I was sitting in my room on the second floor, unable to tear my eyes away from the laptop screen. My fingers trembled every time I hit “Refresh” on the AP exam results page, as if I were touching a forbidden launch button, until the numbers finally settled. My heart was pounding in my throat, like a trapped bird, and the muscles in my neck tightened from the tense anticipation. And then I saw what I’d both feared and awaited: 5 out of 5 in math, physics, and computer science. Plus — an email from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) in my inbox.


    It sank in like a slow-motion scene: my dream, the one that had kept me warm through endless nights hunched over textbooks and my laptop, had become reality. Full admission with a massive tuition discount — instead of seventy-five thousand dollars a year, just twenty-two and a half. I almost feared it was all an illusion, one that might vanish with a gust of wind, so I ran my finger across the screen, trying to grasp the happiness, to keep it from slipping away.


    — It can’t be… — I exhaled, and my voice cracked traitorously, betraying the boundless joy mixed with fear.


    I leaned back in my chair, feeling a shiver run down my spine from the flood of emotions. The room suddenly felt cramped, though just minutes ago it had seemed spacious. I slowly surveyed it: the walls breathed with my aspirations and phantom hopes. Posters of engineering blueprints hung there, each line hinting that the future could be rewritten by your will if you had enough grit. Photographs of the starry sky, where I’d so often searched for answers about myself. Shelves buckling under the weight of robotics and physics books — many pages worn thin, scribbled with notes and faded ink. And on the desk — a mountain of notebooks filled with formulas and sketches I’d painstakingly drawn during countless sleepless hours. All those years, tears of exhaustion when my eyelids felt like lead, the constant mental training — it had all led to this blinking email in my inbox.


    I squeezed my eyes shut and felt hot tears welling up. It’s not a dream, I repeated to myself, trying to convince myself of the reality.


    Then an image of my parents flashed in my mind, and my heart swelled with warm gratitude. Dad and Mom… They’d poured everything into me to make this moment possible. I vividly recalled sitting with Dad in the garage at eight years old, burning with frustration as my first homemade robot fell apart in pieces. And he, barely holding back a smile, just put his hand on my shoulder and said: — Adam, every failure is a chance to learn something new. Let’s figure it out. — We stubbornly fixed that awkward, clumsy thing over and over until it finally moved. That’s how I learned to fall and get back up, to understand that perseverance matters more than talent.


    And Mom… Her lessons were just as profound, but gentler. In the kitchen, amid the scent of orange peels and rubbing alcohol, she taught me to stitch fruit. — Patience, Adam, — she’d say softly, her words always sounding like a calm melody. — In medicine and in life, every little thing matters, every detail shapes fate. — She opened up the world of cells and the heart to me, explaining how science heals bodies and souls. There were days I’d practically fall asleep on the bench by the table, drained from studying, but her quiet voice brought me back to life. My parents gave me an arsenal — Dad taught me to think and never give up, Mom gave me that inner light that keeps you from breaking when everything seems to collapse.


    Footsteps sounded below — light, almost inaudible. Then the door opened, and there stood Mom, Elizabeth Perkons, with strands of dark hair falling loose and flour smudged on her apron. Her eyes glowed with a mix of worry and anticipation. When she saw my smile, her face lit up from within.


    — Adam, what’s happened? — she asked, and I could hear her voice tremble with tender curiosity and a hint of expectation.


    I jumped up so fast the chair clattered behind me, sliding across the floor. A wave of emotions crashed over me, and I couldn’t hold back:


    — Mom, I got in! To MIT! And all my APs are fives! Full scholarship! — I shouted, my voice wavering, caught between joy and lingering doubts.


    Mom gasped, and her eyes instantly filled with tears, as if a dam of feelings had burst. She rushed toward me with such force I nearly lost my balance, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me close. I felt the air leave my lungs as her tears rolled down onto my shirt, hot like molten metal.


    — Oh, Adam, I’m so proud of you! — she breathed out, her voice like strings taut in the wind. — You’re my hero… I always believed, but… This is more than I could’ve imagined!


    Tears streamed down her cheeks, and I felt a lump tighten my throat, my own joy stinging my eyes. I hugged her back, burying my nose in her familiar shoulder, radiating the scent of lavender and vanilla — a mix that always meant warmth and safety to me.


    — Thanks, Mom, — I whispered, feeling a sun bloom inside me after a long, long winter.


    The door creaked open again, and I saw Dad’s figure in the doorway, James Perkons. Tall, with silver threads in his hair, he stood like an unshakable rock. His dark blue eyes, just like mine, gazed calmly, but a spark of genuine pride flickered in them, like distant stars briefly revealing their power. He adjusted his shirt sleeves and gave a slight smile with the corners of his mouth — that was enough for me to know he already understood everything.


    — What’s all this commotion? — he said softly, and I caught the warm undertone in his gentle tease. — I hope it’s not a fire?


    I couldn’t help it and laughed through my tears:


    — Dad, I… I got into MIT! And aced all my exams! — I blurted out, feeling my smile stretch wide. My cheeks felt like they might ache from the joy.


    He stepped closer, his footsteps steady and heavy, like hammer strikes on an anvil. He placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly. That simple gesture ignited a storm of gratitude and pride in me.


    — Incredible, son, — he said, and there was a rare warmth in his tone. — I always knew you were determined. You’ve proven it.


    His words were always a special reward for me, since he rarely offered praise so directly. Now, I felt my chest tighten with happiness, like someone had wrapped my heart in a warm grip. My cheeks burned: he didn’t often show his pride so openly.


    — Thanks, Dad, — I mumbled, looking down, feeling a bashfulness that still warmed my soul.


    Mom wiped her tears with her sleeve, and her face glowed again with such a radiant smile it was impossible to look away. Then she clapped her hands sharply, like an excited child:


    — We have to celebrate! I baked an apple pie, Adam, your favorite. And I got some non-alcoholic cider! Let’s go downstairs to the table, — her voice rang with unrestrained delight.


    We went down to the living room, and I was enveloped by a familiar warmth. Mom seemed to have crafted this cozy nook on purpose: the soft couch beckoned to collapse onto its pillows, bookshelves overflowed with magazines — half medical, half technical — and sunset light poured through the huge window. Beyond the glass, the branches of an old maple swayed slightly in the breeze, looking almost alive. On the coffee table sat a glistening pie, smelling of cinnamon and baked apples. Next to it was a bottle of cider and three glasses, trembling in the soft glow of a floor lamp.


    Mom poured the cider with shaky hands, and I could feel her wrestling with the emotions overwhelming her. We took our glasses, and tiny glints danced across the table, reflecting off the glass like flickering lights.


    — To our son, to his success, and to a new future! — Mom proclaimed, her voice trembling but ringing with triumph, like a violin hitting its peak in a concert.


    — To you, Adam, — Dad added quietly, looking straight into my eyes. I felt goosebumps run down my spine and understood what “support” truly meant in its deepest form. — You’ve made us happier than we ever dreamed.


    The glasses clinked with a chime, and I took a sip, letting the cool cider refresh my throat and spread a sense of calm through me. I ate a piece of pie, and each crunch of cinnamon and apple took me back to childhood, when Mom first shared this recipe with me. But now it was different: this pie was a bridge to a new chapter of my life.


    We ate and laughed, recalling funny moments. Mom told us how she’d wake up at night, worrying about my exams, while Dad recounted stories of my childhood obsession with taking things apart — from remote controls to a random mixer. Once, I nearly blew up the microwave and reprogrammed the coffee maker so it stopped working as intended. We laughed, and I felt the bittersweet lump in my throat dissolve in this atmosphere of love.


    — You were always so curious, — Mom said, smiling. Her eyes sparkled as if holding a million bright memories. — I knew something great was waiting for you.


    I smiled back, but inside, a swirl of fears began to churn: MIT, that unique world of geniuses, where everything would be different, and I might stumble. But today, I wanted to conquer those doubts. This was my celebration.


    Finally, the pie was nearly gone, and the cider was running low. Mom stood, wiping happy tears:


    — We need to call Grandma and Grandpa, — she said, beaming with pride. — They’ll be over the moon.


    She left, and it was just Dad and me in the living room. He pushed his glass aside and looked at me with an intensity that made something inside me tremble. It felt like he was about to say something big, something powerful.


    — Adam, — he began quietly, his voice soft but deep, like a distant roll of thunder. — You’ve done something incredible. MIT and those fives — that’s your hard-earned victory. I can’t describe how proud I am. But remember: this is just the first step.


    I felt my shoulders tense. His words always carried strength, but also a weight of responsibility.


    — There’s a tough road ahead, — he continued, leaning forward. — Studies, battles with yourself, choices that will shape your fate. Your mom and I will be with you as long as fate allows. But soon, you’ll walk alone.


    He paused, and in the silence, I heard my heart pounding loudly. His gaze softened.


    — I’m not trying to scare you, — he added with a tender note, noticing my expression. — I just want you to be ready. Because life sometimes throws you into an abyss so deep that light feels like an illusion. But I know there’s a fire in you that can’t be extinguished.


    His hand rested on my shoulder, and I felt warmth seeping through my shirt. Our eyes met, and I saw such confidence in his that my heart surged forward. It was as if he was trying to pass his inner strength and faith to me.


    — When the day comes, and you’re on your own, prove something, Adam, — he said, emotion breaking through the restraint he usually held. — Not to me, not to Mom, not to the world. Prove to yourself that you can stand, even if everything falls apart. Prove your spirit is stronger than any darkness.


    — I’ll try, Dad, — I whispered, feeling tears prick my eyes again, my voice hoarse, but inside, it was like steel rang out. — I won’t let you down.


    He smiled, and that smile truly chased away the shadows of my fears.


    — You know, I wasn’t always “wise” myself, — he added, a grin tugging at his lips. — I nearly burned down a lab once, trying to “improve” a circuit. But someone told me: “Mistakes are lessons. Don’t repeat them.” So learn from yours too, son.


    I laughed, feeling my chest lighten and free, and nodded:


    — I’ll try not to blow anything up. But no promises on the experiments.


    — You’ll manage, — he repeated, clapping me on the shoulder. — You’ve got everything it takes to conquer the world. And not just the world.


    I thought about how grateful I was to my parents. Their persistence, their faith, their patience made me who I am. Even if I’m one day left without their support, I’ll stand — they taught me to fall and rise like no one else could.


    — Thanks, Dad, — I said, my voice trembling.


    He just nodded, and a magical silence settled over the living room. I glanced at the clock — nearly eight. I remembered I’d promised to head to Felicia Green’s place, our class president, where it turned out there’d be a gathering not just for A-class but also reps from B and C. I wanted to share my joy and hear where everyone else was headed. I stood, grabbing my jacket.


    — Dad, I’m going to Felicia’s. It’s a post-admission party…


    — Alright, son, — he nodded, his eyes gleaming with that familiar warm light. — Just don’t stay out too late, and be careful.


    I stepped outside, and the cool breeze, scented with blooming trees, stung my face, as if washing away the last traces of tears and pulling me out of the warm, cozy cocoon of family into the real world. I hopped on my bike and sped down the lantern-lit streets, my heart still echoing Dad’s words: “Prove it to yourself.” I believed I was ready for any challenge that might come my way.


    But I didn’t yet know that this night would turn my entire life upside down.


    ***


    The March evening of 2025 was cool but surprisingly invigorating. I pedaled my bike, feeling the sharp wind slip under my jacket, cooling my body still buzzing with victorious adrenaline. Familiar suburban streets flickered by under the wheels, glowing in the light of streetlamps and lined with blooming maples. It felt like I’d ridden here a thousand times, but tonight everything seemed new because I wasn’t just heading to friends — I was going to celebrate.


    Numbers spun in my head: 5 out of 5 on AP math, physics, and computer science, an MIT acceptance with a grant slashing tuition from a daunting $75,000 to $22,500 a year. I planned to share it myself when the moment felt right. I wanted to hear the buzz of amazed gasps, exchange handshakes, maybe even shout with joy. Some knew about my exams, but I’d kept the grant quiet — let it be a surprise.


    Felicia Green’s mansion loomed ahead at the street’s edge, like a palace from a show about the rich life: a three-story house with white columns, wide windows spilling light, and a garden where every bush was trimmed to shine under neon glow. Music — a mix of pop, light rock, and electro — pulsed against the glass, and the huge yard was already alive with people. I braked at the wrought-iron gate, hopped off my bike, propped it against the fence, and scanned the facade:


    — Cheap show-off, — I muttered under my breath, smirking crookedly.


    Three floors, a fountain with gilded fish, pool lighting — it all screamed money flowing like water. But it didn’t impress me: my house was smaller but “alive.” We had smart lights, a robot vacuum (which I’d reprogrammed myself), a coffee maker tied to a neural network Dad coded. Everything in the Perkons family had purpose, not just pricey flair.


    I pushed the gate open and stepped into the yard, where the crowd buzzed like a beehive. Figures from A-class, B-class, and C-class — the three graduating tracks this year — darted around, noisily celebrating their wins. My nose caught whiffs of pizza, damp evening grass, and something sweet — punch or cider. Someone yelled by the pool, people danced near the speakers, and in the shadows, a loud argument brewed.


    Diving into the chaos, I wove toward the house, scanning for familiar faces. I quickly spotted a small A-class cluster — the cheerful brainiacs whispering about colleges. But then someone called from behind.


    — Adam!


    I turned — it was Alexander Blake, my brother not by blood but by spirit. He stood by the drink table, holding a cola can, staring at the star-strewn sky with that special smile he got when lost in his theories.


    — Blake! — I shouted, clapping him on the shoulder. He spun around, and a wide grin instantly spread across his face.


    — Perkons, finally! — he exclaimed, hugging me so hard I nearly spilled the can I’d grabbed on the way. — I thought you’d crashed into a ditch with your sky-high scores and missed all the fun!


    — You’d drag me back even from the afterlife, — I chuckled. Around him, tension always melted away: Blake was the one who pulled me out when a physical threat loomed, while I helped him when he couldn’t crack a study problem for weeks.


    — Damn right, — he grinned, squinting. — So, what’s new? You’re glowing like a hundred-watt bulb. Spill it!


    I savored the moment for a few seconds, then let it out with relief:


    — MIT. Aced my APs — math, physics, computer science. And snagged a grant: twenty-two and a half grand a year instead of seventy-five.


    Blake froze for a second, his eyes widening, then exploded with a shout of such genuine joy that people turned to look.


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    — Are you serious?! — He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. — MIT, man! Honestly — I knew you’d pull it off. Remember when you fixed my dorm computer in half an hour after I’d struggled for three days? It was obvious then!


    I laughed awkwardly, my heart dancing in my chest. — And you? Where’re you headed?


    — Princeton, — Blake said, puffing out his chest proudly. — String theory’s calling. So we’re officially geniuses tearing up conferences left and right!


    — If you don’t blow up a lab with your experiments, — I teased, earning a light elbow nudge.


    — And you don’t burn down a workshop with your robots, — he shot back, and we burst out laughing together.


    Just then, Felicia Green, A-class president, approached with a tray of canapés, a gentle smile on her face.


    — Adam, Alexander, what’s the racket? — she asked, setting the tray on the table.


    — This genius got into MIT! — Blake slapped my back so hard I nearly choked on air. — Can you believe it, Fel? Full ride!


    — Seriously? — Felicia’s eyes widened, and she nearly dropped the tray. — Adam, that’s incredible! Congrats!


    — Thanks, Fel, — I nodded, still flustered by her enthusiasm. — Where’d you end up?


    — Harvard, — she shrugged, a hint of pride in her voice. — Full scholarship. So we’re almost neighbors in the ‘top tier.’


    — Watch out, — Blake chuckled. — Adam and I are gonna storm in and wreak scientific havoc!


    — You better not, — she laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Then she turned and called to the crowd: — Hey, guys! Adam’s going to MIT!


    I flushed as heads turned. Alexandra Richmond, dubbed A-class’s “queen,” crossed her arms, eyeing me with a cool glint:


    — MIT, huh? Not bad, Perkons, — she drawled. — I’m off to Yale. Dad knows the dean.


    I glanced at Blake and whispered: — Connections, of course…


    He snorted: — But she got fives on her APs too, by the way.


    Just then, Jasper Flame burst through the crowd, a loud guy clutching a pack of fireworks.


    — Perkons in MIT?! — he bellowed. — We need a salute for that!


    — Just don’t burn down the gazebo, — Evelyn Stone muttered from a corner, sketching in a notebook. — I’m headed to Stanford, by the way. Math and physics.


    — Wow, another genius, — Jasper smirked, then bolted off toward the exit, yelling: — Fireworks time!


    I caught sight of napkins scattered on the table. Someone had knocked over a tray, and I reflexively grabbed one, slipping it into my pocket — “just in case.” A fleeting thought: small, but sometimes useful.


    Over by a chessboard, Lucius Frost looked up and said quietly: — Good choice, Adam. I’m going to Columbia — statistics and econ.


    — Happy for you, — I smiled. — With your analytical mind, you’ll kill it there.


    Meanwhile, the noise grew louder: B-class reps approached, led by Logan Carter and Tyler Brooks. A playful scuffle by the pool had just ended, and they walked up, holding each other by the collar.


    — Perkons! Where you off to? — Logan shouted, catching his breath.


    — MIT, — I replied.


    — Man, what’s with you brainiacs and that place… — he grinned. — I’m going for sports — Texas A&M, football. We’ll survive.


    — And I’m Michigan-bound, — Tyler grumbled, glaring at Logan. — I’ll show you, Carter.


    — Keep dreaming, — Logan smirked, and they wandered back to the pool, jabbing at each other.


    I felt a tap on my elbow. Turning, I saw Blake handing me a small pocket flashlight:


    — Here, take it, man. Call it a lucky charm. You never know when it’ll come in handy, — he winked.


    I grinned, took it, and tucked it into my jacket’s inner pocket: — Thanks, bud. Might actually need it.


    Then I noticed a quiet C-class crew — the laid-back slackers and geeks — camped out near the speaker. Max Velarin, their leader, crossed his arms:


    — Perkons, MIT, huh? Alright, not bad, — he said gruffly. — I’m starting at a local college, but I’ll level up soon. Gonna grind it like an RPG.


    — Well… good luck, — I sighed, mentally noting that people have different paths.


    Nearby, Reina Solvein scrolled her phone, barely hiding her bored look: — MIT? Hm, I’m going to a nearby institute, but I’ll climb the ranks. Gotta hit SSS-tier IRL, — she quipped.


    — One percent chance, — I smirked.


    — Watch me roll it, — she tossed back, scoffing.


    It was clear C-class wasn’t too stressed — for many, “parents paid their way in,” while others lived “whatever.” To each their own.


    Then I noticed three adults entering the garden.


    Amid the bustle, someone whispered: — The teachers are here! — I looked closer: sure enough, it was Henry Withers (A-class curator), Graham Harper (B-class coach and mentor), and Adrian Crowley (C-class overseer).


    Henry Withers, a man in a tweed suit with a neat cane, had steel eyes gleaming with stern wisdom. He scanned A-class like he was assessing each one.


    Graham Harper, fit in a sports windbreaker, strode confidently, exuding a former athlete’s poise.


    Nora Meyer, with a tired face and a backpack slung over her shoulders, looked like she’d been talked into coming but still cast warm glances at her chaotic “charges” from C-class.


    The crowd hushed slightly. Withers stepped up to the makeshift platform by the pool, surveyed the group, and spoke quietly but clearly enough for all to hear:


    — Friends, we’ve gathered today to bid farewell to school and this chapter of your lives. A-class, you’re the academic elite. I’m proud of your grades, your acceptances, and remember: when you head to college, it’s just the start. I wish you to keep not just your minds but your humanity.


    He shifted his gaze to B-class, raising his cane: — B-class, your athletic feats speak for themselves. You’re the spirit of victory, the physical strength of our school. But don’t forget: strength without reason becomes a flaw. Stay balanced.


    Graham Harper nodded approvingly, and Withers turned to C-class: — C-class… I know you’re no picnic, — a faint smile flickered in his eyes, — but you’ve got creativity and that spark “nerds” sometimes lack. Your path might be the wildest. I hope you’ll find yourselves without losing what you’ve got.


    A brief pause followed, and Harper stepped forward: — Well, I’ll say this: I watched you run the field, train, win games, — he eyed B-class. — And not just you, but others too. Everyone here today has faced their trials. My advice: stick with the team — sometimes in life, you need to work together to win.


    He stepped back, and Nora Meyer reluctantly adjusted her backpack, giving C-class a tired but warm look: — I know you love freedom and doing things “your way.” That’s not bad, — she said softly. — But remember: freedom demands responsibility. I hope you’ll get that without too many big mistakes. Good luck, kids.


    The crowd erupted in claps and cheers; someone from C-class shouted — Teacher, well said! — while another (from B-class) yelled: — We’re the best! — But overall, the vibe was uplifted and friendly.


    As I took in the scene, Felicia suddenly clapped her hands, grabbing our attention: — Friends, quiet for a sec, I’ve got something to say too! All three tracks — A, B, and C — united at one party for the first time! Crazy, right? I want us to share the joy today and send each other off into adulthood. Some are leaving for new cities, some will chase careers, and some… — she gave C-class a knowing smile, — will definitely find their way too.


    The crowd reacted: some clapped, some cracked jokes, some shouted. Then, through the noise, a new voice cut in — soft but oddly resonant. Gabriel Knight, usually a cheerful guy, suddenly spoke loud enough to be heard: — There’s only a little time left…


    — What’re you on about? — someone called, but Gabriel didn’t reply, just squinted up at the sky.


    — Today… it feels like the threads of fate are shaking, — he muttered. — Like we’re on the edge of something irreversible.


    — Okay, Gabi, don’t get dark, — Felicia waved it off, giggling nervously. — Let’s crank the music instead!


    But something was shifting in the air. I felt the wind, cool and fresh a moment ago, turn static and thick. The speaker’s sound wavered; the music faded, then kicked back in. The mansion’s facade lights flickered like a bad horror flick.


    — What’s this? — Blake whispered, frowning.


    Right then, all the garden lights blinked and died. The house plunged into half-darkness, and the crowd murmured in unease. A faint hum rolled in from afar, barely audible but buzzing in my ears. The hairs on my neck stood up.


    — Power outage? — Felicia pressed a remote button, but it stayed dead.


    — Maybe the fuses blew? — Logan suggested, glancing around grimly.


    At that moment, a blinding flash of white light slashed the sky. It was like someone fired lightning straight down, though no clouds or thunder loomed. I squinted against its glare as panic swept the yard: someone screamed, others bolted for the gate. But my body locked up, and I just stared as the sky seemed to fracture.


    — We’re on the brink… — Gabriel Knight’s voice drifted again, now a hushed near-sob. — The game’s begun…


    Then a jolt — like an electric shock. I yelled, my legs buckling as a veil draped my mind. Terror shuddered in my chest. I faintly caught Blake shouting — Adam, hold on! — but my brain was shutting down.


    A white flash blasted the space, and I fell into darkness, feeling like I was being ripped apart inside. Everything spun and vanished, and blackness swallowed my consciousness.


    ***


    I wake slowly, through a sticky haze, as if surfacing from under a thick layer of water. It feels like just hours ago I was in familiar surroundings — my warm home, Felicia’s garden, or my room, scrolling through success emails. Yet jagged memories flare too: a blinding flash, strange voices, smells… Then I realize a sharp, almost physical pain stabs my chest and throat. I cough — dry, grating, like my throat’s been sandpapered. My mouth tastes harsh, chemical, as if I’d swallowed hydrochloric acid. I inhale, and it’s like glass needles pierce my throat: the cough wracks my lungs, and I bite my lip to keep from screaming.


    I force my eyes open, then wince — my face slams into something rusty and sharp, cold as a blade jutting from the ground. My cheek burns; I hiss through clenched teeth, trying not to tear skin on jagged edges. My trembling fingers probe the surface: rough metal, damp and coated with sticky filth that turns my stomach. The air hits my nostrils — acrid, thick with rot, chemicals, and decaying flesh. It’s not just a stench — it’s poison, clawing into my lungs, searing them, leaving a taste of blood on my tongue. I press my sleeve to my face, but the fabric’s useless against this choking venom.


    Everything’s murky: a rusted surface, dim, sickly light overhead. No familiar ceiling, no normal lamps. My head spins, a ringing swells in my temples, like my heart’s trying to bash its way out through my skull.


    I awkwardly roll onto my side, careful not to cut myself more. A grating screech echoes through metal sheets — like it might all collapse under me.


    The ground under my hand is cold, brittle, like twisted metal dusted with prickly shavings. I muster the courage to look around: an endless junkyard of mangled iron, torn pipes, and grotesque tech fragments sprawls out. The surface bristles with jagged edges and heaps of metal debris. Above, a hazy sky looms, the color of pus and smoke, no sun or moon in sight. A wave of dread hits me: the smell. I finally breathe it in consciously, and it nearly makes me retch. A vile, heavy reek of rancid meat mixed with stale chemical fumes. It’s like someone dumped mounds of long-rotted corpses here, stirred in industrial acid, and let it simmer, poisoning the air. Each breath feels like inhaling ground-up waste settling in my lungs.


    And here I am, sprawled on a pile of mottled metal scraps, warped iron sheets, and rusty frames. Similar trash heaps stretch everywhere. Panic flickers deep in my mind: — This isn’t a yard, not a garden, not my room… everything’s wrong…


    My insides clench. I run a hand over the ground — my fingers snag on sharp crumbs. My hand jerks, blood oozing from a cut.


    — Was I at home? No… I was at the mansion… — My brain thrashes, desperate for a rational explanation. But what could explain this hellscape?


    I take a short breather, listening to my own breathing: it’s ragged, strange, like the air stings my throat from within. A chill creeps over me as I try a deeper breath. It goes badly: my lungs resist, my throat tightens, and a cough claws its way out. This cough… it’s like my body’s rejecting the air itself, laced with something toxic and rotting. It feels like every inhale drags in a cloud of debris, sprouting glass needles in my throat.


    — Damn… — I rasp weakly, my voice sounding alien and frail.


    Fumbling, I search for a handhold. My fingers find only coarse metal and crumbling rust. Each move to shift away rattles and clanks. I’m terrified this noise might draw something — or someone. A nagging thought pounds inside: — Where is everyone?


    I try to recall my last moment at Felicia’s: friends, teachers, that flash. — Are they all here too? — A lump rises in my throat.


    My final memory is the party, meant to be our step into the future. Teachers spoke proudly of our college plans, how we’d all scatter. I remember smiles, joy, then that white explosion of light… I recall frantic screams… And now, it’s like the Earth swallowed me and spat me out in this alien place. No one’s near, no familiar faces. No hum of civilization. Just deafening silence and stench.


    I attempt to stand. My legs wobble but don’t crack. — At least I’m intact… — But then the muck in my lungs flares up: a fresh, tearing cough doubles me over. I hack up a choking wad of mucus, horrified to realize this air will kill me if I linger too long.


    — What… is… this place… — I force out, knowing no answer will come.


    My heart races again. If I don’t pull myself together, I’ll collapse in panic and suffocate. I swallow hard, the taste bitter and metallic, my throat raw, coughs clawing to escape. Suddenly, warm moisture stings my eyes — tears of fear and pain. — Breathing’s impossible. How can anyone survive here?


    I take a few shaky steps, gripping protruding slabs. Then a sound cuts through my thoughts — muted, rhythmic. A scrape or thud, like someone dragging metal scrap across an iron floor. I freeze: could it be alive? A person, maybe? But fear tears at me — the sound’s unnatural, not like normal footsteps. Then a hiss follows, strained, unlike any human throat.


    I crouch, trying to stay quiet, but I can’t stifle the cough, and pain flares in my throat again.


    Peering cautiously from behind a dangling plate, I spot a figure about twenty meters off, hunched low, with freakishly long arms clutching a twisted metal shard. Its skin — or whatever covers it — hangs in rotting clumps, bones peeking through rust-caked growths. My brain refuses to accept this was ever human. It’s a monster, risen from some abyss.


    My blood runs cold: — No way… this place is full of monsters? — Absolute terror grips my chest. I stumble back, but my foot slips, knocking a piece of rebar that clangs down. The creature’s tone shifts to a loud, guttural growl. It lifts its eyeless head, turning toward me, as if sensing my heat or scent.


    — Damn… — My breath catches, panic surging through me. I’ve got one option — run.


    I lurch back, spinning around, and frantically weave through the metal maze. Every second counts as I hear the thing scramble after me, its blade scraping iron with a sickening screech. I imagine there could be more — faint howling echoes suggest it. I want to scream — Help! — but my brain yells: — You’ll draw more of them, shut up!


    Breathing gets harder: coughs tear free, and I choke on this foul excuse for air. Gasps burn my lungs like acid. Adrenaline drives me; I leap over another junk pile, seeking escape. I realize I might die of suffocation before the monster gets me, but fear propels me forward. Behind me, the creature bounds over metal, blade clanging, hissing ominously. More voices join in — there’s more than one… I crash through the heaps, snapping rusty flakes with my nails, tearing my palms bloody, unable to stop.


    The monster’s shrieks grow closer, turning into a ragged wail, like it’s calling others. The nightmare party rages on. — No… no… — I mutter through gritted teeth, zigzagging between corroded structures. My heart’s about to burst my ribs. I know I’ll collapse soon if I don’t find cover.


    I keep snagging on sharp bits, narrowly avoiding impaling my foot. I can’t keep this pace long. — Help, anyone… — my mind screams, but I don’t dare voice it, lest I summon more beasts.


    Clattering, I stumble onto a flatter patch. Ahead, a metal ledge — I can skirt it or jump. I go for the jump. But I misstep fatally: my foot slips on slick metal, and I leap blind, hoping to clear the drop.


    The jump’s a disaster: my foot slides, and I crash down hard. My ankle twists with a sickening crunch, a ragged groan escaping me. I land chest-first on a jutting sharp beam, narrowly missing skewering myself, but the impact slams my ribs with searing pain.


    — A-ahh… — A half-cry slips out. Fear of the creatures forces me to clamp a hand over my mouth to stay silent. Pain crashes in waves: I’ve likely cracked or broken ribs. My ankle throbs — probably sprained. My vision darkens, heart hammering, coughs clawing up again. — Get up, or you’re dead… — instinct bellows.


    I try to rise — my leg buckles, a sharp jolt in my ankle making me stifle a yell. Tears stream down. — No, not this… — Panic swells inside. Now I’m limping, each breath stabbing my ribs. The monster’s close — its vicious hiss loudens. I drag myself along, scraping hands on jagged edges, leaving blood smears.


    Then — a gap in the wall, like a hatch. It’s dark inside, but better than staying exposed. Groaning, I crawl in, grab a gnarled metal chunk, and block the entrance. My hands shake, coughs overwhelm me, and I nearly pass out from the burning in my ribs.


    Inside, I scan the dimness: a low, narrow space reeking of mold and rot. Rust streaks the walls, slime in patches. A hole in the ceiling shows that same pus-yellow sky. The air feels heavier, like a stale chamber with no vents, but I’m out of the monsters’ sight… for now.


    — Ahh… — I can’t hold back a moan as I try to sit, leaning on the wall. My ankle aches — likely sprained — and each breath knifes my ribs. I gingerly touch my side — the pain’s so bad I break into a sweat. Outside, shuffling hints the creature’s lurking, sniffing me out.


    Hissing and steps, like those dead things are scoping the entrance. I clamp my lips, fighting the cough. — Please don’t let them find a way in… Please…


    Rustling beyond the wall signals they’re close. I go silent, desperate not to scream. I breathe in short, jerky gasps — a full inhale makes my ribs scream. My head’s foggy from pain and stench; reality slips. But fear of dying keeps me tethered.


    My heart thuds wildly; I’m scared to even breathe. My eyes sting from caustic fumes, my throat scratches with the reek. I sit, taking shallow breaths to avoid passing out. If I black out, I’m easy prey when (not “if”) the monster breaks in. Or I’ll just choke on this toxic dump. I’ve never felt such terror.


    Minutes pass, the harsh sounds outside seem to fade, but I don’t relax. How could I? With cracked (or broken) ribs, a swelling ankle throbbing, and a cough shredding my throat every second. No medicine, water, food. No people, no warm hearth. Just eerie half-light, the metallic scent of death, and my ragged, pitiful gasps.


    I listen again: silence beyond the wall, occasional “drip-drip” and a faint “khrr…” in the distance. More monsters might be prowling; I can’t risk peeking out. I lift trembling fingers to my face, wiping sweat and grime. My body shivers — fever’s setting in, maybe. If so, I’ll die from infection, hunger, or a monster’s claws. Honestly, I don’t know what’s worse. I press against the wall, glimpsing flickers of sickly light through gaps. Maybe it’s “night” now, or maybe night never comes here? Eternal dusk, perhaps? I don’t know. I just tremble, legs cramped with pain, head growing heavy, consciousness flickering.


    — Please… — I croak into the void. My voice is hopeless. It doesn’t matter if I’m pleading to God, my parents, my friends — it’s pointless. No reply breaks this strange, dead world’s indifference, save for drip… drip… drip… and my cough.


    Despair pulses inside. I recall home’s comfort, Mom’s smile, Dad’s words — Prove to yourself you can stand if everything falls. — But how now, when I can’t physically stand, and monsters roam around? How many hours do I have? A day? Less? I’m drained, ready to slip into oblivion, but the fear of not waking keeps me sharper.


    At some point, I close my eyes, press my forehead to my knees, and sob quietly, almost inaudibly. My lungs burn, crying hurts, every move sparks pain in my ribs, but I weep, seeing no other outlet. No hope, no kind face to offer a hand and say: — It’ll be okay, Adam…


    A distant “clack-clack” and rasp outside jolt my breath back to silence. They’re still there, maybe lurking. This world feeds on human screams and rust, a slow death sentence for me. Even if they don’t break in, I could die of thirst, wounds, infection. And this damn air — it’s built to kill.


    Minutes or hours drag — what’s the point in counting? I drift into a strange, half-conscious state where pain ebbs and surges. My brain teeters on shutdown, but I fight, biting my lip bloody to stay awake. I don’t want to be torn apart in my sleep.


    Surviving is excruciating. But my body clings to life, and my mind commands: — Hold on, just a bit longer. — I obey: eyes shut, shallow breaths caught, ignoring how my chest shudders, how my throat burns with each gulp of poison. I dream of one thing: someone — or something — ending this horror. But beyond the thin walls, only shuffling steps, drip… drip… drip… and gray smog linger. And I, heart pounding, face this lifeless, rusty abyss alone.


    — Mom, Dad… — I whisper their names faintly, grasping for a shred of the warmth I felt at home. Nothing — just cruel shivers and stabbing pain in my side. Outside reigns a vast, dead junkyard teeming with grotesque monsters. This is the new world that greeted me…


    I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. How long I can keep surviving is unknown. But while my heart beats, I’m not a corpse yet. I exhale carefully, forcing myself to feel each pulse, each second of awareness: I’m alive. In darkness, stench, and utter hopelessness, but alive.


    A far-off “clack… shh…” echoes again, like a monster circling back. I freeze like a statue, inner sobs still tearing at me.


    I’m trapped…


    Go out — they’ll rip me apart. Stay — I’ll die slowly in agony. It’s not even a dilemma; it’s a verdict. Nausea rises from helplessness, but I grit my teeth, stifling it to stay quiet. Only faint, broken breaths prove I’m still here.


    Finally, the rustling outside fades, taking the last echoes of the nightmare chase with it… Like the creatures moved off, sensing another prey or losing interest in me. But I don’t dare check the gap — too risky.


    So here I stay, hunched against cold, slick metal, lost in uncertainty — alone against this venomous chaos. No one can say if dawn will come, or if morning ever arrives here. It reeks of death, madness surrounds me, and I cling to a fragile belief I can still fight. My foggy brain conjures parents, friends, teachers… but reality shrinks to this dark, filthy corner and the sound of monsters beyond the wall.


    I press against the metal, trembling with ache and dread. Outside — an inhuman world; inside — pain and coughs. And so ends my introduction to this ghastly place. A hopeless, toxic hell where every breath is a feat, and any sound could be my last. My eyes droop, fear and pain wrestle with sleep, and I whisper:


    — Please… someone…


    No answer, no rescue: just the wind’s faint moan and metal’s creak, mirroring the apathy of this awful world that cursed flash dumped me into.