Nero stared blankly at the screen of his phone; minutes passed, and he didn't even blink.
Was this... Really happening? He had actually won the lottery? Also, when did lottery money become this huge? It was in quintillion...or where his eyes were deceiving him?
Nero counted the number of Zeroes on his screen for the umpteenth time before it finally dawned on him that it was real.
Those numbers from his dream... But how?
He stared at the description next. It said that it had been sent from the lottery organisation and...soul reaper? Who the hell was that?
Anyway, he was rich now!
A warm feeling settled on Nero's back.
He was...rich now? Damn!
.
.
.
The Sleek obsidian curves of the Aston Martin DB12 purred to a stop in the driveway. The car door swung open, and a man unfolded himself, a figure that was very familiar yet so difficult in just a span of three months.
His vibrant hair, which had been sun bleached and carelessly long before,, had been trimmed with modern precision. His malnourished and pigmented skin now shone with a healthy, even tone. The lines of worry that usually etch around his eyes from constant struggle for survival had softened, replaced by a hint of amusement and quiet confidence.
He wore a regular white shirt and sleek jeans, and his blue eyes highlighted his handsome face that had once been shielded by the walls of poverty.
He owned a lot of mansions, cars, businesses, and even had a private jet. Servants swamped at the feet, abiding by his every call. Nero never had to raise a finger for anything, but these new properties had been bought discreetly under another name.
It was still too early for his enemies to find out about his wealth. He wanted everything to be perfect when he executed the plan he had in mind and took back everything that was once his.
Getting to his room, he sighted his master bed with white sheets. It was as big as half the room, and that was the way he liked it.
"Today marks exactly three months since you became rich," A cold voice said out of nowhere.
Nero paused and looked around, but he couldn't find anything. His blood ran cold, knowing very well he had heard something, but it disappeared as fast as it came.
Maybe it was all in his head.
Pulling off his clothes, he jumped into bed and slept off immediately.
And then, he was falling. A plummeting fall, a silent descent that swallowed light and sound. Nero's dreamself screamed in terror, the noise tearing through the silent landscape of his mind. The wind whipped past his face, the pressure of his weight building, assuring him of a violent, shattering impact.
But it never truly came. There was a jarring thud of his body that was surprisingly gentle. Yes, he had fallen into solid rock, but the landing had been gentle...as if it had been controlled by an external pressure.
He lay there for a moment, the terror receding before his bewildered self stood up, his heart still hammering against his chest as he took a good look at his surroundings
The endless abyss of his fall had given way to a place holding an eerie stillness. It was completely dark around him, and yet for some odd reason, he could see everything clearly.
The air was damp and gave off chilling vibes.
He stood in a Graveyard.
But there was only one grave, bearing no inscription he could discern. What sort of dream is this?
Then, a ripple from the grave caught his eye. Slowly, impossibly, a figure began to rise from it. It was a fluid, ethereal, scary ascent till it stood. It hinted no features, as if it was simply made of cold, smoke that had clawed its way up from the silent depths
Panic flared within Nero. His mind yelled at him to run, but his limbs stubbornly refused to adhere, rooted to his spot. His will felt subdued, and he felt a strange grip locking him in place.
The figure glided toward him as if it were floating. It was covered in a dark, flowing veil that hid everything feature beneath, every contour. Only a deep sense of otherness emanated from it, and cold ancient energy prickled Nero's skin as his breath hitched.
A voice, devoid of warmth yet resonating a cold, unshaken authority, echoed from the figure, "Today marks exactly three months since you became rich,"
It was...the same voice from his room before he had fallen asleep. But this time, it carried more depth.
Then, a hand emerged from the fold of the veils, pale and skeletal. It clamped down on his arm with surprisingly vice-like strength, its touch sending a cold feeling that burrowed deep into Nero's bones and made his whole body tremble. Something about the way it held him gave Nero a feeling like the phantom had waited a very long time for this.
"The numbers...the dreams...the constant reminder at the back of your mortal head, they were my doing...Nero," Its unseen face seemed to turn toward him, "I lifted you from your misery and gave you all you possess now,"
The grip on his arms tightened, "But such gifts are never truly free. Every coin, every comfort, every fleeting moment of your newfound wealth...is a debt," It leaned closer, its presence so suffocating Nero could feel himself peeing himself at the moment, "A debt that must be repaid. Not in coins, but in Crimson fluid...in Blood!, and in service to me. Only if you've paid back with every drop, will I set you free,"
There was a sudden screeching scream from the figure, and Nero's body jerked forward as he threw himself out of bed. Even though the room was very cool, his whole body was dripping with sweat, and his wet hair clung to his pale face.
He glanced around the room, but he was alone.
And much to his dismay, he had really peed himself somewhere along the dream.
His butler, Nelson, came stumbling in along with three hefty guards who stood by the door, "Master, what happened? We heard you scream,"
Nero let out a shaky breath and sat down on the edge of his bed, rubbing his temple. His heart was about to explode, and he had a very bad feeling about this dream. The money he had received for the lottery had been a very crazy amount, and when he checked, the organisation had actually sent only eight Zeroes, so where did the rest come from?
Description: ... & Soul Reaper.
Shit! This was bad...this was very, very bad.
But it all made sense now.
"Master?" Nelson repeated softly.
"I'm fine," Nero breathed, waving a hand at them, "You can leave. It was just a bad dream,"
"Alright, master,"
Nero kept dwelling on the issue at hand. All this could just be a bad dream and a big coincidence, or...
No, it can't possibly be real. Things like that don't exist in this world!
Deciding to take a cold shower, he stepped into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. His palm rested on the white marble walls as water rushed down his head, washing away the sweat.
Then, he saw it. There was a black imprint on his right arm, and when he took a closer look, it resembled fingerprints.
Fingerprints...of a tight grip, staring back at him at the exact place the figure had almost crushed his bones.
He didn't dare go to sleep that night. The prickling sensation that the deadly figure would come to him in his dreams again was really disturbing, so he just lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
No, it couldn't be a coincidence.
The source of his wealth wasn't entirely... because of the lottery.
The figure did say he was going to have to pay back in blood, and that brought chills down Nero's spine.
His...blood?! Paying back such a huge amount of money with blood must require gallons of blood, and that means he would have to die for that to happen.
And it wouldn't even be enough.
What does he do? Can he really live the rest of his life without sleeping?!
If he has to, then yes.
Because there's no way he's dying for money he never asked for from a damn soul reaper or whatever the hell that thing is!
The next morning, Nero laid on his bed shivering from cold. Sometime into the night, a sudden fever had hit him so hard he could barely move or speak, and while the thought it could be the aftereffects of his nightmare...the fever felt... different.
Apart from the fact that it had come in so hard from the beginning, he could now feel the familiar weight of the reaper's grip on his arm again, the exact place it had held him before.
To make sure he wasn't making all this up, the fingerprint wasn't vanishing. Instead, his affected skin had gotten redder.
A week passed in this terrible state, and several doctors had visited his home, but their diagnosis wasn't helping.
In fact, Nero was on the verge of death. The pain in his arm and bones was pulling out his soul, and he finally succumbed.
He might as well die later than die now.
Finally, he let the cold embrace of sleep welcome him.