In the morning of day 196, Alfred lay awake on his bed. He didn't sleep that night. His body craved rest, but his mind refused to let him.
Thoughts wandered in circles, going places he couldn't name. After nearly an hour staring at the ceiling, he sat up. His back ached for a few seconds. As the ache faded, his eyes fell on the picture beside his bed.
It had three people. Him, Kazimir, and another woman — a woman he couldn't recognize.
Staring at the picture, Alfred felt a deep sense of loss fall in his chest. He felt he should know her. Her presence in the photo made it undeniable. She was someone close. But her face said nothing. Not warmth. Not memory. Just a quiet puzzle with a missing middle piece.
He stared at the picture until frustration won. It slipped from his fingers and struck the floor, shattering the glass that covered it.
He bent to pick it up. As he placed the photo back on the nightstand, he noticed something he wasn't seeing, as if the glass was been obscuring it. Her face looked… clearer. Not new, familiar. Like someone something stepping out of fog.
The longer he stared, the more her features came into focus. After a while, it hit him. That's his sister, Ilona — was his sister.
---
[CHARACTER FILE – ILONA WENDL]
Status: Dead (obviously)
Relationship to Plot: Motivational corpse
Known For: Dying, smiling in video footage
Hobbies:
Dying while pregnant
Inspiring male character arcs
Last Seen: Spread across four walls, two corners, and part of the ceiling
Age: doesn't matter. She's dead.
Cause of Death: Being married to a main character
Favorite movie Quote: "Promise me you'll survive." (Immediately dies.)
Fun Fact:
Appears briefly in memories just to make your gut hurt
Officially survived longer than the average fridged wife by about 6.5 minutes
---
Alfred sat back on the bed. How did it happen? How could I forget something like that?
Images began to surface in his mind. Not full memories—fragments. But each came with a faint residue of emotion. A smell. A sound. A pulse of fear. Like his mind had stored them in a fireproof box but melted the key.
He knew something happened. He didn't remember. But it definitely happened.
Most of them vanished before he could hold on. But two remained.
The first: blood. A room he recognized but couldn't place. Walls painted in flesh, organs, and dripping strings of red. splattered. Not Arranged. Horror. Not ritual.
The second image was worse.
A head, crushed beyond recognition. Bone shards embedded in the floor. One eye had popped loose and now rested above the rest of the face — the only thing visible through a veil of brain matter. The optic nerve still connected to it like a leash.
Alfred didn't flinch. He simply stared. He couldn't think of anything else. His mind had an aim and it wouldn't rest until it figured out what it was.
He heard himself asking questions. Questions no one could answer. Whispers in his own voice:
Was I there?
Whose blood was that?
Did I do that?
The images refused to answer. They lingered just long enough to taunt him, then began to dissolve. The harder he tried to hold on, the faster they faded.
Eventually, there was nothing. No face, no blood, no eye. Just the photo beside the bed.
His back ached again.
With no clear thought in his head, Alfred stood up, changed clothes, and left the room.
No memories of those Images were left. All that remained was confusion.