The light bulb buzzed. Then—click-crack.
It died with a wet, shattering sound instead of a simple pop.
Darkness crashed over him. He could feel his blood seeping from his body.
In that void, voices erupted. They echoed from beside him, behind him, in front of him, and from within him.
They weren't whispers. They were screams—a chorus of every insult and doubt he'd ever heard. They weren't carried by air; they were harsh, metallic roars, like grinding turbines.
"Pathetic rat… Grade E trash… Should have stayed dead… Begging on your knees… the boss wants to send a message…"
But beneath the noise, one sentence cut through. Calm. Sharp. It was the old woman's voice from Dusthollow—the one who had vanished with her basket.
"People aren't what they seem… remember."
The word remember vibrated in his skull, layered with the lizard-lady's voice. In the pitch-black space, faces ignited.
They drifted apart, then merged, distinct yet connected.
