06:30 AM.
Gray morning light crept through the gaps in the dormitory curtains, creating thin lines on the worn wooden floor.
Birds outside began to sing lazily, greeting the new day.
In the distance, St. Mary's church bells chimed six times. Heavy chimes echoed among the old red-brick buildings.
Voltase Watt woke from his sleep with a clear mind.
But clear here did not mean lucid or calm.
Clear meant he was fully conscious, he was still alive, his heart was still beating, that the dream was still clinging to his mind like mucus that could not be wiped away.
He lay still for a few seconds, staring at the pale white wooden ceiling with hairline cracks he had memorized.
But there was something else that caught his attention, a sensation still lingering in his chest.
A sensation he did not want to remember, but could not forget.
Burning heat, like molten lead piercing through his flesh.
Blood flowing from his wound, pooling beneath his back, seeping through his uniform, unstoppable.
Numbness creeping slowly, followed by certain and gripping death.
His hand automatically rose to his chest.
He pressed his palm there, feeling his intact skin beneath the dark blue striped flannel pajamas.
No wound.
No blood.
Only his small, flat chest, with a heart still beating beneath it.
But the sensation remained, the sensation of the bullet that killed him, a ghost of the death he had felt so clearly.
It was just a dream, he thought, but those words felt hollow in his head.
Just a dream.
He moved his fingers slowly, feeling every joint, every knuckle, making sure everything still functioned.
His long, thin fingers, a child's fingers that had lost their roundness.
His small hands.
Not the long, sturdy adult hands with calluses on the thumbs.
Or the hands that had held the bayonet earlier.
These were his hands.
Voltase's twelve-year-old hands.
Slowly, with still-stiff movements, he pushed himself into a sitting position.
The bed that was too big for him creaked softly under his light weight.
His thin, weak legs swung off the bed, touching the cold wooden floor.
He felt the cold spread through the soles of his feet, rising to his ankles, to his shins, cold that reminded him he was here, in the real world, not in that place.
You are still alive, he thought, and that thought felt like a mantra he had to repeat to convince himself.
Alive.
Not dead.
But his chest still felt strange, as if something was missing there, something taken by that bullet.
He stood up, and his knees felt weak for a moment before he found his balance.
His thin, weak legs carried him across the room to the bathroom door.
The door was made of thin wood painted white, with a rusted, loose metal handle.
He opened it, and warm steam from someone downstairs who had just showered greeted him, mixed with the smell of cheap soap and toothpaste.
Dormitory bathroom was narrow, only enough for one person at a time.
Walls were covered with yellowed white tiles, with fine cracks in some corners.
Floor was made of the same tiles, cold beneath his bare soles.
There was a small sink with a mirror above it, and beside it, a shower stall with a faded plastic curtain.
In the corner, a sitting toilet of the same yellowed porcelain.
Voltase turned on the sink faucet, and cold water flowed with a loud gurgling sound in the small space.
He washed his face, cold water that was refreshing but not enough to erase the exhaustion still settled in his bones.
He stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, and what he saw was not the boy he knew.
What he saw was a child with tired onyx eyes, pale skin that rarely saw sunlight, and messy black hair he never properly combed.
He washed his face with soap, then brushed his teeth with a worn toothbrush.
His movements were mechanical, without thought, because his mind was still elsewhere, on the dark battlefield, among piles of rotting flesh, under the burning heat of the bullet that killed him.
He combed his hair, but it remained messy and refused to be tamed, as usual.
After finishing, he returned to his room. He opened the small wardrobe beside his bed.
The wardrobe was made of cheap plywood, peeling in some places.
Inside hung his school uniform, a long-sleeved white shirt with a slightly wrinkled black tie, black jeans, and plain black sneakers with thin soles.
He put them on with slow, familiar, listless movements.
His shirt felt loose on his shoulders, like all his clothes, because he never grew.
The black tie he tied in a loose knot, not too tight, not too loose, enough to meet school regulations.
Fifteen minutes after waking, Voltase stood before the mirror on his wall, an old mirror with a peeling wooden frame.
He examined himself.
Glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, simple glasses with thin black frames that made him look more serious than he actually was.
His thin fingers moved automatically, brushing away strands of black hair that obstructed his onyx eyes' vision.
In the mirror, all that appeared was a boy with a flat expression and eyes that looked bored.
No emotion emanated from his face. Only silent emptiness, like a water surface that never moved.
He stared at his reflection for a moment, and in his mind, he wondered what others saw when they looked at him.
Did they see an ordinary boy who attracted no attention?
Did they see something strange, something wrong?
Or did they see nothing at all, as if he never existed?
Slowly, his hand rose to his face.
Each index finger touched the corners of his mouth.
With stiff movements, he tried to form a smile, pulling the corners of his lips upward, forming an arc that was supposed to express happiness or friendliness.
But what he saw in the mirror was only a strange, unnatural expression, like a mask forced onto an unsuitable face.
That smile did not reach his eyes. His eyes remained flat, empty, and bored.
I cannot smile
I forgot how to do it.
He lowered his hand, and the fake smile vanished from his face, returning to his usual flat expression.
He shook his head slowly, trying to forget that thought.
There is no use thinking about things I cannot change.
I have already thought enough about things I cannot change.
He turned from the mirror and began to pick up his backpack from beside the wardrobe.
The bag was made of black canvas, somewhat worn, with some fibers at the bottom starting to fray from rubbing against the floor.
He slung it over his right shoulder, his thin, narrow shoulder, and felt its light weight, only containing a few books and stationery.
There is not much I need to bring to school; he was never a child who carried many things.
He walked to the small table beside his bed to pick up his phone.
The screen was still dark, but when he touched it, he saw the time.
06:47 AM.
He did not need to check messages. He had long learned that no messages were waiting for him.
No one called.
No one cared.
With his final step, he walked out through the door.
He closed the door behind him, and there was a click as it locked automatically.
That sound was small, almost inaudible, but to him, it was the sound that ended one part and began another.
The sound that said he had left his room, and now he had to face the world outside.
The dormitory hallway was long and quiet in the morning.
Only a few other children passed by, their faces still sleepy, heading to the dining hall for breakfast or directly to their classrooms.
Voltase walked among them without looking at anyone.
He had learned that it was better not to attract attention.
Better to be invisible.
Outside, the day was beginning to brighten.
Thick gray clouds hung low over the city, promising rain that might fall at any time.
The morning air was cold and damp, as usual, and Voltase could feel the moisture seeping through his uniform, clinging to his skin like an invisible thin layer.
The leaves on the oak trees in the schoolyard moved slowly in the morning wind, and in the distance, he heard the sounds of other children laughing and joking.
They do not know, he thought, and that thought felt bitter in his head.
I died last night.
I was shot in the chest.
I can still feel the heat of that bullet in my chest.
He entered the school building, an old red-brick building as old as the dormitory, with tall windows that still retained old wavy glass.
The hallway inside was long and white, with shiny tiles that had just been mopped, and on the walls hung old paintings of previous headmasters, their serious faces looking down with unblinking eyes.
The classroom was on the second floor.
He climbed the stairs with steady steps, not hurrying, not lingering.
Inside the classroom, some children were already sitting in their respective seats, chatting softly or reading books before the exam began.
Voltase walked to his desk in the back corner, the place he always chose, because from there he could see everyone without being seen by them.
He put his bag beside the desk, sat down, and stared blankly ahead.
The math exam would begin in ten minutes.
He did not feel nervous, unlike the other children around him who looked tense or busy reading their last notes.
He only felt empty, as usual.
When the teacher entered the room with a stack of exam papers in his hand, Voltase took a deep breath and tried to focus.
12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdEUx92hqt2
The teacher was a middle-aged man with a thin mustache and half-moon glasses that always slid to the tip of his nose, with black hair that had partially turned white with age.
He distributed the exam sheets with efficient movements, and Voltase received his without much thought.
During the exam, which only gave sixty minutes for one sheet of questions, Voltase tried to finish the last math essay.
Thirty minutes had passed since he had not written anything on that essay.
Not because he was not smart, but because he hated that subject.
He hated the way the teacher taught, the way they looked at him as if he were a strange child, and never really cared whether he understood or not.
What made his mind drift back to last night's dream.
He tried to digest and piece together various logical reasons, something that had meaning, why he dreamed like that.
But not one thing seemed logical to him.
Why did he have to dream of becoming an adult?
How did he have to dream about a battlefield?
Why did he have to die in his dreams and feel the pain as if it were real?
There were no answers, no explanations, no theories he could find in his head that, although intelligent, was still too young and inexperienced to understand such things.
Perhaps this is just a random dream, he thought.
My brain is just playing tricks on me.
There is no meaning behind all of this.
But he knew that was not true.
The dream felt too real, too detailed, too consistent to be a random dream.
All of it could not just be an ordinary dream.
This made Voltase increasingly confused, until he chose to keep writing random answers on that essay.
His hand moved across the paper, writing numbers and formulas that might be correct, might be wrong, he did not care.
What mattered was that he wrote something, filling the paper with words so the teacher would not ask why he had not written anything.
10:15 AM.
Break time arrived, and the classroom that had been quiet and tense became chaotic and noisy.
Other children rushed out of the room with cheerful voices, running to the cafeteria to get food or just to socialize with their friends.
Voltase stayed at his desk for a moment, staring at the exam sheet he had submitted with a strange feeling of relief.
It is over, he thought.
One more exam, and today is finished.
He stood up, picked up his bag, and left the classroom.
The long white hallway was now crowded with passing students, and their voices echoed among the walls, creating noise that made Voltase slightly uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable because it was too crowded and noisy.
He preferred silence, empty and quiet spaces where he could hear his own thoughts without disturbance.
He walked along the hallway, passing groups of children laughing and joking, passing couples holding hands, passing gangs planning something for the weekend.
Everyone seemed to have their own place, their own people they knew, something that made them feel part of something.
Voltase had none of that.
He was only an observer, someone standing on the edge, watching others live.
At the cafeteria entrance, he stopped to observe the room open before him.
The cafeteria was a large room with a high ceiling and wide windows facing the schoolyard.
Chairs and tables were neatly arranged, most already occupied by students chatting while eating or drinking.
The atmosphere inside was relaxed, warm, and crowded, all the things that made Voltase uncomfortable.
But he was hungry, and he knew he had to eat something.
With steady steps, he went to get a tray, a thin silver tray with many scratches, and joined the line of other students.
He stood there not talking, or looking at anyone, just waiting for his turn to get food.
The cafeteria menu changed every day to maintain freshness and nutritional value, but the taste was always the same, enough to fill the stomach, not enough to enjoy.
When his turn came, he took a bowl of soup with pieces of meat and vegetables, a piece of bread, and a glass of water.
He put everything on his tray and looked for a seat.
His eyes scanned the room, looking for a quiet corner where he could eat without having to talk to anyone.
He chose a table near the window, where he could see the view outside the school building, the wide green field, the tall old oak trees, and the gray sky hanging low over everything.
From here, he could also observe the other students silently, as usual.
He sat with his back against the wall, a position that gave him a view of the entire room and allowed him to see anyone approaching.
He had just started spooning his soup when a familiar voice sounded before him.
"You got here fast."
"I thought you were still in class, playing on your phone or something."
Voltase looked up and saw Marie, his always-cheerful friend, standing across the table with her tray in hand.
The eleven-year-old girl had straight black hair with bangs over her eyes, soft almond-shaped brown eyes, and a smile that always made her look brighter than she actually was.
She put her tray on the table, a sandwich, an apple, and a carton of milk, then sat down without waiting for permission, as usual.
"I was not playing on my phone," said Voltase flatly. "I was taking the exam."
Marie laughed softly, her voice light and cheerful.
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
"But you are usually always on your phone before exams."
"I am surprised you looked more... focused today? Or rather, more daydreaming?"
Voltase raised an eyebrow. "Daydreaming?"
"Yes, daydreaming. Like your mind was somewhere else."
Marie bit her sandwich, chewing slowly while staring at Voltase with curious eyes.
"What is wrong, Voltase?"
"You have looked strange since morning. I noticed in class earlier."
"Usually you can write fast, but today you just sat staring blankly at your desk for a long time."
Voltase was silent.
He did not expect Marie to notice that. He thought he was good at hiding his feelings. But Marie was always more perceptive than he realized.
"Nothing serious," he said finally, looking down at his soup.
"Just... could not sleep well last night."
Marie tilted her head, her black bangs shifting to the side.
"Nightmares again?"
The question surprised Voltase. He stared at Marie with wide eyes.
"How do you know?"
Marie smiled faintly, but that smile was not as bright as usual. There was something soft in it, something almost like concern.
"Because of your face, of course. Every time you have a nightmare, you look like that."
She pointed to Voltase's hand, which unconsciously was still on his chest.
"And like there is something hurting there."
Voltase lowered his hand quickly, realizing he had indeed been holding his chest.
The sensation of the bullet's heat was still there, a ghost that would not leave.
He averted his gaze to the window, to the gray sky outside, trying to piece together his words.
"I dreamed I was an adult," he said finally, softly.
"On a battlefield. There were so many corpses around me."
"I woke up among them. It felt so real, Marie."
Marie stopped chewing.
Her sandwich stopped near her lips.
Her almond-shaped brown eyes widened, but there was no fear in them, only curiosity and concern.
"Did you die in that dream?"
Voltase nodded.
"I was shot in the chest."
He pressed his palm to his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath it.
"The bullet went in, my blood flowed out. My body became cold and dead."
He swallowed, his throat dry. "It felt so real."
Marie was silent for a moment.
She just stared at Voltase with soft eyes, and for the first time, she looked like a girl older than her age, like someone who understood more than she showed.
"You know," she said finally, "my father once told me that dreams are our brain's way of processing things we cannot understand in the real world."
"Maybe there is something you are trying to understand, something that scares you."
"And your brain is trying to deal with it this way."
"I am not afraid of anything," said Voltase quickly, too quickly.
"I am just... confused. Nothing makes sense."
Marie smiled, and this time her smile was warmer.
"You know, it is okay to be scared, Voltase."
"It is okay to be afraid. Even the bravest people are afraid of something."
She reached for her milk carton and sipped through the straw.
"I am also afraid of spiders. You would never see me near a spider."
Voltase almost smiled. Almost.
"Spiders are not scary."
"To you, maybe. But to me, they are terrifying."
Marie shrugged. "Everyone has their own fears. There is nothing wrong with that."
They sat in silence for a while, eating together without needing many words.
Voltase felt a little better after talking to Marie, although he had not told her everything.
Some things were too strange to explain, even to your best friend.
"Oh, by the way," said Marie suddenly, "Ian moved. You know?"
Voltase nodded.
"I heard from the teachers."
"Yeah, his family moved abroad. Something to do with his father's job."
"I will miss him."
Marie smiled sadly. "He always made me laugh with his silly jokes."
"You will be fine," said Voltase. "You still have me."
Marie laughed, and her laugh was now brighter.
"Yeah, true. I still have you, the flat-faced boy who never smiles."
"But you are my best friend, Voltase. Do not forget that."
Voltase only nodded, but in his heart, there was something warm, something he rarely felt.
Something almost like gratitude.
07:51 PM.
Night returned after a busy morning and a tiring afternoon.
Voltase spent his time reading a novel he had borrowed from the school library, borrowed for three days.
A cheap novel telling silly stories, something he did not like but still read because Marie recommended it.
The story was about a boy who found a secret world behind his wardrobe, with strange creatures and silly adventures.
Voltase did not understand why Marie liked books like this. To him, everything was too unrealistic, too sweet, too far from the reality he knew.
But he still read it, because Marie asked him to, and because there was nothing better to do.
He sat on the edge of his bed, his back against the cold wall, with the book open in his lap.
The small lamp beside his bed glowed dimly, enough to illuminate the pages, no more.
Outside the window, rain began to fall again, the same rain as usual, with a long, melancholic whisper tapping the glass with the same rhythm every night.
His eyes began to feel heavy.
The words on the page began to blur, float, and lose meaning.
He yawned, and the exhaustion accumulated throughout the day finally began to creep in, drowning his consciousness like waves slowly rising to shore.
He closed the book, placing it on the table beside his phone.
He lay on the bed that had become familiar to him, a bed too big, sunken in the middle from years of pressure from his body weight.
He closed his eyes, hugging the faded pillow that smelled of dormitory soap.
A few seconds later, he fell asleep, falling into a dark, warm abyss.
20:15 PM.
The phone screen lit up with white numbers displaying the time for three seconds, then dimmed and went dark.
At the same moment, Voltase woke because of a pungent smell attacking his nostrils once again.
The same smell, fishy, rusted iron, rotting flesh, entered his nostrils like thick smoke, stinging the back of his throat, settling on the roof of his mouth.
His previously sleeping brain restarted, and his eyes finally opened wide.
What he saw was what he had seen in the previous dreams.
Total darkness, darkness that refused light.
And above him, a corpse's face with greenish-gray skin, eye sockets full of maggots, and an expression of fear frozen forever.
Voltase experienced a panic attack for a few moments, his heart pounding, his breath gasping, his hands trembling violently before he calmed down.
Although his hands frantically pushed the corpse off his body, pushing it away with stiff, uncontrolled movements.
The corpse rolled over with a wet splashing sound, exactly the same as before.
He stood again, covering his nose with his palm.
The same body, the body of a twenty-one-year-old adult man, tall and strong, trembling with the same feeling as before.
He hoped to find fresh air, but all he got was air full of stench and an uncomfortable feeling that made him want to vomit.
Nausea came again, rising from his stomach, pushing up to his throat.
He swallowed it back with difficulty, holding himself back from vomiting among the piles of corpses.
His mind was again confused by this entire situation. Questions like,
why am I back here
will I die again?
echoed in the twelve-year-old boy's mind, even though the body he inhabited was an adult man's body.
Fear, confusion, and despair mixed into one, creating chaos in his head that he could not control.
The same voice from his left side drew his attention again.
As before, a man in faded green clothing appeared from behind a pile of corpses.
Tall, with pale blond hair and dark onyx eyes, staring at Voltase with the same suspicion, the same gaze, the same expression.
Voltase stared at the man, and for the first time, he tried something different.
His mind, which wanted to think further, seemed locked in this moment, this time, forgetting his life in the world outside this dream.
Like fog covering the path to truth.
Preventing him from thinking further, beyond the logic given by this body.
With hasty movements, his finger pointed at the man and then at himself.
A heavy voice that was not his came out of his mouth.
"We are not enemies," he said, and those words felt strange on his tongue, like he was reading a script he did not write.
"Even though I know we are actually enemies. But we are not."
As if he wanted to find a different path in this dream story.
Trying to do something different, trying to change the fate he had experienced twice before.
He did not want to die again.
He did not want to feel that pain again.
Silence was the answer to those words.
The blond man only stared at him with the same eyes, full of suspicion, confusion, and fear hidden behind a hardened jaw.
He did not speak, did not move, only stared at Voltase as if trying to read his mind.
But Voltase ignored that.
Because if he remembered correctly, even though his mind was blurry and not as sharp as in the real world, there would be others approaching this location.
A feeling of threat and danger mixed with pure fear flowed through his veins.
He knew what would happen.
Like the previous dreams.
"Take your weapon," he said, his voice now firmer.
He took a deep breath, staring into the onyx eyes of the pale blond man with the loaf haircut.
"Someone is coming."
Voltase chose to hide again behind a pile of corpses and play dead.
He closed his eyes, holding his breath low, trying to make his body as stiff and cold as the corpses around him.
He hoped the blond man would follow his instructions and movements.
He vaguely heard the sound of movement to his left, soft footsteps, boots in bloody mud, held breath.
His onyx eyes opened slightly beneath the corpse's face, a face showing bone and flesh eaten by maggots, rotting and horrible, to see what the other man was doing.
The blond man had disappeared among the piles of corpses, following his instructions.
Even though he and the man still did not know each other, there was a strange trust between them, trust born from shared fate, from the reality that they were both trapped in this place.
Before Voltase closed his eyes again, footsteps were heard in the distance.
Three people.
They spoke in a foreign language he did not fully understand, but some words felt familiar.
Words like "check," "clean," and "dead."
They approached, step by step, and Voltase felt tension rising in his chest.
Thrust after thrust through bayonets at the ends of their weapons pierced the piles of corpses alternately.
As if ensuring no one was playing tricks and still alive.
Standard checks, twice, on the battlefield.
Voltase heard the sound of metal piercing flesh, the sound of repeated dull thrusts, and every time he heard it, he felt more horrified.
Until they reached near where the two of them were playing dead.
Voltase held his breath, his hidden hand gripping the bayonet knife beneath the corpse's body tightly.
He felt the cold metal in his hand, a familiar weight, and the conviction that this time, he would survive.
Waiting for the right moment, listening to the footsteps getting closer, closer.
Until a gunshot sounded from his left.
Followed by a loud, horrible scream.
Voltase opened his eyes, pushing aside the pile of corpses covering him, and lunged at someone before him with the bayonet knife in his hand.
He did not see who that person was.
He only saw a target, a threat, an enemy he had to fight.
A close-quarters fight between himself and a black-haired man with onyx eyes before him began wildly.
Voltase swung his bayonet knife, but the man dodged with quick movements and only got hit on the arm.
The man struck back with a punch to Voltase's face, and Voltase dodged, feeling the wind from the fist sweep past his long hair.
They grappled, falling to the ground, exchanging punches and kicks among piles of corpses.
Voltase managed to disarm the man, taking the wooden-stocked rifle and throwing it aside, out of their reach.
Now they only relied on hands and feet.
Except for him still holding the bayonet knife in his hand, becoming the only weapon in this fight.
Voltase fell to the ground with his neck being choked by the man on top of him.
He felt those strong hands pressing on his throat, crushing his airway, blocking air from entering his lungs.
He bit his own tongue, tasting metallic blood in his mouth.
He struggled, trying to free himself, but the man was too strong.
No, he thought, and despair gave him strength.
I do not want to die like this.
With his remaining strength, Voltase slammed his forehead into the man's forehead hard.
A dull thud sounded, and for a moment, the man's grip loosened.
Voltase used this brief gap to turn the tables, he rolled, changing position, and now he was on top of the man.
He choked the man's neck with one hand while punching his face with the other, punch after punch, hard and merciless.
But Voltase's position shifted again to lying on the ground, his face now becoming the target of punches instead.
The man had turned the tables again, and now Voltase was back underneath, trying to protect his face from a rain of punches.
They rolled among piles of corpses, blood and mud mixing into one, sticking to their uniforms, covering their skin.
Until his bayonet knife had been disarmed. And he held that knife with his left palm, which pierced skin, flesh, and bone.
The tip of the blade dripped dark red fluid, Voltase's own blood on his face.
The situation flipped again with him biting the wrist of the man above him. Slamming to reverse positions, reclaiming the bayonet knife.
Meanwhile, on the other side, the blond man fought against another enemy.
Gunshots echoed in the distance, sounds breaking the gloomy night silence.
The blond man maneuvered among piles of corpses, using the chaotic terrain to his advantage.
He approached one person and made him a human shield, locking his neck from behind and hiding behind his body.
He used the enemy's shoulder as a weapon rest and fired another shot with one hand on the trigger.
The other enemy stumbled, falling to the ground, but did not die.
The blond man approached the other side after discarding this disposable shield, a no longer useful corpse.
He switched from shooting to holding the end of his weapon and its middle. Because the bullets had run out.
With strength, he swung the blunt end of his weapon into his enemy's head.
The man hit by the blunt end dropped his weapon.
He suddenly became dizzy, his body staggering backward from a severe headache.
From his forehead, thick red fluid dripped.
Blood.
That blood made the man angry.
He lunged at the blond man, attacking with fists and hands.
The fight turned into close quarters, punches and kicks exchanged among piles of corpses.
But the blond man, instead of exchanging punches and kicks, swung the blunt end of his weapon like a bat again.
Creative tactics on a grim battlefield and a life-or-death situation.
He swung, hit, parried with the weapon he held, using it as an extension of his hand.
Until finally, the blond man became more careless and slow. Caused by a gunshot wound on his knee from the previous fight.
That caused him to not anticipate that his enemy still had another ace, an old-style weapon.
With a long, flat, narrow end, a box-shaped middle section, and a curved wooden handle beneath it.
The last enemy's finger was on the pistol trigger, aiming it at the blond man's head.
A gunshot sounded.
Bang!
His eyes widened, his mouth opened, and for a moment, nothing moved. Then, his tall body swayed slowly, like a tree beginning to fall.
He fell forward with a dull thud.
Blood began to flow from the hole in his head, seeping into the already saturated ground.
A gaping hole in his forehead, perfectly round with a charred edge from a point-blank shot.
From that hole, blood flowed heavily mixed with small pieces of reddish-gray brain tissue.
That tissue stuck to his blond hair, flowing down past his eyebrows, dripping into his still wide-open eyes with an expression of surprise that would never fade.
Voltase saw it from a distance, and horror spread through his entire body.
He saw how the blond man, who minutes ago was still breathing, still moving, still fighting, was now only a useless pile of flesh.
Blood still flowed from his wound, and occasionally, the muscles in his face twitched, the last reflexes of a dead nervous system.
Voltase could not look away.
He saw how the man's blood mixed with the mud, how the red pool grew wider, how the body slowly became stiff.
That could have been me.
I could have died like that.
With my head open, with my brain scattered on the ground.
Then, Voltase's position shifted again to lying on the ground, his neck choked by two enemy hands.
He had no time to think about the blond man anymore.
Now, he had to survive.
The man's thumbs formed a crossing pattern, pressing on each airway.
While his other fingers curved into a tight lock.
Voltase's legs kept moving, fighting with all his remaining strength, but he grew weaker.
His vision became blurry, and he felt difficulty breathing like a burning sensation in his lungs.
He felt the man's fingers press deeper into his neck, crushing his Adam's apple, cutting off airflow.
The cartilage in his neck ground together under pressure, and he knew, if the man pressed harder, his neck would break.
He opened his mouth, trying to inhale air, but nothing entered.
Only burning heat in his chest, like fire igniting inside his lungs.
He felt his eyes begin to water, saw black spots creeping from the edges of his vision.
Darkness began to creep in, slowly but surely.
He felt his hands, still trying to fight, beginning to lose strength.
His legs, still kicking, beginning to slow.
His body became limp, surrendering to the reality that this time, he would die again.
No,
No, I do not want to die.
I do not want to.
He felt his body become lighter, as if his soul was slowly leaving his body.
Cold began to spread to his fingertips, rising to his arms, to his shoulders, to his chest.
His heartbeat slowed, growing fainter, like a drum that stopped being played.
And then, everything went dark.
02:34 AM.
Red.
Pulsing.
Like a dying heartbeat.
Then, slowly, the numbers turned white, pale white like a corpse, before the screen finally dimmed and went completely dark.
At the same moment, Voltase opened his eyes.
His breath would not come out.
His small chest felt like it could not move, as if hands were still choking his neck.
He sat up suddenly and his head spun. felt terrible dizziness, and for a few long seconds, he could not breathe at all.
He choked, coughed, and his chest rose and fell rapidly, but air would not enter.
Breathe! he thought in panic. While pounding his chest hard.
Breathe, idiot!
But the sensation was still there, like a ghost refusing to leave.
He felt the pressure there, felt the fingers choking him, felt his breath slowly fading.
He still felt how painful it was when his neck was crushed, how frightening it was when oxygen slowly left his body, when darkness began to creep in and he knew he would die.
Slowly, very slowly, his breath began to go out and come in.
Each inhale was a struggle, each exhale was relief.
He inhaled air greedily, like someone who had almost drowned and finally reached the surface.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, and his heart pounded as if it would burst inside his narrow ribcage.
He scanned his room with wary onyx eyes, his gaze sweeping every corner, making sure nothing was hiding in the shadows.
His palm moved to his neck, feeling his pulse throbbing beneath his skin.
No wound.
No bruise.
Only his intact, smooth skin.
It was just a dream, he thought, and those words felt heavier than before.
Just a dream.
You did not die.
You are here.
Still alive. But he did not feel alive.
He felt like he had just died, and died in a different way than before.
This time, he did not feel the heat of a bullet in his chest.
This time, he felt hands on his neck.
He died by strangulation, by his breath being taken forcibly and oxygen slowly leaving his body.
He could still feel the pressure on his neck.
The panic as his breath ran out.
And death approaching, slowly, inevitably.
He could also still see the blond man's corpse in his memory, head open, blood flowing heavily, pieces of brain tissue scattered on the ground.
Seeing the surprised expression on the man's face, eyes bulging and mouth open, as if the man could not believe he was going to die.
That could have been me, he thought again.
He shivered, and for the first time, he felt truly afraid.
Not afraid of ghosts or monsters under the bed.
Afraid of death.
Afraid of pain.
Afraid of helplessness.
Afraid that one day, he would die in that dream and never wake up again.
Silence filled the room again.
Only the sound of his still-gasping breath and the rain outside the window accompanied him.
Voltase could not sleep again.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks he had memorized, trying to calm his mind that was still spinning like a jammed cassette.
Why do I keep going back there?
Keep dreaming about that place?
Dying there?
Now in a different way?
He had no answers, no explanations, only fear and confusion mixed into one. Thirty minutes later, overwhelming mental exhaustion finally overcame him.
His eyes became heavy, his tired small body began to surrender.
He closed his eyes, and slowly consciousness began to fade.
Just before he fully fell asleep, one last thought crossed his mind.
I do not want to go back there.
I do not want to feel that pain again.
I do not want to die again.
He fell into a dark, empty sleep. Hoping he would not return to that place again, that the dream would end, and he could forget everything.
But inside his sleep, in the deepest corner of his mind, the whisper continued.
Soft.
Endless.
You will return.
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