Deimos Develops Darkness

Publishing the game was astonishingly simple, just a single click, a name, and it was out in the world. Deimos, inhabiting Jack's fragile body, didn't bother with elaborate menus or descriptions. He named it Terror Tavern, a title that whispered promise of nightmares, and named the publisher after himself before pressing 'Publish' without hesitation.

You might think that, as a god who's spent countless eons in solitude, Deimos would possess patience, waiting for the perfect moment, biding his time. But that would be a mistake. Deimos, the master of fear, had only ever been face to face with the screams of the terrified. The anticipation, the hunger for that first cry of anguish, that was the true source of his power.

Yet, now, something irritated him. He had crafted his masterpiece, unleashed it into the mortal realm, and yet, he hadn't heard the screams he craved. The silence gnawed at him like an unanswered call. He felt the itch of impatience, a divine frustration that couldn't be ignored.

Without a second thought, Deimos decided: no more waiting. He withdrew from Jack's trembling body, leaving it to shudder alone, and set out to see if his nightmare had already begun to spread. If his creation had already triggered terror, he would feed on that. If not, he would find new victims elsewhere.

Meanwhile, inside Jack's fractured mind, an internal storm raged.

He was caught in a strange limbo, neither fully alive nor completely lost. His consciousness flickered like a dying flame, a fragile ember fighting against the overwhelming darkness threatening to swallow him whole. His thoughts were shards of memories, sharp, jagged pieces that refused to fit together. Every fragment was a reminder of what he'd lost: his childhood, the hospital, his family, the dreams he once dared to carry.

He felt trapped, suspended in an endless void where time had no meaning. The world outside was silent, yet inside, chaos roared. The weight of his failure pressed down like an iron lid, suffocating him. He wondered if he'd ever be free of this limbo, if this was his punishment for surviving, for fighting through despair and still waking up each day.

A voice, soft but commanding, broke through the darkness.

"You are not lost yet," said ????, her tone soothing yet firm. Her presence was like a gentle hand brushing over his battered spirit.

Jack's mind trembled, a fragile flicker of hope amidst the wreckage. Her words felt like a lifeline thrown into a storm. But beneath that fragile hope was a tumult of doubt, frustration, and helplessness. How could he trust anything anymore? How could he believe that this faint whisper of help would be enough to save him?

He clenched his mental fists, fighting back tears of frustration. Why was he still here. What was the point of his life. Was his soul purpose to be adrift, stuck, unable to move forward? The darkness around him was suffocating, and every attempt to grasp control seemed just out of reach.

He wondered: was this limbo his punishment? Was he meant to exist forever in this half-world, a ghost trapped between hope and despair? The thought made his chest tighten. He hated feeling powerless, helpless, like a puppet dangling on invisible strings.

His voice was a whisper, barely a breath, when he finally managed to speak inside his mind.

"Am I just... stuck?"

???? voice echoed softly, "Take small steps. Carefully, slowly, regain what is yours. Patience will be your greatest weapon."

But patience felt like an impossible luxury. The agony of waiting gnawed at him, a relentless ache in his chest. Every second that passed, he felt more useless, like a broken doll, forever waiting for someone to fix him, to save him from this endless void.

He clenched his fists, feeling the faint tremor of his trembling muscles. It was as if his body was a prison, a fragile cage holding a roaring storm of despair. Every heartbeat echoed like a countdown, each thump pounding against the walls of his consciousness, reminding him of how fragile he truly was.

A flicker of anger surged inside him. Not at The Voice, but at himself. Why did he let Deimos take control? Why did he not fight harder? Why was he still here, suspended in this limbo, unable to move, unable to break free? His mind was a battlefield, battle-scarred, fractured, and exhausted.

He hated this helplessness, this feeling that he was merely a spectator in his own life, watching helplessly as his dreams drifted further away. The silence of the void was deafening, and every moment of stillness seemed to mock him.

But beneath the layers of despair, a stubborn core refused to die. A tiny voice, faint but persistent, whispered inside him.

"Hold on. Just hold on."

He grasped at that whisper, desperate to believe it was true. To believe that somehow, within this limbo, there was still a way out. That he wasn't utterly lost. That somehow, the flicker of his hope could reignite.

He clung to the words of The Voice, trying to drown out the chaos.

"Trust in yourself. Trust in the darkness. When the time comes, take back what is yours."

But even as he held onto her divine wisdom, doubts gnawed at him. Was this just another illusion? A cruel trick of his battered mind? How long could he survive in this suspended nightmare? Would he ever be able to escape the grip of the void, or was this his new reality, an eternity of waiting, a ghost haunted by memories of a life he once knew?

He closed his eyes, feeling the cold emptiness pressing in from all sides. His heart ached with longing, for release, for clarity, for hope. And in that silence, he whispered to himself—barely audible, "Please... just let me wake up."

In the shadows, A Goddess watched over him, silent but vigilant. Her divine presence was a reminder that even in the depths of despair, hope could still flicker, fragile and fleeting. But Jack's fight was far from over, and the true battle, between darkness and light, between surrender and resistance, had only just begun.

End Of Ch 4: The Light in Endless Darkness