throw up.

I closed my eyes, steadying my breath. But I could still hear that distant giggle—lingering like a splinter in my mind.

When I tried to sit up, everyone in the room panicked.

Clara practically jumped three feet in the air. “Hagarin, no—lie down!”

The nurse rushed to my side, gently but very firmly pushing my shoulder back against the bed. “You need rest—please don’t make me use tape.”

Even Sir Evan, who looked like he hadn’t blinked in ten minutes, took a step forward. “You shouldn’t be moving yet. You’re still stabilizing.”

“Stabilizing?” I muttered. “I’m not a nuclear reactor.”

But they didn’t laugh.

Probably because I looked like I’d been through a nuclear meltdown.

Still, I couldn’t stay put. I was too rattled. Too… itchy inside my own skin. My brain was spinning, my chest still tight, and every time I blinked, I saw squirming walls and heard Ezra’s creepy little laugh echoing in the back of my head.

“I can’t just lie here,” I said, struggling against the blanket like it was actively restraining me. “I’ve literally been inside a sentient meat room and black magic’d through the chest. I think I earned a walk.”

Clara’s eyes widened. “A what kind of room?!”

Sir Evan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already regretting ever getting a teaching license.

The nurse finished patching up my palm with a soft sigh, gently placing my hand back down on the bed. She didn’t say anything at first—just turned her gaze to the hospital bed next to mine.

I followed her eyes.

Then Clara looked.

Then Sir Evan.

We all deadpanned.

Ezra was lying there.

Sleeping.

With his eyes open.

Another nurse was tending to him, adjusting his IV like this was completely normal behavior, as if sleeping with your eyes open was just some cute little personality quirk.

“Is… is he dead?” Clara whispered.

“No,” the other nurse replied, unfazed. “He’s sleeping.”

“With his eyes open?” I asked, tilting my head slightly like it would help the situation make sense.

“It’s… been happening since the incident,” she added, as if that explained anything at all.

Clara leaned closer to me. “I feel like I’m in a horror film.”

“You are,” I muttered. “Except there’s no popcorn and I’m the one getting possessed.”

Sir Evan let out another sigh. “Enough. He’s stable—for now.”

“Ezra… his power is highly contagious. Everyone knows that. Everyone should know that.” Sir Evan started, dismissing the nurse with a wave before turning back to us.

“We all grew up thinking that the five elemental categories—nature, air, water, fire, and time—were the main sources of power. But the truth is…” He paused, folding his arms. “Those five aren’t the ‘main.’ They’re just the most recorded. The most understood. That’s why they dominate the books, the schools, the statistics.”

He stepped closer, his tone growing firmer. “There’s no such thing as a true ‘main’ element. Every power is different. Some valuable. Some… completely useless. But even the rarest ones have gods tied to them.”

I furrowed my brows, listening.

“That’s why gods and goddesses exist in so many forms—each representing something deeply specific. Take this nation, Aloy. Ruled by a god who commands metal. Yet ironically, the highest recorded ability among our people? Air.”

He glanced toward the window, briefly, before continuing.

“And then there’s Ezra. We don’t know where he came from. No nation claims him. No lineage traces back to him. But one thing we do know…” Sir Evan’s voice lowered.

“…is that the power he carries is called Pulsebind.”

My stomach turned at the name. That was the thing that put me in the fleshy, breathing nightmare?

“It’s a contagious ability,” he said. “When Ezra experiences intense emotion or trauma, even brief eye contact can infect someone. That’s all it takes. In some cases, he can even cast Pulsebind into an object.”

He looked at me, pointedly.

“It craves flesh and bone, and once it gets ahold of your mind, you’re trapped. Inside a world that’s him. A place built from his instincts, fears, and whatever twisted shape his subconscious decides to take.”

Through an object… My fists clenched.

That’s what he did to me. That’s how it started. And if Clara hadn’t stopped me—damn it.

I sighed heavily, glaring at the unconscious boy nearby.

If it weren’t for his face, I’d have decked him by now.

“Though it’s still taught in basic education that those five—time, air, fire, nature, and ice—are the main elements, truthfully, that should’ve been changed a long time ago.”

Sir Evan’s voice carried a hint of frustration, as if he’d said this before, many times, to ears that refused to listen.

“They’re not the ‘main’ because they’re fundamental. They’re just… common. Well-documented. Easy to explain to children. But the truth is, there are countless types of abilities out there. Some born from emotion, others from ancestry, or even divine influence.”

He took a breath.

“And then… there’s time.”

At the mention of it, something in the air shifted.

“It’s still one of the rarest powers ever recorded. And yet, despite its rarity, it’s counted among the top five strongest abilities known in history—not because of how many people have it, but because of what it can do.”

He paused for a beat, letting the weight of that settle.

“Time itself doesn’t just manipulate moments—it bends memory, rewrites decisions, reshapes futures. That’s why gods like Temureth are feared, even by other deities.”

“But… our rules clearly say never to tamper with the timeline,” I said, brows furrowed. “How can you say it’s possible to change the past?”

Sir Evan didn’t flinch. He simply looked at me, calm but heavy with meaning.

“Rules exist to keep something in place,” he began. “To protect what’s fragile—like cause and effect. And yes… if you do interfere with the past, you’ll likely be stuck in that altered timeline forever. That’s the consequence. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

He leaned forward, voice low and firm.

“You can change the past. You just might not survive it.”

I swallowed. “But why would anyone even want that? To live in the past… until their soul cracks from the weight of what they’ve done?”

A shadow passed over his face.

“If you don’t belong in a timeline,” he said quietly, “the world will notice. And once it does… you die the moment you’re seen.”

Sir Evan checked his wristwatch and let out a quiet sigh. “That’s my cue,” he murmured. “I have to leave. In the meantime, get some rest. Another proctor will take over from here.”

He stood from his seat, giving one last glance toward Ezra, then at me—like he wanted to say more, but chose not to. With a nod, he turned and left the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

“That was… a lot to digest,” Clara finally said, breaking the thick silence that had settled between us.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, eyes drifting to my bandaged palm. “Yeah. I’ve got a million questions, and zero brain cells left to process them.”

“I think I’ll just ask Ms. Renée later.”

There was a pause.

“Sometimes,” I muttered, “I really want to strangle Ezra.”

Clara let out a small snort. “Same. But he’d probably trap us in another meat realm the moment we touch him.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” I groaned, pressing my palm to my forehead.

“Maybe let’s change the topic then?” Clara offered with a soft smile, trying to lighten the mood.

I nodded, rubbing my temple. “Yeah… good call.”

She glanced out the window for a moment before saying, “Back at the café… I didn’t really finish what I was saying. About my mom.”

The air shifted—just slightly. I sat up straighter, the exhaustion still there, but I gave her my full attention.

“She used to take me to the Metallica museum,” Clara began, her voice gentler now. “Not because we loved art or history or anything. She just… wanted me to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere she could pretend we were safe.”

She paused.

“My dad was the kind of man you never knew what version you’d come home to. Angry. Drunk. Silent. And my mom… she was always trying to shield us. Me, my sister, my brother. But eventually, she couldn’t anymore.”

Clara looked down, fidgeting with the edge of the bedsheet.

“She died. Not all at once. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left to protect us from him.”

I swallowed hard, unsure what to say, so I just listened.

“My sister left first. She ran. And I don’t blame her. My brother buried himself in school, became a doctor. I… just learned how to disappear when I had to.”

She glanced at me, her eyes glassy but steady. “That’s why I go to the museum when I feel lonely. It’s the last place I felt like she was still trying.”

“I… honestly just wanted a loving father,” Clara murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Someone who would provide love and care for me. The man who created us three—me, my sister, my brother—he used to love Mom so much.”

She exhaled, long and tired.

“I just…” her voice faltered, “maybe the idea of loving someone or settling down—it’s hard to imagine now. The world feels too dangerous for that kind of dream.”

She paused again, her eyes unfocused.

“Life is such a beautiful thing… but sometimes I wonder why we were brought into it, only to live through so much pain.”

“I used to be so fixated on the idea,” Clara said softly, “that somewhere out there, there’s a man who’ll love me forever. I… I hope I’ve already met him.”

She sighed, eyes lingering on the floor.

I couldn’t help the quiet smile that tugged at my lips. “That’s why there’s Clarence.”

Her head snapped toward me. “Where the hell did that even come from?” she huffed, giving my arm a playful slap.

I laughed, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at my bandaged palm. “I dunno. Just saying. He looks like the type to write poetry in secret.”

We both laughed quietly, letting the tension melt into something lighter. But just when I thought we were done, Clara tilted her head with a sly grin.

“Oh yeah? What if Ezra likes you?”

I didn’t even blink. “I’ll shove this dextrose tube down your throat if you keep talking.”

She burst out laughing, clutching her stomach. “You’re so dramatic—he’s not even conscious!”

“That’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

In the end, it all dissolved into quiet giggles and soft chuckles—like nothing had happened. Like we weren’t just talking about trauma, or powers that trap people in organ nightmares, or the terrifying mystery that was Ezra.

For a fleeting moment, it felt normal. Almost safe.

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3,857 words

Tags

original story dark fantasy dead dove do not eat dead dove fic fragments of the future: dead dove prophecy magic and violence cw dark themes fiction snippet

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chen-nn

1 month ago

Chapter 3: Answers and Change of Plans

Content Warning: This chapter contains mentions of death, health-related distress (migraines/passing out), themes of isolation, and discussions about mortality. Reader discretion is advised.

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I woke to the sterile scent of bleach and the muted hum of fluorescent lights, the weight of my own skull pressing down like stone. My limbs felt waterlogged, heavy as if the bed beneath me was slowly pulling me into its core.

Hanari's voice reached me before my vision fully returned, muffled and sharp at the edges, her tone caught somewhere between anger and fear. "You should've told me."

I blinked against the ceiling, pale and cracked, a spiderweb fissure directly above me that seemed to throb in time with my pulse. "Are you done moping?" My voice came out raspier than expected, irritation curling through my words—not because I was angry at her, but because I needed something to feel other than dread.

Hanari folded her arms, her posture defensive, but her eyes too wide, too soft. The mask didn't fit today. "Dramatic sigh" barely covered the shaky breath she let out as her shoulders rose and fell. "You're such a dick."

The glass door creaked open, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her reflection warping in the glass like something unreal. The setting sun behind her fractured into shards of light, cutting her figure into pieces. In her hand was a mug—coffee, dark and bitter from the scent that followed her in.

"I'm glad to see you awake," she said, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Headache's gone..." I answered, but the relief felt fake. "What did you do?"

Her face flickered with something unreadable before she folded her arms, considering her words too carefully. "Focus on resting first. Your health comes first."

"Don't patronize me. I want answers." The words ripped out of me before I could soften them, sharp and uneven. Something burned inside my chest, a simmering panic I couldn't name.

Renée sighed, long and tired. "Kids these days. Always so hungry for ruin."

Beside me, Hanari leaned in, whispering through a half-smirk, "You're stubborn too."

"Listen closely." Renée's voice lowered into something quieter, colder, like she was telling us a ghost story we were already trapped inside. "Hanari, when you found Hagarin, I mentioned the headaches. They aren't migraines. They're symptoms."

"Symptoms of what?" Hanari's voice broke slightly. The cracks were showing.

"Time travel."

The word alone made my stomach twist. Time was no longer a concept or a lesson or even a power. It was inside me. A disease eating through the walls of my skull.

"The headaches, the blackouts, the visions—they're your brain trying to reconcile past, present, and future all at once. Your mind wasn't made to hold infinity." Renée paused, letting the silence soak in. "If you don't learn control, time itself will drown you."

That's when the word hit me like a knife to the chest: Death.

It was no longer a distant concept. It was here, sitting beside me, breathing on my neck. I had always wondered—would it be a void? Would it hurt? Would I even notice when I crossed the line between existing and not?

My head spun, nausea curling deep inside me.

"Can you..." My voice barely worked. "Can you explain what happens? From experience?"

Renée's smile was brittle. "Of course."

She leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling, where memories seemed to stain the tiles like watermarks.

"The visions never stop. Past, future, alternate versions of now—they whisper constantly. You'll hear things that haven't happened yet and things that already did but differently. You'll see your own death a thousand times over in a hundred different ways. Your brain will try to split itself into pieces just to make room." Her fingers traced the edge of her chair like she was touching a grave marker.

"When I first realized what I was, my parents locked me in a room for months. I was dangerous, even to myself. They thought isolation would save me—but it just made me a prison of my own mind."

I could see her now, a younger version, curled up in a corner, knuckles white, vision flickering between every timeline where she lived, died, ran, stayed. A thousand lifetimes trapped inside one skull.

"So how did you survive?" My voice sounded small. Fragile.

"I ran." She didn't sugarcoat it. "I ran until I couldn't hear them screaming my name anymore."

Hanari and I exchanged a glance, that unspoken what the hell? hanging between us.

"It's survival," Renée said with a shrug. "Messy, desperate, survival."

Golden light sliced across her face, painting her like a portrait half-burned at the edges.

"I was thirteen when I learned to lock most of it away. I got into this school. They transferred me to the time traveler department, and I stayed hidden there until I understood how to breathe without choking on centuries."

She stood abruptly, shaking off the weight of her own story. "Anyway, I run a library five blocks from here. Visit sometime."

"Will you actually be there?" I asked, half hopeful.

Her smile was half a ghost. "No. I'm a history teacher, not a prophet."

She left before I could answer, the door swinging shut behind her.

Hanari's shoulder pressed into mine, warm and real in the empty room. "Woah...quite the announcement."

I stared at the tiled floor, letting the information sink in like water through cracks. "Yeah."

"It'll be fun," Hanari said, too bright, too forced. "You'll have a hell of a story to tell."

"Consent would've been nice," I muttered. "Ms. Renée never even asked."

"Maybe the admins will do an official talk. They have to, right?"

I didn't answer.

"Have you decided?" Her voice softened.

I stared at my hands, at the faint tremble I couldn't hide. "Dunno."

Hanari leaned her head against my shoulder. "You have a death wish."

The words should've been funny, but they weren't.

We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, while the room darkened around us. Just two silhouettes against the fading light, floating somewhere between fate and fear.

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The air inside the counselor's office clung to my skin like cold sweat. The silence had weight—like the room itself knew secrets it couldn't say aloud. The printer groaned in the corner, coughing up a consent form, each page landing like a death sentence.

"You're early," Maria Tess said, voice mildly surprised. "I haven't even prepped the files yet."

I glanced at her nameplate, gold edges catching the flickering fluorescent light: Maria Tess. Funny how official names always felt like gravestones.

"Wanted to get this over with," I said. "So I can sleep after."

"Even Ms. Renée isn't here yet. Relax."

Relax. In a room where my fate hung from a single sheet of paper.

The doorbell chimed, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her coffee steaming, her smile distant. Maria Tess handed me the form, paper still warm, ink still drying.

"We're all aware of your situation," Maria Tess began, words too rehearsed. "When students discover dangerous powers, we relocate them. For safety. For survival."

Time travelers didn't get to choose. Time itself chose them, and all they could do was keep breathing until it didn't want them anymore.

"Without control," she said, "your mind will fracture under the weight of the past and future. And it will kill you."

The word wasn't metaphorical. It was bone-deep, absolute.

"Sign here."

"This is how you stay alive." "Hagarin." Ms. Renée's voice cut cleanly through the silence, slicing apart the fog of my thoughts. "This will benefit you — if you want to keep living."Maybe I needed that bluntness. A reminder that this wasn't just a choice between two doors, but between survival and collapse.

I blinked, my gaze still locked on the consent form. My hand hovered near the pen, fingers curling and uncurling like they couldn't decide if they belonged to me.

"...Would this damage me financially?" The question tumbled out before I could think it through, my voice quieter than I meant."Not at all," Ms. Tess replied, her tone brisk and assured — at the exact same moment Ms. Renée answered too, her voice overlapping in a soft echo. For some reason, that made me smile. Just a little.

I exhaled slowly, letting the air drag out all my hesitations with it.

"Alright."

The pen felt heavier than it should as I picked it up. With each stroke of ink, the page drank my consent, sealing my fate in writing.My name rested there, small and sharp in the sea of legal language, and though my heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest, the signature was already drying.

It was done.

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1,512 words.

Hi guys, I plan to write more than 1k words. Every chapter gets worse and worse, hang in there, Hagarin will be insane soon.

Tags

self rb

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chen-nn

2 weeks ago

I LOST MY CHARGER

Dang, I can’t find it. What a good way to start the holy week.

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random post

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