The scenario unfolded swiftly in his head, pieced together by paranoia and instinct.
They didn't kill him after the truck hit him because that would've been too easy.
No, they wanted something more certain.
Something quiet.
Probably one of their own, an assassin disguised as a doctor or a civilian.
A quick injection, some drug powerful enough to shut his body down but keep him alive.
It made sense.
It was efficient.
And worst of all… it was exactly what he would have done.
'If I were them, I'd do the same.'
The more he thought about it, the more the pieces clicked into place.
He must have been found shortly after the impact.
They could have taken the relic.
Or maybe they hadn't found it yet, maybe they were keeping him alive just long enough to figure out where he'd hidden it.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine, at least, it should have.
But his body was still quiet.
Still disconnected.
'What do they plan to do to me now?'
Was someone watching him even now, waiting for him to wake up completely?
Waiting to tear the answers from his lips the moment he could speak?
Or worse, planning to keep him like this, unable to move, until his mind withered in the silence?
A cruel fate.
One he wouldn't accept.
His breath, he couldn't even feel that yet.
But if his sense of touch had returned in some places, perhaps the rest would follow.
Perhaps this wasn't permanent.
Perhaps…
'Perhaps this was just the beginning of their mistake.'
Because if they had left him alive…
If they had dared to underestimate him…
Then they would learn, soon enough, what kind of monster they had allowed to breathe.
Dark's mind, though trapped in stillness, ignited like fire beneath the ice.
The bed beneath him might have cradled him like a helpless patient, but in his thoughts, he was already moving, planning, calculating, anticipating.
They thought he was broken.
They thought the silence would drown him.
But Dark was merely waiting.
And when the time came, when sensation returned to his limbs, when his body was his again, he would finish what he started.
He would become the nightmare they thought they'd conquered.
He would remind them that he is death in the shape of a man.
Dark had always trained his mind to be sharper than the finest blade, his thoughts faster than the quickest strike.
Yet now, locked within a body that refused to obey him, even the mind threatened to turn against its master.
Fear had whispered its cruel lullaby earlier, dancing at the edges of his consciousness.
But Dark silenced it now.
He could not afford to drown in panic.
Slowly, deliberately, he peeled himself away from the darkness of his thoughts, like a man brushing ash off his shoulders after a fire.
The dread of being paralyzed… the possibility that this might be the end… all of it, he shoved aside.
He forced calm into his mind like a breath into lungs.
'Think. Think clearly. This is just another problem to solve. Another locked door to pick open.'
He focused on the sensations, or lack thereof.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't hear anything coherent.
Couldn't see even a flicker of light.
But that didn't mean he was helpless.
Not yet.
'If I can't move… can I feel at all?'
He stretched his awareness inward, like plunging into black water.
The effort was exhausting, like trying to lift weights with muscles that weren't there.
Nothing responded.
Still, he refused to despair.
'Then the paralysis must be full-body. Complete nervous shutdown? Or a drug-induced state?'
If someone had poisoned or drugged him, there had to be a time limit.
Even the most potent substances wore off.
The human body was resilient, especially his.
Years of physical refinement, toxic resistance training, mind-over-matter meditation… he'd endured much worse.
He just needed time.
But there was another possibility, an uglier one.
'Severe injury. Internal trauma. Nerve damage from the truck?'
It would explain why he couldn't move or feel.
If his spine was damaged, if something vital had been crushed… No.
No, he couldn't accept that.
Not yet.
He wouldn't.
He clung to one truth, fragile and flickering though it was, he could think.
He could feel the bed, even if faintly.
That meant there was something left to work with.
'Start small. Start with the eyes.'
Dark focused every ounce of his willpower on his eyelids.
It was like trying to lift a mountain with sheer thought.
There was no movement, no shift.
Only that same darkness.
Still… he tried again.
And again.
And again.
'Come on,' he urged himself, not with desperation, but with command.
'Move. Obey. Open.'
But it didn't open.
Not even a flicker.
Not even a twitch.
He wasn't even sure his face was still his.
For all he knew, maybe it had been ripped apart, sewn back together, bandaged, masked.
The possibilities began to rise again, dark and heavy, but he forced them down once more.
'So I failed again,' he thought.
Slowly he started to feel down again.
'If I can't open my eyes, then what use am I for again...'
Suddenly, he heard something...
A sound.
Distant.
Muffled.
Like voices speaking underwater.
At first, it was only a hum, indistinct, shapeless.
'Focus. Tune everything else out.'
He concentrated harder.
A soft, wavering tone began to sharpen.
A few scattered words clawed their way into meaning.
And then, slowly, as if the world itself had remembered he existed, the sounds came clear.
"…master hasn't woken up since…"
A voice, female.
Light, uncertain, laced with worry.
"…I've tried for some time to wake him up, but failed…"
There was a pause, followed by the rustle of fabric.
A faint sigh.
"…his body temperature isn't good either…"
Dark listened intently, every word and sound more precious than gold.
One syllable at a time.
'Are there talking about me?'
That voice.
It didn't belong to an assassin.
No venom, no edge, no hatred.
Only concern.
'Who are they? Where am I?'
He was beginning to piece the puzzle together, shard by shard.
He still couldn't move, or open his eyes.
But now he had a tiny information, and that was enough to give him a foothold.
A female caretaker, possibly a maid.
The tone was reverent, "Master" "Lord", she'd said.
Not "target."
Not "traitor."
Not "Dark"
There was no trace of suspicion in her voice, no awareness of who or what he truly was.
'Do they think I'm someone else.'
That realization sent a ripple through the still pool of his thoughts.
Wherever he was… it wasn't a hospital run by the assassins.
It wasn't a prison cell.
And if the woman thought he was her master, then either someone had hidden him here… or something much stranger had happened.
He strained to listen further, hoping for more voices, more clues.
Footsteps padded softly across what sounded like a stone or marble floor.
The rustle of cloth followed.
A chair creaked.
"And Sir Valen," the voice continued, now quieter, almost to herself. "He said he would return soon… maybe he'll know what to do."
'Valen? Another servant? A protector? Maybe someone random and unimportant, perhaps?'
The names meant nothing now to Dark, but they could soon.
But something about this place didn't fit any mold he knew.
The voices he was currently hearing carried no malice, there was no cold steel being drawn.
And the more pieces he gathered, the more he felt it deep in his instincts...
He wasn't in his world anymore.
He knew it was stupid to think that, because he has only seen that happen in fantasy fictions, like having some random dude getting hit by some random truck and then suddenly find theirself in a world they know nothing about and then proceed to become an adventurer and then suddenly have a harem.
He didn't currently understand anything, but he had a strange feeling something was hugely off.
He was a ghost in a foreign shell, and these people were treating him like someone important.
That could be dangerous.
Or it could be the only advantage he had.
'First the ears… next the body, then the eyes.'