19:49 PM.
The smell came first.
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Before sight. Before awareness. Before Voltase even realized he had fallen asleep.
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A pungent, fishy stench a mixture of old blood, rotting flesh, and soil soaked with bodily fluids. seeped into his nostrils like toxic smoke.
It clung to the roof of his mouth. Settled at the back of his throat. Made his stomach churn despite being empty.
Here again.
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The thought surfaced through the fog of his half-asleep consciousness.
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I'm back.
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To the same place.
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same dream.
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But something was different this time. Something he couldn't immediately identify. Perhaps because this was the third time. Perhaps because his mind. although still constrained by the thick fog shrouding his memories was beginning to grow accustomed to this cycle.
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Accustomed to death, resurrection.
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the same hell, over and over.
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Voltase opened his eyes.
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And as usual, what he saw was a corpse's face above him.
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That face a man with grayish skin, eyes wide open with pupils frozen in eternal terror, and a gaping mouth as if trying to scream but never getting the chance, no longer surprised him.
He had seen it twice before. The same face. The same expression. Even the corpse's position atop his body was identical.
even if the maggots are still wriggling and roaming on the surface of the remains, it is said that the meat is.
With a rough shove no longer trembling like the first time, no longer panicking like the second Voltase pushed the corpse away.
The stiff body rolled sideways with a wet plop, just as before, and Voltase found himself lying among countless piles of flesh and bone.
The same hell.
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The same battlefield.
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The same dark, starless night sky. The same mud-soaked earth, saturated with blood. The same smell. same wind whispering through the corpses, like the murmurs of the dead he couldn't quite hear.
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Voltase sat up slowly. The body he inhabited a tall, sturdy man's body, with strong hands and a scar on his left arm moved with strange obedience. As if this body knew itself better than he knew it.
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He stared at his hands. Not the small, delicate hands of a child with rounded fingers, but large hands with calloused knuckles and prominent veins on the back.
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This isn't my body.
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But it feels like mine.
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At least, for now.
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He moved his fingers one by one, making sure everything still worked. The memory of his first death the bullet in his chest, the blood flowing out, the darkness slowly swallowing him was still fresh.
So was the second the strong hands strangling his neck, the air slowly fading, and the despair of realizing that this time, he wouldn't survive.
But tonight was different.
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Tonight, Voltase had no intention of dying.
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Not again.
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He had died twice.
Twice was enough.
Twice was more than enough to make him understand that if he remained passive, if he kept letting this dream run its course, he would die over and over.
Perhaps forever.
And that more than anything was the most terrifying thing.
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Not the pain, the blood, even the corpses around him.
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But the thought that he might be trapped here forever. That every night, he would return to this place, and every night, he would die in a different way. That there was no end, no escape, no hope.
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No.
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I won't let that happen.
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I will survive.
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I'll do whatever it takes to survive.
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With newfound resolve resolve that felt foreign in his chest, like a small flame flickering in the darkness Voltase rose to his feet.
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His legs the long, powerful legs of a grown man carried him through the piles of corpses. Each step produced a soft crunch of broken bones beneath his boots.
Each step brought him closer to the goal he had just set.
The blond man.
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The one who survived the last battle.
who died in front of me in the twiced dream.
Voltase didn't know why he was so certain that man was still alive. because in the two previous dreams, that man always survived until the final moments.
there was something about him something important, he couldn't let die.
Or perhaps because, deep in his heart, Voltase knew that the only way to survive was not to be alone.
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He walked past countless piles of corpses. Some were still intact, their faces frozen in their final expressions.
Others were half rotted, with peeling skin and bones protruding through decayed flesh. Some bodies were completely destroyed burned, or shot multiple times, or crushed by something Voltase couldn't even imagine.
He tried not to look too closely.
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tried not to think about who they had been before.
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They were just corpses. Just flesh and bone. Nothing more.
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Don't think about their families, the dreams. how they died.
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Focus on the goal.
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Find that man.
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Save him.
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And save yourself.
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In the distance, he saw a pile of corpses higher than the rest. Like a small hill made of flesh and bone. And behind that hill, he saw faint movement something moving, something still alive.
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He's there.
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Voltase quickened his pace, almost running through the scattered bodies. His boots stepped on a severed arm, and he heard the crisp crack of bone beneath his feet. He didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
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Must get there.
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Must save him.
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This time, I won't let him die.
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When he finally reached that pile of corpses, he saw him.
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The man was still alive.
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Voltase stopped, his breath quickening not from exhaustion, but from sudden relief.
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The man lay among the corpses, his body almost entirely buried under a mound of dead flesh. Only his head was visible—a pale face with tangled blond hair, filthy with blood and mud. His eyes were closed, but his chest still rose and fell with weak yet steady breaths.
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He's alive.
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He survived.
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Voltase knelt beside the man. His hands the large hands that no longer felt foreign grabbed the man's shoulders and shook him gently.
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"Hey."
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No response.
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"Hey, wake up."
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He shook harder. The man's face creased slightly, like someone sleeping who didn't want to be disturbed.
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"Wake up, idiot. We don't have much time."
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Finally, the man's eyes opened.
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Dark onyx eyes like two black gems reflecting the dim light of the night sky. stared at Voltase with a mixture of confusion and wariness.
For a few seconds, the man just stared without moving, like a wild animal just waking up and not yet deciding whether to fight or flee.
And then, his mouth opened to scream.
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Voltase moved faster than his thoughts.
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His palm covered the man's mouth before any sound could escape. He leaned close, only a few centimeters away and stared into those onyx eyes with an intensity he never possessed in the real world.
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"Listen to me."
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His voice was low, firm, and urgent.
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The man stopped moving. His eyes remained wary, but there was something in them perhaps curiosity, perhaps hope that kept him silent.
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"Cooperate with me if you want to live,"
Voltase continued, the words flowing smoothly like water in a stream. As if this was something he had rehearsed, something he had thought about.
He had planned since the first time he woke up in this hell.
"Because two are better than one."
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He stared into those onyx eyes, searching for signs of understanding. Signs of agreement. Signs that this man whom he didn't know, who should be his enemy was willing to listen.
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Silence hung between them.
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Voltase could feel the man's breath against his palm warm, uneven, filled with restrained fear.
He could feel the tension in the man's jaw beneath his touch. He could see the sweat on the man's forehead, mixed with blood and grime.
And then, slowly, the man nodded.
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One small nod. Barely visible. But enough.
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Voltase exhaled in relief. He released his hand from the man's mouth but kept close.
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"Good."
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He straightened up, his eyes quickly scanning the logo on the man's uniform. Faded olive green the same as the corpses around them.
The same as the soldiers who came to check the dead in the two previous dreams.
He's from the same side as those who came to kill.
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He's the enemy.
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Or at least, he should be.
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Voltase pushed the thought aside. It didn't matter now. What mattered was survival. What mattered was getting out of here. What mattered was not dying again.
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"Who are you?"
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The man's voice finally came out hoarse, weak, but still laced with wariness.
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Voltase looked at him. Those onyx eyes still stared back with uncomfortable intensity, as if trying to guess his intentions, his motives, the truth behind his words.
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"Someone trying to survive," Voltase answered shortly. "Same as you."
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The man frowned. Doubt flickered in his eyes. Distrust. But there was also something else something akin to curiosity.
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"You don't look like you're from our side."
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"I'm not from their side either."
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Voltase pointed to the corpses around them.
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"I'm just... someone trapped here."
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The man fell silent. His eyes continued to scrutinize Voltase, searching for lies, for deception. But Voltase wasn't lying. Not entirely.
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Because he was indeed trapped. Trapped in this dream, in this body, between endless death and resurrection.
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And all he wanted was to escape.
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"We don't have much time," said Voltase, steering the man's attention away from unanswerable questions.
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"They're coming. Three men. With bayonets on their rifles. check these bodies, and if they find us alive..."
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He didn't need to finish. The man already understood.
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"How do you know?"
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"I've seen it happen."
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Twice. But Voltase didn't say that.
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"Trust me, or die here. The choice is yours."
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The man stared at him for a long time. Too long. Voltase was almost losing patience.
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But finally, the man nodded again.
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"What do I need to do?"
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Voltase explained his plan quickly.
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He retrieved two rifles from among the corpses—long rifles with bayonets attached, just like the ones the inspecting soldiers carried. tossed one to the man, who caught it with practiced ease that showed he was no amateur soldier.
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"Have you used one of these before?" asked Voltase.
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The man nodded. His hands long fingered hands with calloused knuckles held the rifle comfortably, like an extension of his own body.
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"I've been fighting for years."
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"Good. Because we'll need every skill we have."
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Voltase fixed the bayonet onto his rifle quickly. The blade long, sharp, with grooves along its sides to channel blood gleamed under the dim light of the night sky.
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"They'll come in three minutes," he said, recalling the timing from the two previous dreams.
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"We'll play dead. Hide among the corpses. And when they're close enough..."
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He pressed the tip of the bayonet with his thumb, feeling its sharpness.
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"We strike."
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The man stared at him with wide eyes.
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"This is insane," he said. "You know that, right?"
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"Maybe."
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Voltase lay down on the ground, pulling two corpses over his body. The cold, stiff flesh pressed down on him with suffocating weight, and the stench nearly made him vomit.
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"But it's the only way to survive."
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He closed his eyes.
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"Play dead. And when I move, follow."
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The man was silent. Then, Voltase heard movement beside him the man lying down, pulling corpses over himself.
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"I don't know who you are," said the man, his voice muffled by the dead flesh. "But I hope you're right."
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And then, they waited.
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Silence returned to the battlefield. Only the wind whispering through the corpses, and the pounding of Voltase's heart in his chest.
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One.
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Two.
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Three.
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He counted the seconds in his head, trying to measure time. In the two previous dreams, the soldiers always came about three minutes after he woke up.
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His breath caught. He could feel the weight of the corpses above him not just the ones on the surface, but the burden of all the deaths he had witnessed.
The burden of fear still settled in his chest. burden of hope beginning to grow, even though he knew it could destroy him.
And then, he heard it.
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Footsteps.
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Far in the distance, but growing closer.
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The sound of boots stepping on muddy ground, followed by the crunch of broken bones beneath them.
And among those steps, other sounds voices speaking in a language he didn't understand, but with familiar tones.
They were coming.
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Voltase held his breath. His body the strong, adult body locked in invisible tension. Every muscle ready. Every sense alert.
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The footsteps drew closer.
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He could hear them talking now. Words in a foreign language perhaps German, perhaps Russian, he couldn't be certain. But some words felt familiar. Words like "check," "clean," and "dead."
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They were checking the corpses. Making sure no one was still alive.
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Just like before.
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Just like the two previous times.
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The first thrust came seconds later.
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Thunk.
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The sound of metal piercing flesh dull, wet, horrible. Voltase felt the vibration in the ground beside him, felt how the corpse nearby shuddered from the bayonet's thrust.
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Thunk.
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The second thrust. Closer this time. Voltase could hear the blade piercing bone, and he imagined how it would feel the dull pain, the sensation of cold metal tearing through flesh, and then darkness.
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Soon.
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The next thrust will come toward me.
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He gripped his rifle tighter. His hands the large hands with calloused fingers didn't shake. Unlike his hands in the real world, which always trembled from nervousness or awkwardness.
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This isn't my body.
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But I know how to use it.
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Or at least, this body knows.
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Footsteps stopped right beside him.
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Voltase could feel someone standing nearby could feel the weight of that body, could hear their heavy breathing, could smell the sweat and cigarette smoke clinging to their uniform.
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Now.
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Time to move.
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The bayonet thrust came from above, piercing the corpse on the surface.
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Thunk.
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The flesh tore open above him, and Voltase felt the cold metal tip stop just above his chest only centimeters from his skin.
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No.
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Not this time.
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I won't die again.
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Before the bayonet could touch his body, Voltase opened his eyes.
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The world moved in an instant.
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Voltase pushed the corpses off him with strength he didn't know he possessed. The dead flesh flew aside like rag dolls, and in less than a second, he was in an attacking position.
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The soldier above him a man with short black hair and dark eyes full of surprise had no time to react. His mouth opened to scream, but before any sound came out, the bayonet on Voltase's rifle had pierced his throat.
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Crack.
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The sound of crushed cartilage. The sound of tearing flesh. The sound of blood spraying out like a fountain.
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Voltase felt warm droplets on his face fresh blood, thick and sticky, with a sharp metallic smell.
He felt how the bayonet sliced through flesh, how the bones in the man's neck shattered under the pressure, how the body stiffened in the spasm of death.
And then, the man fell.
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Without a sound. Without a scream. Just the wet plop of his body hitting the ground.
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Voltase stood over the corpse, breathing hard, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest.
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He killed someone.
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He had just killed someone.
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For the first time in his life, he had taken another person's life.
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But the feeling that came wasn't guilt. Not regret. Not even disgust.
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What came was a coldness in his chest.
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Emptiness.
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As if a part of him had died along with that man. if he had crossed a line from which there was no return, and now, there was no going back.
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This isn't me.
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It's this body.
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It's a dream.
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Not real.
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Not real.
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Not—
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"Gunshot!"
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A shout from the side shattered his thoughts.
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Voltase turned quickly and saw a familiar sight the blond man standing among the corpses, his rifle raised toward the second soldier who had just realized what was happening.
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Bang!
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The gunshot echoed across the silent battlefield.
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The man a soldier with brown hair and blue eyes fell backward with a gaping hole in his head. Blood and small pieces of brain sprayed into the air before his body hit the ground with a dull thud.
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One left.
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Voltase saw the third soldier a young man, probably no older than twenty standing among the corpses with an expression of frozen terror on his face.
His hands held a rifle, but he didn't move. Didn't shoot. Just stared at Voltase with eyes full of disbelief.
And then, Voltase raised his rifle.
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Trigger pull.
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Bang!
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The bullet flew from the barrel, cut through the cold night air, and entered the young man's chest.
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The man's body staggered backward, his right hand still gripping the rifle flung to the side. His blue eyes light blue, like a summer sky widened in shock, as if he couldn't believe this was happening to him.
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He fell.
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Slowly.
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Like a felled tree.
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And when his body hit the ground, Voltase heard another gunshot from the side the blond man had shot the young man in the back of the head.
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Bang!
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The young man's head jerked forward, and then, everything stopped.
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Silence returned to the battlefield.
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Three bodies lay on the ground. Three lives taken. Three deaths in a matter of seconds.
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And Voltase a twelve year old boy who had never hurt anyone in his life stood among them with fresh blood on his face and a bloody bayonet in his hand.
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Voltase collapsed.
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His knees hit the ground hard, but he didn't feel the pain. All he felt was overwhelming exhaustion exhaustion that seeped into every bone, every muscle, every fiber of his being.
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The rifle in his hand fell with a clatter on the ground. His hands his large, strong hands began to shake. A tremor he couldn't control. He killed someone.
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Two people.
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Two lives.
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Two human beings with families, dreams, hopes. And he killed them.
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The feeling that should have come earlier finally arrived. Not guilt, or regret.
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But a deep nausea, rising from his stomach to his throat, making him want to vomit but couldn't because his stomach was empty.
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He looked down, seeing his hands his blood soaked hands. Fresh blood, still warm, still flowing between his fingers.
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This is human blood.
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Blood I just spilled.
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Blood can never take back.
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He closed his eyes, but the image didn't go away. The young man's face with blue eyes his expression of shock, his open mouth, his body falling slowly to the ground all etched behind his eyelids.
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He was young same age as the blond man, he just joined this war, and didn't want to be here any more than I did.
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But he killed him. Without hesitation, doubt and giving him a chance.
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Why did I do it? Why didn't I shoot to wound? Why did I kill him outright?
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The answer came quickly and coldly.
Because if I hadn't, he would have killed me.
That was the logic of the battlefield and survival. logic that knew no mercy, no morality, nothing except one rule.
Kill or be killed.
And Voltase, for the first time, understood.
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Understood why the soldiers in the previous dreams had been so cruel.
Why they checked the corpses with bayonets.
Why they gave no quarter.
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Because here, in this hell, there was no room for mercy. Only death, and those who managed to avoid it.
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Footsteps beside him.
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Voltase looked up and saw the blond man standing nearby. His face was pale, his eyes dark, and in his hand, he held a pistol a small pistol he'd taken from one of the corpses.
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He stared at Voltase with an unreadable expression a mixture of admiration, fear, and perhaps, respect.
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"Are you okay?" he asked.
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Voltase wanted to say no. Wanted to scream that he wasn't okay, that he'd just killed two people, that he felt like he was going to die.
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But what came out of his mouth was only
"I'm... fine."
The man nodded. He walked past Voltase, toward the body of the young man with blue eyes. With efficient movements movements that showed years of battlefield experience he rolled the body over and began searching its pockets.
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"What are you doing?" asked Voltase, his voice still hoarse.
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"Looking for anything useful," the man answered without turning. "Bullets, food, water, information. Everything is valuable here."
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Voltase watched him for a moment, trying to process that logic. Then, slowly, he stood up. His legs still felt weak, but he forced himself to stay upright.
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"Should I...?"
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"If you want. But if I were you, I'd check the body closest to you. It's yours, you killed him."
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Voltase stared at the corpse beside him the man with short black hair and dark eyes, still lying there with the bayonet in his throat.
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Mine.
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The word felt strange in his mind. As if the corpse were property, not a person.
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But he understood what the man meant. Here, on this battlefield, death was the most valuable currency. And the dead no longer needed anything they carried.
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With stiff movements, Voltase knelt beside the corpse. His hands still tremblingbbegan searching the uniform's pockets.
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He found a pack of cigarettes. A box of matches. And a kit bar emergency rations wrapped in brown plastic.
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The kit bar caught his attention. He hadn't eaten.
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When was the last time he ate?
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In the real world, he'd had lunch in the cafeteria with Marie. But here, in this dream... he couldn't remember the last time food touched his lips. the last time he didn't feel hungry.
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His stomach growled loudly, and Voltase realized just how hungry he was.
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But I can't eat here. Among the corpses. With the smell of blood and death all around.
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I'll throw up.
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But his stomach kept complaining, and the hunger grew more unbearable.
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He stared at the kit bar in his hand brown plastic with faded lettering. This food might be months or even years old. But here, in this hell, food was still food.
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You have to eat.
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Your body needs energy.
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If you don't, you won't survive.
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With still trembling hands, Voltase began to tear open the plastic wrapping.
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The rustle of plastic caught the blond man's attention.
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He turned, his eyes immediately landing on the kit bar in Voltase's hand. For a moment, there was a flash in his eyes a flash that looked like hunger he couldn't hide.
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And then, his stomach growled.
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Loudly.
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Embarrassingly.
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The man patted his stomach with an awkward expression, and Voltase almost smiled. Almost.
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"Are you hungry?" asked Voltase, even though he already knew the answer.
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The man nodded, no longer able to hide his hunger.
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"It's been days," he said, his voice soft. "Since... since I got trapped here."
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Voltase stared at the kit bar in his hand. Only one package. Not enough for two people. But—
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He broke it in half.
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Half for him. Half for the man. He held out the piece of kit bar.
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"Here."
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The man stared at him with wide eyes. Doubt flickered in his gaze mixed with curiosity.
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"For me?"
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"We're both hungry. We both need energy."
"Fair enough"
The man hesitated for a moment. Then, slowly, he took the piece of kit bar from Voltase's hand.
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"Thank you," he said, his voice almost a whisper.
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He ate the kit bar slowly, carefully, making sure no crumbs fell to the ground. Each bite seemed like treasure, and the expression on his face almost like happiness made Voltase feel slightly better.
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Voltase stared at the piece of kit bar in his own hand.
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Now my turn.
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He brought the kit bar to his mouth, but before he could bite, the fishy stench of the battlefield invaded his nostrils.
The smell of blood, corpse, and death.
Nausea returned.
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He lowered the kit bar, trying to steady his breathing. His stomach growled, but his mind refused to eat in a place like this.
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You have to eat, your body needs energy. If you don't, you won't survive.
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You'll die here.
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And if you die here, maybe you'll die forever.
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With renewed resolve, Voltase shoved the entire piece of kit bar into his mouth.
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It tasted terrible.
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Stale hard bread, coated with cheap chocolate that tasted like wax. But beneath that taste, there was something worse the scent of the battlefield seeping into every bite, making him almost vomit.
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He chewed painfully, fighting the nausea rising from his stomach. His hands still trembling covered his mouth, trying to hold back whatever wanted to come out.
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Don't throw up. Don't throw up, you need this food, you need the energy.
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He swallowed with difficulty, feeling the kit bar drop into his empty stomach like a stone.
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And then, he almost cried.
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Because of the death he'd witnessed, death he'd caused, the hell he couldn't escape. Of the dream he couldn't wake from.
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He wanted to go home. Wanted to return to his small, cold dormitory room. Wanted to hear Marie's cheerful voice. Wanted to feel safe.
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But he couldn't.
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He was trapped here. Among the corpses. Among blood and death. Between two worlds that were never supposed to meet.
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And he didn't know if he would ever escape.
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A bottle of water was held out in front of him.
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Voltase looked up and saw the blond man standing before him with a water bottle in his hand. His face pale and exhausted held an expression almost like concern.
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"Drink," he said. "You look like you're about to pass out."
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Voltase accepted the bottle with trembling hands. He unscrewed the cap and drank greedily so greedily that some water spilled down his chin.
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The water was cold and refreshing, and for a moment, he felt a little better.
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"Pretty bad, isn't it?" said the man, sitting down beside him.
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Voltase stared at him. The man with his tangled blond hair, pale face, and dark onyx eyes looked younger than he remembered. Perhaps still in his early twenties. even younger.
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"What?" asked Voltase, confused.
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"The food. Tastes like garbage, right?"
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The man smiled a faint smile barely visible, but enough to soften the lines on his face slightly.
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"I'm used to it. But every time, it still tastes the same."
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Voltase didn't know what to say. So he just nodded.
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The man sighed. He stared at the dark night sky a sky without stars, without a moon, without anything except endless darkness.
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"I don't know who you are," he said finally. "But I'm grateful. Because you saved me."
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He turned to Voltase, and for the first time, his eyes those dark onyx eyes seemed a little warmer.
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"We haven't introduced ourselves."
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He extended his hand.
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"Hello, my name is Kwan Won Shik. Call me Won."
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Voltase stared at the outstretched hand. That hand with long fingers and calloused knuckles looked strong, but also weary. Like someone who had held on for too long.
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He took the hand, feeling a firm but not painful grip.
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"Natt," he said, without thinking. "Call me Natt."
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Won raised an eyebrow.
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"Natt?"
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"Yeah. Natt."
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"Strange. But okay."
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Won released his grip, and for a while, they just sat in silence among the corpses. The night wind rustled around them, carrying the scent of death they no longer noticed.
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"What happened to you?" Won finally asked. "How did you end up here?"
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Voltase fell silent. He didn't know how to answer that question.
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"I... don't know," he said finally. "I just... suddenly found myself here. Don't remember how or why."
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Won nodded, as if understanding.
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"Me too," he said. "I don't remember much. Just... battle. Blood. Death. And then, I was lying among these corpses."
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He stared at his own hands also blood soaked.
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"I don't even remember how I got here."
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They sat in silence again, each lost in their own thoughts.
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And then, Won stood up.
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"We have to go," he said. "It's not safe here. They might send more people to check."
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He extended his hand to Voltase.
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"Come on."
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Voltase took the hand, and Won pulled him to his feet.
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"Where are we going?" asked Voltase.
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"I don't know. Away from here, wherever is safer."
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Won began walking, and Voltase followed. They walked past piles of corpses, past puddles of blood starting to dry, past the remnants of a battle they had never witnessed.
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In the distance, fog began to descend thick fog that hid whatever lay ahead.
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"Have you been here before?" asked Won, without turning.
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"Maybe?"
Voltase shook his head, frustrated by the blurriness of his mind.
"I feel like I've seen this place before. But I can't remember when or how."
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Won stopped. He turned around, staring at Voltase with sharp eyes.
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"Me too," he said. "I feel like I've seen you before."
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Voltase stared back, and for a moment, something stirred in his chest something akin to recognition.
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"Maybe we met in another life," he said, half joking. But Won didn't laugh. He just stared at Voltase seriously.
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"Maybe," he said. "Maybe we met in another life."
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They walked for hours or perhaps just minutes. Voltase couldn't measure time here. Time felt different on this battlefield.
Slower. Heavier. As if every second was a burden he had to carry.
Won talked a lot during the journey. He told Voltase about his family about his mother who died when he was young, his father who became a soldier, and his younger sister still waiting for him at home.
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"I promised I'd come back," he said, his voice filled with longing. "I promised I'd finish this war and go home."
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He laughed softly a bitter laugh.
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"But it seems that promise will never come true."
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Voltase listened without saying much. He didn't know what to say. No words could comfort someone trapped in a hell like this.
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But he kept listening. Because it was the only thing he could do.
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Finally, exhaustion began to overtake him. His eyes grew heavy. steps started to falter. The world around him began to spin.
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"Hey, Natt."
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Won's voice from a distance.
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"Are you okay?"
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Voltase wanted to answer, but the words wouldn't come.
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He fell.
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His knees hit the ground hard, and for a moment, he couldn't move. His body felt like lead heavy, stiff, refusing to cooperate.
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"Natt!"
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Won knelt beside him, his hands grabbing Voltase's shoulders.
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"Hey, hold on. Don't pass out."
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Voltase tried to open his eyes, but his vision was blurry. Won's face pale with onyx eyes swam before him like a mirage.
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"I'm... tired," he whispered. "I'm just... tired."
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Won gripped his shoulders tighter.
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"You can't pass out here, Natt. You have to hold on."
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"I'm... trying..."
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And then, the world went dark.
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03:15 AM.
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Voltase woke with a jolt.
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His eyes snapped open, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and for a moment, he didn't know where he was.
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A white ceiling with hairline cracks, curtains drawn tightly and the dim glow of streetlights outside the window. The dormitory room.
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The real world. He was back.
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He sat up in bed, his hand reaching for his chest feeling his heart pounding fiercely beneath his unblemished skin. No wounds. No blood. No pain.
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But there was something else. A strange feeling in his chest. Not pain. Not fear. But something deeper something he couldn't name.
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He survived. For the first time, he survived that dream.
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He didn't die.
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He closed his eyes, trying to remember the details of the dream. Faces. Voices. Feelings.
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But everything was beginning to fade. Like fog slowly dissipating under the morning sun. He remembered the corpses. The blood, pungent, fishy stench.
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The fight how he killed two people with his own hands.
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Terrible taste of the kit bar in his mouth.
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He remembered...
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remembered...
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What was his name?
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Voltase frowned, trying to remember the blond man he saved who talked to him. But his memories were blurry. The harder he tried to remember, the faster they faded.
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He remembered there was someone, talking to someone, walking with someone.
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But his face... his face was gone.
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He only remembered his smile. Only the lower part of his face. Thin lips curving slightly upward. A firm jaw.
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But the upper part Eyes, hair, and eyebrows. All gone, swallowed by fog he couldn't penetrate.
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Voltase sighed in frustration. He clenched his fists his small, delicate fists, not the large hands with a scar on the left arm.
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Why can't I remember him?
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Why do I remember everything except his face?
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But even as he asked, he knew the answer because it was just a dream. Just a dream that fades like all other dreams.
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Nothing in it is real.
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Nothing matters.
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But there was a part of him that knew that wasn't true. He was too tired to think about it.
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He lay back in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.
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His phone on the nightstand he checked the time on the cracked screen.
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03:15 AM.
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Still night.
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He could still sleep.
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He closed his eyes, trying to rest his weary mind. even with his eyes closed, images from the dream kept appearing behind his eyelids.
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Warm blood splattering across his face, corpses scattered around him, and the feeling the feeling he couldn't forget as his bayonet pierced the man's throat.
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He killed someone, even didn't feel guilty. That was the most terrifying part. the fact that he felt nothing. He could kill without regret.
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Who am I?
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The question surfaced in his mind, but he had no answer.
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Who am I in that dream? Who am I who can kill without guilt? Who am I who feels cold and empty after taking another's life?
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No answers.
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Only darkness.
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He finally fell asleep again, no dreams this time. Only empty, peaceful darkness, even in his sleep, there was a faint feeling that this wasn't over.
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