It was a clever plan—one that only needed the right timing.
But for me, it would've been as easy as picking something out of my own pocket, because my intelligence alone was enough to pull it off effortlessly.
At least, that was how I pictured it in theory.
However—
One night while I was asleep, something unexpected happened.
I had a dream. A strange, absurd dream.
For a girl my age, dreaming wasn't anything unusual. With my sharp and mature mind, something like that shouldn't have bothered me.
But why couldn't I, Emma, forget it?
I couldn't shake off that damn dream—the sheer terror of it still haunted me like it just happened.
And tonight, as she drifts off again, what will await her this time—a sweet, pleasant dream, or another nightmare?
The soft white couch was Emma's favorite spot in her daily life.
The chandelier in her bedroom glowed with white light as Emma sat there reading calmly, looking every bit the picture of a refined young lady.
You're young—you should read more.
Although she appeared to be reading, her eyes were unfocused, her mind clearly elsewhere.
That's because she was writing a diary—not on paper, but in her mind.
She didn't like putting her feelings down in words, yet she still wanted to record them somehow. So she chose to write them in her memory instead—that unspoken secret.
Knock, knock.
Her father, David, came in. Seeing his daughter quietly reading and studying made him beam with pride.
"Sweet Bear, it's getting late. Time for bed."
"Okay, Daddy. I know."
"Do you want Daddy to sleep with you tonight?"
"No, I think I'll be fine."
"My brave little girl. If you get scared, just yell, alright?"
"I will, Daddy."
He closed the door, turned off the light, and she climbed into bed, pulling the blanket up to cover half her face. It made her feel safer somehow—at least, in her mind.
Meanwhile, somewhere far away—
Dream connection: activated.
Tonight, I will enter the dream once more.
Last time, during my dream exploration, the embodiment of Barry's rage broke into Emma's dream at the final moment. It failed in the end—but that didn't matter.
Because as it perished, it left behind a special mark.
Following that mark, Barry could easily find his way back.
This time, he would go himself.
Riding upon the embodiment of rage, Barry ignored the strange, shifting illusions and flew straight toward his goal.
"There."
Before him hovered a round dream bubble, glowing faintly. The mark pulsed from within, guiding him.
Retracting the embodiment, Barry pressed his hand against the dream's membrane, slowly sinking into it.
Silently, he pierced through the barrier and entered Emma's dream once again.
The familiar pull of gravity returned.
He fell at first, his body surrounded by blue light, before his descent slowed and he began walking calmly through the air.
Eventually, he landed softly.
He wasn't at the dream's center yet—just the outskirts.
The area around him was a crudely rendered city, some parts looking like cheap textures from a low-budget video game.
After a few leaps off nearby walls, defying gravity, Barry reached the rooftop of a tall building. From there, he had a perfect view of the dream's center—the large house that belonged to Emma, the dreamer.
Blue light coiled around his hands, and slowly his body became transparent. The glow spread from his palms through his entire form until he vanished completely.
Silent and unseen, Barry moved toward Emma's house.
---
Lavia, a middle-aged woman, was Emma's babysitter—hired by David to look after her when work kept him busy.
Holding a broom, Lavia was carefully sweeping the stairs, unaware that Emma had her eyes on her.
While Lavia worked, Emma crept up behind her on tiptoe, moving silently.
"Hey, Lavia!" Emma suddenly called out.
"Ah!" Lavia jumped, startled, instantly recognizing Emma's voice. As she turned, something struck her leg hard.
She lost her balance and tumbled down the stairs, hitting each step before her neck cracked against the edge with a sickening sound.
Her head slammed into the floor, leaving a smear of blood as her body twitched in unnatural spasms.
The pristine white staircase was now streaked with dark red. Emma stood at the top, staring down expressionlessly. Only the faint curl at the corner of her lips betrayed any emotion.
"Dead. Perfect. That's what happens when you go against me, Emma."
She looked down at Lavia's twisted body without a trace of pity.
Now—it was time to call for help.
A phone appeared in her hand. She dialed.
Ring… Ring…
The line connected.
"Daddy… sob… Lavia—she fell down the stairs. She looks really bad. I'm scared…" Emma whimpered, her voice trembling with just the right amount of fear.
"...Em… ma. I… know…"
A burst of static filled the line. The voice on the other end sounded strange—warped, almost feminine. It didn't sound like her father at all.
In fact, it sounded like a woman. A familiar one.
Emma wanted to keep talking, to continue her performance of fear and helplessness, but the call suddenly ended.
No matter how many times she redialed, no one answered—just the busy tone repeating over and over.
Crack.
The silence of the house shattered.
It sounded like bones popping—sharp and close.
Too close.
A chill ran through Emma. Something was wrong. Someone—or something—was watching her.
Crack.
Again.
This time she pinpointed the sound. It came from below.
Her eyes darted toward the staircase.
The noise came from Lavia.
That was impossible. She was dead.
Emma stared, frozen, as she realized Lavia's head had turned.
It was no longer facing the hall—it was now upright, her lifeless eyes staring straight up at her.
Was it a trick of the light? A mistake in memory?
Heart racing, Emma tore her gaze away, wanting to run—
Click-click-click-click!
The sound came again, louder this time.
She turned instinctively—
and her heart stopped.