Sall tried to sleep. He really did.
Every time he closed his eyes, the mask appeared in his mind. The horn. The empty eye. Its silent scream seemed to echo in the darkness of his room.
Finally, unable to bear it any longer, he rose. His movements were slow, weighed down by exhaustion and unease. He walked to the tap, hoping for a sip of water.
The faucet hissed and spat nothing but air.
"Perfect…" he muttered under his breath.
Grabbing his jacket, he decided to go to the convenience store nearby. He slipped the mask carefully into his pocket, feeling its cold weight pressing against his hip. Each step toward the street made his heart beat faster.
Once outside, he paused beneath the pale glow of a streetlamp. The mask pressed against his thoughts, forcing memories to the surface.
How did I miss all of this?
How could I have lived without ever noticing?
He stared at the mask for what felt like hours. Its single horn, its jagged eye, the gaping mouth—it seemed alive, almost breathing, as if waiting for him to acknowledge it fully.
Then he felt it. A chill crawling up his spine. The unmistakable sense of being followed.
Sall's chest tightened. He looked around, scanning the empty street. Nothing. But the feeling persisted, gnawing at his nerves. He shoved the mask deeper into his pocket, quickened his pace.
Something… something was there. He could feel it, trailing him, silent yet insistent. The shadows beneath the moonlight seemed to stretch unnaturally. A shape flickered at the edge of his vision. He looked down.
The silhouette was not human. Its outline shifted and swayed like liquid. Whatever it was, it moved with purpose, following him through the empty streets.
Fear took hold. Sall bolted, sprinting with every ounce of energy. The cool night air st…ung his lungs, but he didn't stop. Panic pushed him forward, ignoring the pain in his legs and the pounding of his heart.
And then—something struck him. A sudden, jagged force hit his side, sending him sprawling onto the cold asphalt. The world spun, a mixture of pain and disbelief. He tried to push himself up, but his right leg refused to cooperate.
A hole. A gaping wound tore through his thigh. Blood flowed freely, hot and sticky, searing his nerves. He screamed, terror and pain intertwining in a raw, primal cry.
The creature moved closer. It was monstrous, made of something organic—flesh, sinew, and blood—but twisted, unstable. It didn't walk; it seemed to crawl and ripple, a nightmare given form, its edges undefined, constantly shifting. Its presence radiated a cruel intelligence, and yet it felt unfinished, like it was only temporarily summoned.
"This… this isn't an entity… it's… something else," Sall gasped, panic choking his words.
The mask in his pocket vibrated faintly, calling to him. Sall's fingers brushed its surface instinctively. It felt like a lifeline, a tether in the chaos. His mind raced. Could this thing be defeated? Could the pact even help him now?
A projectile shot through the air, whistling toward him. Reflexively, he raised his arm—and pain exploded across his forearm. Blood blossomed instantly, his hand barely hanging on. The mask pulsed, as if urging him to act, to trust it, to make a choice in the chaos.
Screaming, clenching his teeth against the agony, Sall forced himself to his feet. He couldn't end like this. Not now. Not without a fight. He staggered forward, dragging one leg behind him, every movement a test of will against the searing pain.
The creature advanced, sinewy limbs quivering, almost liquid in their motion. It lunged again, a mass of raw muscle and distorted form, aiming to strike.
Sall dodged, barely, feeling the air crack as its appendage swiped past him.
The mask throbbed in his pocket. He tore it out, holding it as though it were the last fragment of his life. Its single eye seemed to glow faintly, and the jagged horn pointed toward the creature as if guiding his will.
Another projectile flew. This time, it cut across his forearm, slicing cleanly through flesh, and yet—he felt a strange sensation. The pain was sharp, yes, but the mask seemed to absorb something from the attack, as though taking on the energy of the strike.
Sall gritted his teeth. "I… I won't die here!" he shouted, voice raw, trembling with fear and fury. He lunged at the creature, striking at its writhing form with the mask. It recoiled, shrieking in a soundless scream, the flesh shifting, rippling under his blows.
Pain, adrenaline, and terror blurred together. He struck again, using the momentum of his fall to propel himself forward. The creature shrieked—a horrible, wet sound—and recoiled, leaving a smear of something dark across the street.
Then, in the periphery of his vision, Sall saw a figure. A silhouette, human, moving toward him. His heart leapt. "Abdul?" he whispered, hope and confusion mixing.
But it wasn't Abdul. The figure had long hair, feminine, yet strong and purposeful. She moved swiftly, stepping between Sall and the creature. Her presence radiated calm determination. She raised a hand, and the creature froze, its form quivering as if obeying an invisible command.
Sall stumbled, still holding the mask, watching as the woman's figure seemed to command the monstrous thing effortlessly. In a blur of motion, she struck and the creature recoiled violently, its form quivering and rippling before it vanished into the shadows like liquid dissolving into night. Sall collapsed onto the cold asphalt, gasping for breath, his body trembling uncontrollably. His mind raced, still reeling from the encounter.
The mask pulsed faintly in his hand, as if whispering reassurance, a reminder that it had been guiding him all along. Sweat and blood mixed on his skin, cold night air biting at him, yet the terror slowly began to give way to a sharp, keen awareness. He was alive—but only just.
He looked at the empty street, eyes wide and unblinking, scanning for any sign of the monstrous figure's return. Nothing. Silence, except for the distant hum of the city and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.
Sall's legs shook as he stood unsteadily. His arm throbbed from the cut, but remarkably, it seemed almost… intact. The mask, he realized, had absorbed or healed part of the wound. But the memory of pain lingered in his mind, a warning of what had happened—and what might come.
His gaze wandered down the street. Every shadow seemed alive, twisting in impossible ways. His heart pounded as the realization settled over him: the world was no longer safe. Ordinary streets, everyday objects—they could harbor dangers he had never imagined. And the mask… the mask had chosen him.
A soft voice broke through the night, startling him. "Are you alright?"
Sall turned to see the woman approaching, the moonlight catching strands of her long hair. Her presence was calm, measured, yet powerful. She extended a hand toward him, eyes scanning his injuries.
"I… I think so," Sall stammered, still gripping the mask. "Who… who are you?"
She paused, her expression unreadable but kind. "You're Sall, right? Abdul sent me."
"Abdul…? But how…?" He swallowed hard, unsure if relief or confusion should come first.
"You were in danger," she said simply. "I've dealt with things like this before. You need to be careful, and you need to trust the mask. It's more than just an object—it's a companion, an ally. But it also tests you."
Sall nodded slowly, processing her words. His mind reeled with everything he had been told by Abdul and now, this new intervention. "The creature… it wasn't an entity?" he asked, still glancing down the street nervously.
"No," she said. "It's a monster created by the entities. Temporary, unstable, but deadly if underestimated. They aren't alive in the traditional sense, but they respond to fear, pain, and weakness."
Sall's hands tightened around the mask. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him, heavier than the injuries in his body. "And if… if it comes back?"
She gave him a faint, confident smile. "Then you fight. You adapt. And you learn to trust your instincts… and your mask."
The two of them stood in silence for a moment, the city stretching around them like a fragile stage. Sall could feel the adrenaline slowly ebbing, replaced by determination. He had survived, barely, and the mask had shown him a glimpse of its power—but it was only the beginning.
Finally, she nodded toward the nearby street. "Go back home. Rest. But remember—this night is a warning. Your journey isn't over. The entities and their creations are out there. And now, you are part of this world, whether you like it or not."
Sall took a deep breath, nodding. The mask in his hand seemed to pulse once more, like it was affirming her words. He turned, walking slowly back toward Abdul's house, every shadow now scrutinized, every step measured. The night felt alive, aware of him, and he knew that even after this ordeal, he had only scratched the surface of the dangers lurking in the unseen.
By the time he entered the house, exhaustion pulled him down, but the fire of determination burned quietly inside him. He placed the mask on the table, glancing at it once more before heading to the bedroom Abdul had prepared.
Sall lay down, staring at the ceiling. His body ached, his mind spun with questions, but one thought crystallized: he had survived, barely, and he now understood that the mask, the pact, and the entities were intertwined with his fate.
Outside, the shadows of the city shifted, and somewhere in the distance, the wind whispered secrets of things yet to come. And Sall knew—sleep would not come easy tonight.
For the first time, he realized that life as he had known it was over.
The night stretched on, heavy and alive, and Sall held the mask close, ready for what the dawn might bring.