The night was dark, the sky heavy with clouds that seemed ready to burst. Rain fell in torrents, pounding the asphalt with force, creating small streams that snaked through the streets. The sound was deafening, a constant roar that drowned out any other noise.


    In the middle of the street, a man stood out as he swung his arms and spun his body with fluid, almost hypnotic movements, as if conducting na orchestra.


    The rain struck him mercilessly, soaking his clothes, which now clung to his body.


    His hair, matted by the water, fell over his face, hiding his eyes and darkening his vision.


    Even so, none of it seemed to hinder him. Each gesture appeared synchronized with the rhythm of the storm. When the wind howled stronger, he raised his hands, following the direction of the air. When he spun, lightning split the sky, briefly illuminating his solitary figure. It was as if he were the maestro accompanying the chaotic symphony of the world.


    Suddenly, he stopped, his arms still outstretched. And then, slowly, he opened his eyes.


    The flash of lightning tore through the sky, bathing the surroundings in a pale light for an instant. What once seemed like an empty street now revealed itself as a stage of pure carnage.


    Bodies lay scattered everywhere, twisted in unnatural positions like puppets with their strings cut. Some were severed in half, their torsos separated from their legs in jagged cuts, exposing blood-soaked viscera mixing with the rainwater.


    Heads rolled across the asphalt, some still with their eyes open. Others, crushed like rotten fruit, spilled brain matter among the wreckage.


    The ground was a red lake. Blood flowed through the gutters, mingling with the stormwater, forming crimson rivers that ran between the bodies.


    Torn limbs were thrown carelessly—a dismembered arm floated in a torrent, fingers curled in a final spasm. A leg lay a few meters ahead, violently torn off, bones exposed and covered in shredded flesh. There were ribs splayed open like broken wings, chests split in half as if something had torn them from the inside out.


    The walls around were covered in dark stains, smears of blood mixed with rain, slowly dripping as if the walls themselves were bleeding. Pieces of entrails were caught in corners, stuck to shattered windows, hanging from poles like macabre decorations.


    And at the center of it all, the man began to cry.


    ***


    [Three months earlier.]


    Dreams are fascinating enigmas. In them, we defy the laws of logic, experience the impossible, and walk through worlds where everything is allowed. We are, at the same time, spectators, screenwriters, and protagonists of these stories that unfold in our sleeping minds.


    In an instant, we can fly through golden clouds, and in the next, dive into oceans of forgotten memories. We create settings with such vivid details that we can touch them, feel the warmth of the sun or the cutting cold of a snowstorm. And even when everything seems disconnected, there is a strange harmony stitching each scene together.


    But the most curious thing is how much these reveries can touch us. A simple dream can awaken intense emotions—joy, fear, longing—feelings we carry upon waking, as if a fragment of that unreal world had clung to us. Perhaps that''s why, sometimes, we wake up with a racing heart, smiling for no reason, or with tears in our eyes, trying to decipher what it all meant.


    Because, in the end, dreams are more than nighttime stories. They are reflections of who we are, hidden desires, or fears we avoid facing. They are portals to a universe that exists only while our eyes are closed but somehow remains with us even when we wake.


    Why am I reflecting on them? Maybe because I am having a lucid dream. That rare moment when I realize that none of this is real, yet everything feels so vivid, so tangible. It''s like walking on a stage built by my mind, knowing that I am the author of this play but unable to fully control the script.


    I look around, and everything feels both right and wrong at the same time. The walls ripple slightly, as if they are breathing. The ground seems solid, but there is something strange in every step, as if I am floating even when I feel the weight of my feet touching the floor. And the voices—the voices are distant echoes, calling me with names I do not recognize.


    It is a strange sensation, this awareness within a dream. Knowing that I can shape the world around me. Create or destroy? Stay or wake up? There is a silent power here, and it whispers to me. A call to dive deeper and break everything at once.


    And that''s when the idea arises, dark and sharp. If all of this is mine, then I can shape the impossible. I can create whatever I want. A knife, for example. It appears in my hand, cold, perfect, its metallic gleam reflecting the distorted world around me. I don''t know why I created it, but it''s here. Maybe it''s curiosity, maybe it''s despair. Maybe I just want to see what happens when I push a dream to its limit.


    The reflection on the blade stares back at me, eyes fixed and strange. Is it me? Or just a shadow of what I think I am?


    But I don''t dwell on that—after all, I''m curious about what will happen when I drive this knife into my neck, and that''s exactly what I do without hesitation.


    TCHAC!!


    ***


    "Ah!" I wake up startled and breathless, feeling the clothes I slept in uncomfortably sticking to me because of the sweat running down my body.


    I look to the side and tap the screen of my phone on the nightstand, seeing that it''s seven in the morning. "Great." I lay back on the pillow and stare at the ceiling, reflecting on the dream I just had. What the hell was that? I''m almost sure I don''t have suicidal thoughts… almost.


    With a sigh, I get up and head to the bathroom, knowing I wouldn''t be able to sleep again. After taking a shower and brushing my teeth, I put on clean clothes and walk to the kitchen.


    As soon as I arrive, I see that my dad is already having breakfast at the table. He''s frantically typing on his laptop and doesn''t seem to notice me coming in.


    "Good morning, Dad," I say, walking to the fridge.


    He jumps at the sound of my voice and pulls his eyes away from the screen, finally noticing me. "Son, you''re up early."


    "I had a nightmare and couldn''t go back to sleep," I reply, taking the milk from the fridge. I turn around and grab a mug from the sink, checking if it''s clean before pouring the milk in.


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    When I look back at my dad, I see that he''s already focused on his laptop again. Curious, I walk over and glance over his shoulder.


    It''s a video of four police officers trying to restrain a woman on the ground. She was thrashing violently, and the four men didn''t seem able to hold her down.


    The woman then lifted her head and opened her mouth—I assume she screamed since my dad had his headphones in.


    The video ended with the woman breaking free and charging at the person filming.


    "Where was this?" I ask, walking back to my mug of milk.


    "China," my dad replies, taking his headphones off. He gets up and brings a dirty plate to the sink.


    "China? Do they know what was wrong with that woman?" I take a sip of milk, trying to wash away the bitter taste left in my stomach after watching the video.


    "No one''s sure. Some say it''s a mutation of rabies, others think it''s a new drug," he says, turning on the faucet and rinsing the plate.


    "What kind of drug gives that level of strength? I''m buying it right now," I joke, which earns me a wet face after my dad tilts the plate, making the sink water splash on me.


    "Hey!" I wipe my face with my hand, shaking off the excess water into the sink. "You know I''m joking."


    "There are things you don''t joke about, kid," my dad says with a smile.


    Before I can argue back, he places a hand on my shoulder. "Since you''re already up, go clean out the garage."


    Oh no, the garage. The same one my family insists on filling with boxes of things we''ll never use. "Huh, you''ve got to be kidding me."


    "Not this time, son. Your mom told me yesterday that we need space. And being the good father that I am, I''m transferring that mission to you."


    I just stare at him in silence, not believing that waking up early has led me to this punishment.


    My dad then removes his hand from my shoulder and walks out of the kitchen. "I''m heading out to buy some things. Good luck, Jonathan."


    "…Thanks, Dad," I mumble and take another sip of milk.


    ***


    "Argh!" With difficulty, I lift a box from the corner of the wall and carry it out of the garage.


    I''m not exactly the symbol of physical strength, but I also didn''t think I''d nearly throw out my back just by carrying a box.


    Which only made me think: what the hell is inside this thing? I crouch down, open the lid, and find several school books neatly arranged side by side.


    "Damned chemistry, still causing me problems," I grumble, closing the box with a snap and pushing it with my foot toward the pile of things meant for donation.


    "What the hell are you doing?"


    I jump at the voice behind me and turn around, coming face-to-face with a girl with shoulder-length black hair. She''s wearing a white tank top along with denim shorts and her inseparable black sneakers.


    I recognize her immediately and go back to pushing the box. "Good morning to you too, Ellie."


    Ellie and I have known each other forever. One of those friendships that start before you even understand what friendship is. And since then, we''ve been stuck in this weird cycle. We date, we break up, we date again, we break up again. A mess, basically. But, just like the Earth and the Moon, we always end up orbiting around each other.


    ''Look at that, how poetic.''


    "Yeah, yeah, good morning. What are you doing?" she repeats, cutting off my thoughts.


    "Isn''t it obvious?" I say, nodding toward the pile. "Cleaning the garage."


    Ellie raises an eyebrow, walking over to one of the boxes and opening the lid with disdain. "And since when do you clean anything?"


    "Since my mom asked my dad, and my dad passed the mission to me," I reply, wiping the sweat off my forehead with my forearm.


    "You''re so lucky," she comments, losing interest in the box and turning to me. "My mom asked me to go to the store to buy some batteries. Want to come with me?"


    "Huh..." I glance at her, then at the boxes. "I still have a lot to—"


    "We can get ice cream afterward," Ellie interrupts me.


    "Hm... Even so—"


    "I''ll pay."


    Ah, Ellie... you know exactly how to break me down. Without a second thought, I leave the boxes behind and start walking toward the door. Unfinished work and a possible lecture? Problems for ''my'' future self. "I''ll just put on some sneakers."


    ***


    After a few minutes of pedaling, we arrive at the market. Ellie hops off her bike and, without much ceremony, drops it on the ground.


    "I''ll be right back," she says, walking into the store without looking back.


    I get off my own bike, but unlike her, I take the time to lean it against the wall. I stand there for a moment, watching the constant movement in the parking lot. Engines rumbling, tires sliding on the hot asphalt, people rushing in and out with bags full of groceries. The kind of scene that usually goes unnoticed but, for some reason, holds my attention for a moment.


    Until a groan catches my attention. I turn to my right, my eyes locking onto a parked truck, almost certain that the sound came from there.


    I hesitate for a few seconds, debating whether I should go or not, but another groan convinces me to check it out.


    Some would say curiosity kills, but me? I have more courage than common sense. I take a few hesitant steps, rounding the vehicle. The closer I get, the clearer the sound becomes. And then I see it.


    A cat. Medium-sized, with gray, dirty fur, lying on its side in a pool of blood. Its belly is torn open, as if something had ripped through the skin from the inside out, leaving its internal organs exposed.


    My eyes widen, and I take three steps back as I inhale the worst smell I''ve ever encountered in my life. "What the fuck is this?"


    That''s when I notice the trail of blood on the asphalt—irregular and thick. My eyes follow it until they lock onto a small moving silhouette further ahead. A rat. Small, but not enough to go unnoticed. Its fur is soaked in red, and it seems to be dragging something in its mouth as it moves forward before disappearing into a storm drain.


    A shiver runs down my spine. I don''t know what''s more disturbing—the state of the cat or the fact that a rat apparently did this.