"Is there something on my face, Cristoff?" Matthew asked, finishing the last slice of his steak. He'd been starving ever since he left that building, and the incident with Lenox and the others had only made it worse. Thankfully, Cristoff had prepared the steak in advance—otherwise, he might've passed out from hunger.
"N...Nothing, young master."
Matthew looked at Cristoff. This man never stutters. "Is there a problem?" he asked.
"No. Just that...you seemed different," Cristoff answered.
Matthew snorted. Inwardly, he wanted to laugh at Cristoff's words. Of course, he would be different—he just experienced death and rebirth in less than twenty-four hours. "I am," he said before he started eating his steak.
After his meal, Matthew returned to his room and locked the door behind him. With a content sigh, he threw his blazer onto the armchair and walked over to his desk.
"Who would've thought I'd gain this much in a single day?" he muttered, grabbing a pen.
First, the VIP card.
Second, the jade win.
Third, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the black stone.
He stared at it for a moment, letting it rest in the center of his palm.
It pulsed.
A soft warmth, subtle at first, like it was alive. Then, just as he tilted it slightly in the light, it surged.
A rush of heat flowed up his arm, gentle at first, then overwhelming. His breath caught in his throat. His knees immediately weakened.
He blinked as the walls of his room… started to shift.
They didn't vanish. Instead, they looked like they were melting. The corners of the desk blurred. The ceiling twisted like liquid. Shadows spilled across the floor, stretching unnaturally long. The air thickened, colder now—pressing against his chest like a weight.
His mouth opened. Yet, no sound came out.
He turned— or he thought he turned—but the room was gone as darkness crept in slowly, like ink bleeding into water. It pooled around his feet first, then crawled up his legs, swallowing the light. Seeing this, his breath grew shallow.
Whispers slithered in from the edges.
Then something moved.
A shape. Then another. Flickering silhouettes. They emerged from the shadows, slithering across the unseen floor with limbs too long, and faces twisted in agony. Eyes hollow. Mouths open in silent screams.
He took a step back. The ground squelched beneath his feet.
"What…?" he whispered.
No answer came.
Only a screech echoing from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Then the shadows surged.
Matthew turned and ran. He just came back was he supposed to let these weird things kill him again!?
His heart pounded. He didn't know where he was running, only that something was chasing him. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Crawling, floating, scraping, dragging their shattered limbs through the dark.
Their whispers turned to growls. Their growls turned to sobs. "Thief!" "Liar!" "Die!"
Matthew didn't look back.
But he could feel them. Cold fingers grazing the back of his neck. Breathless moans licking at his ears. They reached for him—shadows with teeth and memories and rage.
Then suddenly the warmth in his palm turned scorching.
He looked down.
The stone was still in his hand.
But it was glowing now, veins of red-hot light crawling across its surface like cracks in obsidian.
Then suddenly, a hand suddenly gripped his shoulder. It felt like a stone at first, but as he turned, Matthew saw what it truly was.
A human hand, skin torn and gray, fingers blackened at the tips. Bone jutted out at the knuckles. The flesh looked half-rotted, clinging in patches. His breath stopped.
Behind the hand was a face. Or what was left of it?
A skull. Jaw partially intact. One side of the face still had flesh hanging in clumps like old rags. The eye sockets were empty, but something shimmered faintly inside them. Not eyes. Just light.
The thing leaned closer.
Matthew stumbled back, but the grip didn't loosen. The skull's free hand reached up and touched his cheek. The touch was dry, almost brittle. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt. But it didn't feel human either.
Matthew's stomach turned.
"N–No," he muttered, barely above a whisper. "No!"
He twisted his body and tried to pull away, but his limbs were heavy. His legs refused to move.
"Let go," he mumbled, voice shaking. "Get off me. This isn't—this can't be real…" Hallucinations! Or a nightmare!
But these thoughts didn't stop the skull as it's face pressed closer. Inches away now.
Matthew opened his mouth, ready to scream or push or hit—but then the thing's face began to crack.
Fine lines split across its surface like broken porcelain. The fingers on his face began to lose shape, melting—no, sinking into his skin.
"What the hell is this…?" he muttered again, more desperate this time. "What's happening to me?"
The skull caved in like soft clay. But it didn't fall. Instead, it merged into Matthew. Its form collapsed against his cheek, flattening, and spreading across his skin like hot wax.
Matthew tried to move, but he couldn't.
Then the rest of the hand followed. Flesh, bone, light—everything dissolved into him.
Matthew clutched at his chest. Something burned inside. It's not the same heat as before. This was internal—foreign. Alive!
What is going on? He thought inwardly. Just what is this thing!?
His knees hit the ground as his head swam. Everything around him twisted again.
More shadows were closing in, but they didn't touch him. They stood still, almost as if they were watching.
He tried to speak louder, to call out but his jaw locked. His body trembled once, then fell forward.
The ground met him with a dull thud.
Then Matthew opened his eyes.
Matthew jolted upright, gasping.
His chest heaved. Cold sweat clung to his skin. The room was pitch black, save for the faint glow of the city outside his window. The curtains hadn't moved. His desk, his bed—everything was exactly where it had been.
He blinked.
His head throbbed. His limbs ached. His body trembled with a fear that had no name.
He was still on the floor.
He must've… fainted? Or did he fell asleep and had a nightmare?
"Huh?" He looked at his hand. Then around him. "Where's the stone?"
Matthew pushed himself off the floor and turned the lights on. He then looked around the room, eyes darting to the desk, then to the floor where the stone had been. It was gone.
His brows furrowed. "What…?" He turned toward the bed and threw the blanket aside. Nothing.
He checked under the pillow. Still nothing.
Matthew's breath quickened. He walked over to the chair and snatched up his jacket. He reached into the inside pocket—empty. He checked the others. Nothing. He was certain he had taken the stone from there earlier. He remembered the weight of it in his palm.
He turned and stormed toward the door. He grabbed the handle and twisted.
Locked.
He stood still for a moment. His hand tightened around the knob. The room was quiet. No one came in. No one left.
He glanced back over his shoulder.
The stone really was gone.
"Where did it go?" And what happened to him?
Confused, he moved across the room to the bathroom. His steps were uneven. His legs still felt weak. He flicked on the light and stepped inside.
Then he froze.
Across from him, just past the threshold of the open bathroom door, stood a figure. A woman.
Her head was tilted slightly, one eye swollen shut. The other stared at him, wide and unblinking. Blood covered her shirt. Her mouth hung open like she was trying to breathe.
Matthew stumbled back, hitting the edge of the sink. His foot slid across the tile, and he caught himself with one hand against the wall.
"What— What in the actual—"
He reached for the door, but it was already wide open. However, something inside him stopped him from running. This woman is a ghost. She was someone who died and turned into a ghost.
Wasn't he like that too? He died once. But instead of turning into something like her, he was reborn.
So, instead of running, he stared at her. Was he seeing things? He observed her. She didn't move. She just stood there, barefoot, skin pale, blood trailing down one arm.
Then, slowly, he backed away. His hand fumbled against the wall, searching for something—anything.
The woman was still staring at him.
He grabbed the towel rack and gripped it hard. He knew it was probably useless but what can he do? "Who the hell are you?" he asked, barely getting the words out.
Just as he expected, the woman didn't speak.
He edged toward the hallway, eyes still locked on her. It's a good thing that she didn't follow.
Then, without warning, her head twitched to the side. Not naturally. But like a puppet. The movement was sharp and sudden. Matthew jumped. When he realized that the woman stopped moving again, he let out a sighed.
Was this his hallucination? Was he still dreaming?
He looked down, expecting to see blood on the floor. There wasn't any.
Then he looked back up.
"She's gone."