It’s dark. My whole body aches. And that sound again… I can’t even remember the last time I woke up on my own, without that cursed drill sound coming from the neighbors’ house. It’s as if they’re not even doing renovations, just torturing others for fun. The noise is mechanical, persistent, digging into my head like a relentless parasite. I open my eyes. The darkness slightly fades, but it doesn’t bring clarity.


    I check the time—6:07. I have exactly 43 minutes to get ready, leave the house by 6:50, and make it to the bus stop by 7:00, so I can be at work by 8:00. The thought feels heavier than the thick blanket covering me.


    This blanket is so heavy. It presses down on me like a lead weight. There’s no way I can lift it off with just one hand. I gather both hands. 3… 2… 1… hop, it’s off. But the sudden chill that greets me sends a shiver through my spine. I’ll stay under the covers for a bit longer until the sun warms the room. In the meantime, I’ll plan my next moves. I’ll get up at 6:10, take care of my needs, shower, dress, eat, and leave the house. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do.


    It’s so nice lying under this warm blanket. I wish I could stay like this all day, watching my favorite films. But no, I can’t. Life doesn’t work that way, does it? The sound of the drill grinds at the edges of my thoughts, but my eyelids feel heavy again. The room darkens, pulling me under—until a jolt snaps me awake. The time! I check my phone—6:19. Oh no!


    I throw off the blanket, ignoring the icy air that bites at my skin, and rush to the bathroom. The moment I step in, that unpleasant pressure around my throat makes itself known again. It hasn’t gone away for three days. It’s like someone’s hands are wrapped around my neck, pressing just enough to remind me they’re there, but not enough to kill. I touch my throat instinctively, but there’s nothing there. Just my own flesh, my pulse faint under my fingertips. What is this? Stress? Anxiety? Or something worse? No time to dwell on it. I’ll deal with it later.


    The shower handle screeches when I pull it, but of course, no water. I let out a low groan. Water’s been cut off again. Should I wait for it to be restored? No, that could take hours. I can’t be late—again. People might think I’m dirty, but I’ll just drown myself in extra cologne this time. The thought makes me wince. Skipping the shower feels like skipping armor before heading to battle. I glance at myself in the mirror—pale face, dark circles under my eyes, the faintest sheen of sweat on my brow. This isn’t the time to care.


    I throw on my clothes, my movements hurried but automatic. A glance at the clock tells me it’s 6:36. That’s enough time for breakfast, isn’t it? I crack two eggs into a pan and watch them bubble, the sound oddly soothing. The bread is slightly stale, but it’ll do. As I chew, I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. My eyes dart to the kitchen window, but there’s only the empty street below, shrouded in the early morning gloom.


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    6:47. Excellent—still three minutes before I need to leave. I grab my coat, putting my right arm in first, then the left. Now for the buttons. The top one stays undone—it feels impossible to button it with this pressure around my throat.


    When I reach for the lock, my stomach drops. The door wasn’t locked. How could I have forgotten to lock it last night? I always check the door before bed. Always. My mind races—did someone come in? Did I sleep through something? The thought sends a chill down my spine, but there’s no time to investigate. I lock the door this time, triple-checking it, and hurry out.


    The elevator isn’t working. Of course. Why would it? I stare at the unlit buttons, then at the dim stairwell stretching down from the 42nd floor. With each step, the weight on my chest grows heavier, and the phantom hands around my neck seem to tighten. Halfway down, I hear faint footsteps behind me. My pace quickens, but when I glance back, no one’s there. The building is empty. It’s always empty at this hour. The footsteps must have been my imagination.


    Finally, I reach the ground floor. The time—6:54. I’ll have to sprint to catch the 7:00 bus. Outside, the air is sharp and cold, biting at my face as I run. The bus stop is crowded, a line of tired faces huddled together like prisoners waiting for the inevitable. The bus arrives, and the scene erupts into chaos. People shove and push as though their lives depend on getting a seat. I manage to squeeze in by the door, the pressure on my throat intensifying in the crush of bodies.


    An elderly woman leans heavily against me, her weight almost unbearable. “Young man, stop leaning on me! You’ll break my back,” she snaps. I open my mouth to protest but stop myself. It’s not worth the fight. “Sorry, ma’am. I’ll be more careful,” I mutter, biting back my irritation.


    The bus lurches forward, and I focus on the window. I spot my stop in the distance, but the crush of bodies keeps me pinned in place. By the time I manage to shuffle toward the door, we’ve passed it. My heart sinks. The next stop is a kilometer away from work. I stumble off, gasping for air, my throat constricted so tightly now that I almost stagger.


    From here, the massive building at “Eclipse Avenue 666” looms like a monolith, its 108 stories cutting into the sky. The words Crimson Obsidian are emblazoned across the top, cold and unyielding. The sight fills me with unease, though I can’t explain why. I glance at my watch—7:59. I’m late, of course. My legs feel like lead as I force myself forward. The closer I get, the more suffocating the air becomes, thick with something I can’t name.


    By the time I reach the entrance, the time is 8:07. I pause for a moment, staring up at the towering glass and steel. The pressure around my throat pulses, a silent reminder of its presence.