Alam found himself running down a dimly lit outdoor corridor on the Academy's campus at night. The lamps flickered, casting fractured shadows that stretched and warped across the walls. His hearing and vision were distorted, as if the world itself were submerged.
Behind him, Professor Nervios's voice echoed faintly, warped by distance:
"Wait, Alam!"
"I can't, she's coming!" Alam shouted, glancing over his shoulder.
Whispers slithered through the air, distorted voices overlapping, yet no faces appeared. He sprinted past an endless row of lockers, their metal doors rattling as he passed. A demonic frigid chill chased him, frost crawling over the steel, swallowing the corridor in white veins. His breath puffed visibly, each exhale sharp and ragged.
"Why's this happening?" he muttered, panic scraping his throat.
At the corridor's end, two paths split left and right. He staggered, chest heaving. "Left or right?" he gasped. But the chill caught him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed against the lockers, their surfaces biting cold. Frost spread outward, the air thickening until his vision blurred further, his hearing muffled like he were underwater. His head tilted back and forth in a daze.
A figure emerged from the haze — black robe flowing like smoke, gold cat mask gleaming faintly. Alam's blurred eyes struggled to focus.
"Who are you...?" he whispered, voice weak.
"Don't waste it on those who cannot repay..." the figure rasped, each word scraping like ice against glass. The masked figure lifted its arm. Alam saw a hand radiating frost that pulsed with pale light.
"Rakshasa (malevolent demon)..." Alam whispered, trembling.
The frost flared, swelling into a blinding light and the earth beneath him began rumbling.
He jolted awake, drenched in sweat, sheets clinging to his skin. His chest heaved as though he'd run a marathon. Morning light seeped through the dorm window, but the room felt hollow, silent. He was alone.
Alam was startled by a knock at the door. The sound echoed through the quiet dorm, rattling the thin wood like a drumbeat. He sat at the edge of his bed, pressing his face into his palms, sighing into the silence. Another knock followed, sharper, making the door tremble.
He rose slowly, realizing he was still in his boxers. "Just a second!" he shouted, voice cracking in the stillness. He pulled an Academy robe from his closet, the fabric brushing cold against his skin, and tied it tight.
When he opened the door, a woman stood framed in the hallway's pale light. She had raven hair, pale skin, bangs, twin pigtails, and goth makeup. The faint scent of cigarette smoke and perfume clung to her, and her boots clicked softly against the tile.
"Hello, Alam?" she greeted, her tone both questioning and certain, as if testing his name.
"That's right," he replied.
"My name is Jenna Adams," she said. "I'm a detective from Sunborn Police Station."
"Ok?" Alam said, confused, his eyes catching the badge gleaming faintly on her hip.
"I came to ask you about last night's incident."
"What incident?" Alam asked, heartbeat quickening.
"With Professor Nervios."
"What happened with Professor Nervios?" Alam asked again, voice tightening.
"You don't remember?" she asked, pausing, her eyes narrowing.
Alam shook his head.
"Hmm..." the detective murmured, her voice sinking into deep thought.
"What is it?" Alam asked, tension rising in his chest.
"Everyone from Professor Nervios's class last night seems to be suffering from fragmented memory loss," she said, her words heavy, deliberate.
"Memory loss?" Alam echoed, the phrase tasting strange in his mouth.
"One thing everyone remembered, though, is Professor Nervios was last seen running and shouting after you down an Academy corridor last night," the detective said, her gaze sharp.
"Last seen? Like he's missing?" Alam asked, throat dry.
"That's correct, Mister Lestari, and he's not the only one. Several students and teachers have gone missing over the past few months," she said, her tone clipped, precise.
"Sky's End..." Alam whispered, the words falling like a prayer into the air.
"Is there anything at all you can tell me about last night?" the detective asked, leaning forward slightly.
An image of the cloaked figure with the gold mask crept into Alam's mind, cold and vivid.
"Mister Lestari?" the detective said, her voice pulling him back, hand brushing his arm to grab his attention.
"N-No, sorry," Alam replied, shaking his head.
"Well, I know you have classes today, so I won't take up too much of your time," she said, reaching into her back pocket. The faint rustle of paper accompanied her movement. "If you remember anything, please give me a call," she added, handing him her card.
She walked away, her boots clicking down the hall, fading into silence. Alam closed the door behind her, the latch clicking like a lock on his thoughts. He turned, then slid down to the floor, leaning against the door, breath shallow.
"Was it a dream?" he muttered, voice trembling.
His eyes caught the clothes he had worn last night, crumpled at the foot of his bed. He rose slowly, his club foot dragging against the carpet with a dull scrape.
"What the...?" he whispered, stepping closer. He bent down and picked up his shirt. It was dripping with water, droplets pattering onto the carpet, darkening it in uneven blotches. The fabric was icy against his fingers, as though it had just been pulled from a river.
"All his clothes from last night were soaked and cold."
"How?" Alam muttered, the word barely audible, swallowed by the silence of the room.