Pain.
A pain with neither shape nor color, yet it gnawed from within.
Kyle Darkfield wasn't asleep… but he wasn't awake either.
The darkness surrounding him wasn't the absence of light—
it was the presence of something else… heavier than shadow.
His head throbbed as if someone were hammering an empty skull.
No—not hammering… drilling… and then twisting,
as if something was slowly pushing its way through his skull.
"Oh… that's not the first sound you've heard, is it?"
The voice was inside him, yet it didn't sound like his own.
He closed his eyes—only to realize he had never opened them.
"What is this? … A dream? … Have I lost control of my body?"
Kyle tried to move his hand. No response.
He tried to scream. No sound.
Even breathing… wasn't breathing. It was a silent reclaiming of existence.
The journal.
When his vision returned, the world around him was anything but normal.
Everything was soaked in a pale crimson hue,
as if the room bathed in the glow of a dying moon.
Directly in front of him was a black wooden desk,
and upon it, an open journal.
Its pages were rough, yellowed with age,
and the lines… were blank.
But then, slowly, letters began to form—
as if an unseen hand were writing with flesh-made ink.
"It only writes when the spirits fall silent."
Kyle shivered.
To the left of the journal sat a thick ink bottle,
crowned by a faint red aura.
Etched upon its surface… an engraving of a blind angel.
Before him lay an uncapped pen,
a small blade that resembled a scalpel,
and beside them, a brass revolver—
its barrel gleaming as if someone had just touched it.
"Why does this place feel familiar? Who… am I?"
And in that instant, the memories exploded within him:
A name he didn't know: Kyle Darkfield.
A city he couldn't trust: Zokium.
A cult he didn't recall joining: The Cursed Ink.
And a voice… another voice,
speaking inside his head, in the Echo of Souls.
"Everything will return… once the seal breaks."
A whisper.
But it didn't reach him through ears—
It pulsed through his blood.
Kyle tried to stand, only to collapse onto the wooden chair.
The metal was cold, and the chair creaked…
like something was laughing beneath it.
In the mirror before him, he saw a reflection—
his hair, his skin, his eyes…
yet he didn't see himself.
Something else moved beneath the surface,
breathing with him, waiting for something…
to be let out.
Then… the journal began to write again:
"Everyone will die, including you."
– Echo of Souls