The voices came before the images.
Low at first. Distorted. As if they were echoing through water.
Teïkõ stood still, his feet planted on cold ground he could not recognize. The air felt dense, heavy, pressing against his lungs. He knew, instinctively, that he was small again. Too small for what was happening in front of him.
Two men faced each other.
One of them was his father.
He stood straight, shoulders tense but controlled, eyes steady despite the storm gathering between them. There was no fear in his posture—only exhaustion, and something deeper: disappointment.
The other man was Tiger.
Even without fully seeing his face, Teïkõ felt him. His presence was overwhelming, like standing too close to an open flame. There was a violent energy around him, invisible yet undeniable, twisting the air itself.
"You've already gone too far," his father said. His voice was firm, but there was an edge to it now. "This has to stop."
Tiger laughed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't exaggerated. It was quiet—and that made it worse.
"Too far?" Tiger replied. "You think I can just stop now?"
"You can," his father answered immediately. "Whatever you're chasing, it isn't worth this."
Tiger stepped forward. The ground beneath his foot cracked slightly, thin fractures spreading like veins.
"You have no idea how much I've sacrificed," Tiger said. "How much I've lost. I didn't come this far to turn back."
"There are limits," his father said. "Power taken by force always demands more. First it's others. Then it's yourself."
Tiger's eyes narrowed.
"That's the price," he snapped. "Sacrifice is the foundation of strength. The weak complain about it. The strong accept it."
Teïkõ felt his chest tighten. Something inside him recoiled at those words, even though he didn't fully understand why.
"I won't let you drag my family into this," his father said, stepping between Tiger and Teïkõ.
For the first time, Tiger smiled.
A slow, sharp smile.
"You already did."
The air shattered.
A violent force erupted between them. Teïkõ was thrown backward, his body hitting the ground hard. The world spun. Light and darkness collided in front of him, waves of energy crashing like invisible storms.
He tried to scream. Tried to move.
He couldn't.
The pressure was unbearable. The sound—like reality itself tearing apart—filled his ears.
"STOP!" he screamed, his voice breaking.
The darkness surged—
—
Teïkõ bolted upright with a sharp cry.
"No—!"
His breath came in gasps, his heart pounding so violently it hurt. Sweat clung to his skin, soaking his clothes, his hair plastered to his forehead.
The room was dark.
Silent.
Real.
"Teïkõ!"
Simon's voice cut through the haze. The mattress beside him creaked as Simon sat up, blinking rapidly, panic already in his eyes.
"What—what happened?" Simon asked, scrambling out of bed. He moved quickly, kneeling beside Teïkõ without hesitation.
Teïkõ's hands were shaking.
"I—" His voice failed him. He swallowed, forcing air into his lungs. "I saw them."
Simon didn't ask who.
He placed a steady hand on Teïkõ's shoulder, grounding him.
"It's okay," Simon said softly. "It's just another nightmare."
Teïkõ squeezed his eyes shut, trying to erase the image of Tiger's smile burned into his mind.
"They were fighting," he whispered. "It felt… real."
Simon nodded slowly. "Yeah. You used to have these a lot. Back when we were still at the orphanage."
That sentence anchored him.
Back then.
A time that existed. A time that proved this moment wasn't reality.
Teïkõ's breathing slowly steadied.
"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I woke you."
Simon shrugged, forcing a small smile. "Better me than the whole building."
Teïkõ lay back down, staring at the ceiling long after Simon returned to his bed.
Sleep didn't come easily.
—
Time passed.
Not in a dramatic way. Not marked by events or revelations.
It passed quietly.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
No one came.
At first, they told themselves it was temporary.
"They'll be back," Simon said more than once. "They have to come back."
Teïkõ believed him. Or at least, he wanted to.
He kept track of the days in his head. Measured time by meals, by sunlight through the windows, by how quickly their supplies disappeared.
Marc was the first to say it out loud.
"They're not coming."
The words landed heavily in the common room.
Simon stood up immediately. "That's not true."
Marc didn't raise his voice. He didn't argue.
He just looked tired.
"They would've come by now," Marc said. "Or sent someone. Or at least left a message."
Yurim said nothing. He stared at the floor, arms crossed.
William shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe something happened."
"Something always happens," Marc replied. "That doesn't mean we disappear."
Silence followed.
"Three more days," Teïkõ said suddenly.
Everyone looked at him.
"Let us wait three more days," he continued. "If nothing changes… then we accept it."
Simon nodded immediately. "Yeah. Three days."
They held on to that number like a lifeline.
They rationed what little food was left. Cans. Crackers. Water.
Hunger crept in quietly at first. Then it stayed.
By the third day, their stomachs hurt constantly. The house felt emptier. Colder.
The voices came before the images.
Low at first. Distorted. As if they were echoing through water.
Teïkõ stood still, his feet planted on cold ground he could not recognize. The air felt dense, heavy, pressing against his lungs. He knew, instinctively, that he was small again. Too small for what was happening in front of him.
Two men faced each other.
One of them was his father.
He stood straight, shoulders tense but controlled, eyes steady despite the storm gathering between them. There was no fear in his posture—only exhaustion, and something deeper: disappointment.
The other man was Tiger.
Even without fully seeing his face, Teïkõ felt him. His presence was overwhelming, like standing too close to an open flame. There was a violent energy around him, invisible yet undeniable, twisting the air itself.
"You've already gone too far," his father said. His voice was firm, but there was an edge to it now. "This has to stop."
Tiger laughed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't exaggerated. It was quiet—and that made it worse.
"Too far?" Tiger replied. "You think I can just stop now?"
"You can," his father answered immediately. "Whatever you're chasing, it isn't worth this."
Tiger stepped forward. The ground beneath his foot cracked slightly, thin fractures spreading like veins.
"You have no idea how much I've sacrificed," Tiger said. "How much I've lost. I didn't come this far to turn back."
"There are limits," his father said. "Power taken by force always demands more. First it's others. Then it's yourself."
Tiger's eyes narrowed.
"That's the price," he snapped. "Sacrifice is the foundation of strength. The weak complain about it. The strong accept it."
Teïkõ felt his chest tighten. Something inside him recoiled at those words, even though he didn't fully understand why.
"I won't let you drag my family into this," his father said, stepping between Tiger and Teïkõ.
For the first time, Tiger smiled.
A slow, sharp smile.
"You already did."
The air shattered.
A violent force erupted between them. Teïkõ was thrown backward, his body hitting the ground hard. The world spun. Light and darkness collided in front of him, waves of energy crashing like invisible storms.
He tried to scream. Tried to move.
He couldn't.
The pressure was unbearable. The sound—like reality itself tearing apart—filled his ears.
"STOP!" he screamed, his voice breaking.
The darkness surged—
—
Teïkõ bolted upright with a sharp cry.
"No—!"
His breath came in gasps, his heart pounding so violently it hurt. Sweat clung to his skin, soaking his clothes, his hair plastered to his forehead.
The room was dark.
Silent.
Real.
"Teïkõ!"
Simon's voice cut through the haze. The mattress beside him creaked as Simon sat up, blinking rapidly, panic already in his eyes.
"What—what happened?" Simon asked, scrambling out of bed. He moved quickly, kneeling beside Teïkõ without hesitation.
Teïkõ's hands were shaking.
"I—" His voice failed him. He swallowed, forcing air into his lungs. "I saw them."
Simon didn't ask who.
He placed a steady hand on Teïkõ's shoulder, grounding him.
"It's okay," Simon said softly. "It's just another nightmare."
Teïkõ squeezed his eyes shut, trying to erase the image of Tiger's smile burned into his mind.
"They were fighting," he whispered. "It felt… real."
Simon nodded slowly. "Yeah. You used to have these a lot. Back when we were still at the orphanage."
That sentence anchored him.
Back then.
A time that existed. A time that proved this moment wasn't reality.
Teïkõ's breathing slowly steadied.
"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I woke you."
Simon shrugged, forcing a small smile. "Better me than the whole building."
Teïkõ lay back down, staring at the ceiling long after Simon returned to his bed.
Sleep didn't come easily.
—
Time passed.
Not in a dramatic way. Not marked by events or revelations.
It passed quietly.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
No one came.
At first, they told themselves it was temporary.
"They'll be back," Simon said more than once. "They have to come back."
Teïkõ believed him. Or at least, he wanted to.
He kept track of the days in his head. Measured time by meals, by sunlight through the windows, by how quickly their supplies disappeared.
Marc was the first to say it out loud.
"They're not coming."
The words landed heavily in the common room.
Simon stood up immediately. "That's not true."
Marc didn't raise his voice. He didn't argue.
He just looked tired.
"They would've come by now," Marc said. "Or sent someone. Or at least left a message."
Yurim said nothing. He stared at the floor, arms crossed.
William shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe something happened."
"Something always happens," Marc replied. "That doesn't mean we disappear."
Silence followed.
"Three more days," Teïkõ said suddenly.
Everyone looked at him.
"Let us wait three more days," he continued. "If nothing changes… then we accept it."
Simon nodded immediately. "Yeah. Three days."
They held on to that number like a lifeline.
They rationed what little food was left. Cans. Crackers. Water.
Hunger crept in quietly at first. Then it stayed.
By the third day, their stomachs hurt constantly. The house felt emptier. Colder.
No one came.
That night, Marc broke the silence.
"We steal."
William looked up sharply. "What?"
"We don't have another option," Marc said. "We can't just wait to starve."
"That's wrong," Simon said immediately.
"So is doing nothing," Marc shot back.
Yurim finally spoke.
"I stopped believing someone would come a long time ago."
They turned to him.