Five years.
That was how long he had been here.
A shadow within a shadow.
For the first few weeks, Sunny had fought.
He had raged against the cage that had swallowed him, clawed at the edges of his existence, twisted his will against the silent walls that refused to break. He had reached for his power, for the abyss that had once bent to his will, only to find it distant—not gone, but restrained, compressed into something weaker. Something less real.
A whisper, not a command.
He had tried to escape.
He had failed.
Time passed.
Then more.
And eventually, he stopped fighting.
Not because he had given up.
Because he had learned.
He wasn't powerless—not entirely.
It had taken months, maybe longer, to understand the boundaries of his prison. He could not move freely, could not manifest, could not touch the world with the force he once wielded. But he could press against it. Distort it, ever so slightly.
His Soul Sea was still there, though accessing it felt like pulling breath through lungs that refused to expand. Summoning memories worked, but only as brief, flickering glimpses before they collapsed under their own weight.
Shadows answered him—hesitant, sluggish—but they listened.
The first time he had shifted one, it had felt like forcing a mountain to crawl. The effort had nearly broken him.
But he kept trying.
Over years, the resistance lessened.
The weight eased.
And little by little, he changed.
He had spent the last five years watching his past self.
That was the cruellest part.
The irony of it—the thing that made him laugh in a way that had no humour.
One day, he had sworn he would never be a slave again.
And now, here he was. A slave to himself.
He had observed, silent, unmoving, a presence that should not exist. He had seen his past self struggle—the hunger, the exhaustion, the growing bitterness that came with surviving without hope.
And, eventually, he had learned something new.
He could influence his past self.
Not drastically. Not in ways that mattered.
But enough.
Enough to cause a moment of hesitation.
Enough to weaken a doubt, or plant an unease.
His past self never noticed.
Never questioned why a sudden thought felt heavier than before.
Never wondered why his breath caught for half a second longer than expected, why his emotions sharpened just slightly, why his mind swayed in ways it normally wouldn't.
Sunny had played with it. Tested it.
Sometimes, he had tried to push encouragement—a spark of certainty in a moment of fear.
Other times, he had tried to sow doubt—hesitation before a mistake.
The results were inconsistent, frustratingly faint, but undeniably there.
It was like whispering to a deaf man—useless, yet somehow lingering.
And over time, something else had happened.
He had changed.
His synchronization with the world strengthened.
He felt it in the way his thoughts blurred at the edges, in the way his presence no longer felt like an intruder in this past, but a part of it.
As if his imprisonment was becoming permanent.
As if this place was beginning to accept him.
That thought terrified him.
Today, his past self was sitting alone.
The room was dim, barely lit by the cheap neon glow filtering through the cracks in the ceiling.
Sunny watched him, silent.
His past self's fingers curled slightly, resting near a broken bottle.
The air was heavy.
A thought pressed against him—had he influenced this moment? Had he changed anything?
Sunny exhaled—except, he didn't. Shadows did.
He had long since stopped pretending his breath was real.
He had long since stopped pretending he was real.
And yet—
He still existed.
Sunny sat alone.
The stairwell was cold, rust creeping through the cracks in the steel beneath his fingertips. The air felt thick, damp from the dying drizzle outside, clinging to his clothes like something alive.
The sickness wasn't fading.
He had felt it growing for days now—slow, steady, undeniable.
A stain that wouldn't wash away.
He had heard the stories. He had seen what happened to people like him. The infection was irreversible. There was no cure, no mercy.
Only one way out.
He laughed softly, breath barely escaping his lungs.
It would be easy.
Future Sunny felt it before the thought had fully formed.
A shift. A weight pressing inward, dragging his past self into something deep, hollow. Something final.
For five years, he had tested the boundaries of his prison. He had studied the fragile cracks where his will could slip through—moments where influence, no matter how faint, could push his past self toward a different path.
But this wasn't a moment to test.
This was life or death.
He pushed.
The pressure hit like a sudden gust of wind—a presence pressing against past Sunny's mind, invisible but undeniable.
A pulse of thought.
Move.
Go.
Not here.
Not like this.
Past Sunny flinched, fingers curling against his sleeves. His breath caught in his throat, uneven, unsteady.
Then—his body moved.
Not because he wanted to.
Because something was forcing him forward.
Future Sunny poured everything into it.
Every ounce of his will, every thread of control he could grasp.
Go. Move. Get up.
Get to the police station. Face the Nightmare.
Not here.
Not like this.
Past Sunny staggered forward, steps heavy, mind clouded. He didn't fight it. He didn't even question it.
By the time he realized where he was—
The police station was already in view.
Future Sunny felt the shift.
It had worked.
But as his past self neared the police station, a new, heavier thought settled over him.
Had this always been the plan?
Had he truly changed anything?
Or had he simply pushed fate forward, like a cog in a machine that had never stopped turning?
He didn't know.
And that terrified him.
The morning unfolded with an eerie sense of repetition.
The rusty bench outside the police station.
The cup of coffee cradled in his past self's hands.
Future Sunny watched, silent.
It was surreal. Uncanny.
The weak grip. The cautious sip.
Then—the grimace.
"Ah! So bitter!"
Future Sunny almost laughed.
After everything, after five years of imprisonment, after forcing every ounce of will into shaping this moment—
The coffee was still disgusting.
Some things refused to change.
Inside the police station, the script played out exactly as before.
The tired-looking officer.
The irritated glance.
The frown.
Future Sunny listened as his own voice spoke—words younger than he felt, words he already knew by heart.
"As demanded by the Third Special Directive, I am here to surrender myself as a carrier of the Nightmare Spell."
The shift in expression.
The terminal pressed.
"Attention! Code Black in the lobby! I repeat! CODE BLACK!"
Future Sunny didn't react.
This moment had already happened once before.
And nothing had changed.
The restraints tightened around past Sunny's wrists.
The vault door, the weapons, the silent tension in the armored basement.
Future Sunny had spent five years believing that reliving this moment would bring clarity—some revelation, some insight into what had been missing before.
But all it brought was suffocating inevitability.
He had pushed fate forward.
And despite everything—despite fighting, resisting, forcing his will through time itself—
He was still here.
Still watching.
Still helpless.
The Gray-haired policeman entered.
Future Sunny didn't listen to the words.
He already knew them.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Sunless."
Future Sunny barely contained his frustration.
That name had felt so different before.
Before the Nightmare. Before the abyss.
Before he had understood what it truly meant.
Now, it felt like a joke.
A name given to him before he had earned it.
"Do you want me to contact your family?"
Past Sunny shook his head.
"There's no one. Don't bother."
Future Sunny felt those words stick—linger.
They had been easy to say back then.
But now—they cut deeper.
They were still true.
And nothing had changed.
The procedure continued.
The warnings about the Nightmare.
The explanations.
Future Sunny wasn't listening anymore.
He didn't need to.
Every word had already been spoken once before.
Every step had already been taken.
Past Sunny was already falling asleep before the policeman had finished.
Future Sunny felt a quiet bitterness—his younger self had been so tired, so unaware of what awaited him.
And then—
Darkness.
A familiar voice rang out.
[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial…]
Future Sunny exhaled.
And silently, the past consumed him again.