Weaver of fates

A Nameless Fall

She is falling.

Not like someone tripping. Not like someone leaping. Like someone being torn away.

Torn from the world, from all bearings, from the self.

Gravity here is not vertical. It is absolute. Total. It swallows soul and body alike, dragging Jinra through a fall with no horizon, where even the idea of direction dissolves into shapelessness. The sky vanishes. The ground ceases to exist. All that remains is a ravenous abyss, cloaked in the silence of those who have forgotten how to scream.

And then, suddenly, the world catches her.

Impact.

But no pain. Only a dull bite. The ground is there—cold, bare, unmoving. Like a dream frozen too long. Smooth as a corpse's back, as impersonal as a gravestone.

The silence here weighs heavy. So heavy it hums in her eardrums, turning each heartbeat into a tribal percussion, a drumbeat pulsing inside a skull that hasn't yet decided if it's alive.

Jinra blinks.

Black.

Not ordinary darkness—something thicker, hungrier. A black that devours even the memory of light. Until…

A flicker. Red.

A neon light. Suspended. Shivering.

It pulses like a sick heart, each flash casting distorted shadows that crawl across the walls like open scars. The lighting reveals nothing—it exposes, cruelly, what should have remained hidden.

She sits up.

Slow.

Her black outfit—severe, functional—hugs her form like a shell. But it doesn't protect her. It restrains what she refuses to let out.

The sword on her back feels heavier. Not because of the metal. Because of what it means.

She looks around.

She has no idea where she is.

But this place doesn't lie. It doesn't pretend to be real, or unreal. It simply is—by its own rules. And deep down, Jinra already knows: this place is honest. Honest in its cruelty.

She turns.

The door… is gone.

In its place: a wall.

Perfect. Seamless. As if no opening had ever existed. A wall without memory.

She pounds on it.

Once.

Then twice. Then ten. Then a hundred. Her fists nearly shatter against the echoless surface. No resonance. No mercy. Even her screams find nothing to bounce off.

Panic doesn't arrive in a scream. It creeps. Subtle. It coils around her throat with cold, invisible fingers.

"Let me out…"

The neon flickers, mockingly. As if it agrees with her fear.

And suddenly—

A voice.

Airy. Clinical. But laced with irony.

"Welcome to the Mirror of Second Chances."

⸻

The Living Hallway

She opens her eyes.

Or rather: the darkness spits her out into a different space.

A hallway.

It breathes.

The walls pulse with a subtle rhythm, almost organic. Invisible moisture beads on their surface, sliding down in streaks like tears. The floor clings to her boots, as if the place itself refuses to let her go.

Tchak. Tchak. Tchak.

Each step, a death knell.

To her right: a door. Rotting wood, crusted with algae. To her left: another, rusted steel, scored with obscene carvings. Further on: a white surface, scribbled over with childish drawings. Each one tells a foreign story—but she is shut out from them all.

None open.

She touches them. Pleads silently. Knocks, sometimes. Nothing answers—except the creeping sense that something behind each door is watching her… and choosing not to care.

A laugh.

Light. Childlike. Too pure for this place. Too sharp not to hurt.

She freezes. Silence returns, like breath held too long.

Then… the smell.

Strong. Acrid. Metallic.

Blood.

But not fresh. Old. Stale. Blood that has seeped into the walls like memory. It has the weight of sorrow long digested, the rotten sweetness of a memory that should have been left to die.

And suddenly—

Another place invades her.

The orphanage.

Damp walls. Cheap detergent. Lukewarm soup. The cold of nights without blankets.

She staggers.

This hallway is not a place. It's a scalpel. It slices through her past, extracts the rotted fragments… and stitches them back onto her skin.

⸻

The Voice

And the voice returns.

Not through the air. In her mind.

"You thought this was a dream, Jinra?"

Almost gentle. Almost.

"I thought you wanted to die in your bed. Yet… here you are."

She clenches her teeth.

"To die, yes. But not… here."

"But here belongs to you. Every corner, every scream. It's your second birth."

She shivers. Swallows her fear.

"This isn't real."

"It's you."

⸻

The Retreating Door

She runs.

A flicker of hope: a massive door, half-open. Etched with ancient symbols.

She sprints. Body taut. Lungs burning. Every step seems to shake the very air. But the door… pulls away.

She runs harder. The hallway stretches. And stretches.

The neon light turns frantic. The blinking becomes a scream.

Her legs buckle. At last, she reaches the door… collapses.

And above her, carved into the stone:

"You are not ready to leave."

Beneath the carving, a sentence—written in something alive:

"Every hallway is a truth. And every truth will break you."

⸻

The Echoes

They appear.

First, a shiver on the walls.

Then shapes.

Skeletal. Elongated. Inverted.

They crawl across ceilings. Walk upside down. Slide along walls like diseased shadows.

Their eyes are pits. Their mouths, voids.

They do not speak. They wait.

Jinra doesn't move.

Then one. Then two. They advance. Silent. Inevitable.

A voice rises:

"You wanted to die… but this manor wants you to live long enough to regret it."

A pain.

Blinding.

Her thigh—slashed.

No visible blade. Just a wound—clean, deliberate. Blood flows.

She collapses.

Crawling. Bleeding. Lost.

"Is this all real?"

"Of course. And I did everything I could to convince you otherwise."

"So I really am… inside a mirror."

"Yes. And this is your reflection."

⸻

Panic, Fractured

She runs.

Again.

A chair whips out of nowhere, hurled by an unseen force. She dodges just in time.

Then a knife. Then an axe.

She screams.

Her legs give out.

She reaches another door. Pounds on it.

Nothing.

A spear whistles past, embedding itself in the wood with a metallic crack.

She drops to her knees.

Laughter.

Not children this time.

Voices. Empty. Broken. Saturated with static.

Then the System's voice:

"If you refuse to stand… you will die. And it will have meant nothing."

"I can't…"

Her hands are slick with her own blood.

"I'm going to die."

"These Echoes have the strength of a slime."

"I've never fought a slime!"

A laugh. Cruel. Almost joyous.

⸻

Unleashed Horror

A shape.

Suspended in the air.

Massive. Its face… is only a smile. Gaping. Twisted. Etched into flesh like a punishment.

An arrow.

Swift. Silent.

It pierces her right hand.

She screams.

The sword drops. Metal sings against the tile.

She falls.

Ready to break.

Then…

Everything shifts.

⸻

The False Refuge

A kitchen.

Morning. Toast. Floral curtains.

Her father.

Sitting. Motionless.

"Jinra? Weren't you at the park?"

Her mother walks in. Smiling.

"Hot chocolate?"

Jinra steps back.

"No. You're dead."

Her father stands.

His face begins to melt.

Literally.

Like wax sliding down skin.

And behind him… the jaw of an Echo.

Open.

Waiting.