Tor sat alone in the dusty chamber, the silence pressing on his ears like a weight. The letter lay on the floor beside him, half-buried under crumbled plaster and a layer of grey. He hadn't dared to touch it until now, not after seeing that vision of his father—those serious eyes, that impossible presence—vanish like a dying ember.
His fingers trembled as he finally reached for the letter. The paper crackled, fragile from age. Fifteen years, he guessed from the faded ink and the brittle texture. The handwriting inside was messy, uneven strokes, as though it had been written in a hurry… or with a heavy heart.
He unfolded it carefully.
"How are you doing? Alicia, it's been a while hasn't it?"
The words were simple, but Tor felt them pierce something deep inside. He closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to steady the sudden tremble in his chest.
"…Alicia," he murmured. "So that's her… that's my mother's name."
He stared at the letters again—her name—written by the same man whose ghostly presence had appeared moments ago.
He continued reading.
"I am coming this month. And I am really happy that we are getting married."
"And I would love to live my dream. The Czesca Valley."
Tor blinked slowly. The Czesca Valley… he had heard the name whispered among old researchers. A place filled with abandoned labs, failed experiments, and rumors of human vanishings. His father wanted to live there? With Alicia?
"Everything we have planned, we are going to get that. Sorry for blabbering too much."
Tor's throat tightened. He could almost imagine his father smiling awkwardly while writing that line.
"My research in the lab and the Cracik Unit of 04 is very tough."
That name—Cracik Unit. The research division responsible for the earliest parasite containment programs. The same research that had slaughtered more people than it saved. The same research that eventually took his father's life.
His fingers dug into the edges of the letter.
"I would like us to have a very happy family and live a long life. With you. And our children."
"Children…" Tor whispered. "He meant me."
He swallowed and read on.
"I am actually quite tired of just doing research here. So yeah… that's it from me."
The letter ended abruptly. No signature. No final words. Just a tired man writing to the woman he loved, dreaming of a peaceful life he never got.
Tor folded the paper slowly, as though closing it too quickly would erase the last traces of his father.
He pressed it against his chest for a moment before slipping it into his pocket. The weight of it felt heavier than it should—a reminder, a burden, a promise.
"Father…" he said under his breath.
Silence answered him.
He lifted his face upward toward the cracked ceiling, where thin lines of light slipped through broken tiles. His eyes burned—not from tears, but from the storm twisting in his heart.
"Those damn parasites…" he whispered, voice shaking. "They took everything from you."
He clenched his jaw. The chamber felt colder, as if reacting to his anger.
But Tor's voice didn't break. It hardened.
"I'll live in your stead, Father." His grip tightened into a fist. "I'll find Mom. Wherever she is. Whoever took her… whatever monster drove her away… I'll find her."
Dust drifted from the ceiling as if agreeing.
He continued, louder this time, the words echoing off the empty walls.
"And I'll kill those parasites. Every last one of them. Even if I have to tear them apart with my bare hands."
His breath hitched, but he didn't soften.
"And Jude Uncle…" His voice dropped. Bitter. Conflicted. "…I don't know what he's become. But if saving him is impossible—if he's already gone—then I'll do what I have to."
His fists began to shake, not from fear but from resolve sharpening like a blade.
"Even if I have to kill him."
A sudden gust of stale air rolled through the chamber, rustling old papers and making the broken door creak. Tor didn't move. He remained sitting, his back straight, his stare unwavering.
For the first time since he woke up, he felt something besides numbness.
Purpose.
Resolve.
A direction.
The emptiness inside him wasn't gone… but now it had a shape. A name. A target.
He rose slowly from the dusty floor. His body still ached, and his legs felt stiff from sitting for hours, but he stood anyway. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve.
The vision of his father's serious, wordless gaze flashed in his mind again. He understood what it meant now.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't shock.
It wasn't a hallucination.
It was a reminder.
A push.
Tor placed his hand over the pocket where the letter rested.
"Father… I'll carry this. I promise."
He took one step forward.
Then another.
The chamber felt less suffocating now. As if the air had cleared just enough for him to breathe again.
The parasites had taken his family. His home. His peace.
Now he would take everything back.
No matter what he had to become.
No matter how much blood he had to spill.
No matter who he had to face.
His resolve burned, silent but fierce.
"I'm coming," he whispered. "For Mom. For you. And for myself."
And Tor walked forward, leaving behind the lonely, dusty chamber… and stepping into the path he had chosen with razor-sharp conviction.
---
Tor stood in the middle of the chamber, the silence swirling around him like dust in stale air. His resolve had taken shape—solid, sharp, unshakable. There was nothing left to do here except leave, step out into the world, and begin the path he had chosen.
He breathed out slowly and turned toward the far end of the chamber. A faint outline of an exit door sat there, half-hidden behind toppled wooden crates and a collapsed shelf. Sunlight leaked through gaps in the metal, thin and pale, like the world outside had almost forgotten this place existed.
"That's the way out," he muttered to himself.
But he wasn't leaving empty-handed.
Before moving up the ladder, he scanned the chamber one last time. Broken machines, dried blood, scattered notes, dusty metal tables—this was a forgotten site of research, old and cold like a tomb. His father's tomb.
Tor knelt beside a rusted cabinet. The door groaned as he pulled it open. Inside, he found an old black backpack covered in dust but still intact. When he brushed it clean, the fabric surprisingly held strong.
"Good enough," he said.
He set the bag on the floor and moved around the chamber, collecting whatever he could use. From a metal drawer, he pulled out a hunting knife—its blade still sharp despite years of neglect. It felt heavy in his hand, balanced and real. A weapon. Something that could keep him alive.
He slid it into a side pocket of the backpack.
Next, he found food—canned beans, sealed packs of dried bread, a flask of old water that still seemed drinkable. Emergency rations, probably left for researchers who never came back. Tor took them all. His body still felt numb, but survival instincts kept guiding him.
He stuffed everything into the backpack one by one.
Then he reached the old metal table, the one positioned closest to the wall. Papers lay scattered across it, pushed aside as though someone was interrupted mid-research. His father's handwriting—shaky, frantic, sometimes crossed out aggressively.
Formula diagrams. Parasite behavior charts. Organism sketches. Notes signed with: T. Marell.
Tor gathered every sheet and folder he could find. If he wanted to understand what had happened—what killed his father—he needed these documents. He tied them into a neat bundle and slid them into the main compartment of his backpack.
When he stood again, the letter rustled inside his pocket.
His father's last message.
He pressed his hand against it, steadying himself. Then he slowly reached into his pocket and carefully placed the letter atop the documents.
It belonged with him now.
He turned, ready to head for the exit—
—but something on one of the shelves caught his eye.
A slim, long jar. Dusty, glass cracked on one side.
Inside it… a nunchuck.
Tor blinked.
"What…?"
He approached it slowly, unsure if he was imagining it.
But no. It was real.
A nunchuck—sleek black ends, polished brown grips, and instead of a single steel chain connecting the rods, it had three coiled spring layers, tightly bound, almost mechanical. It looked old and handmade, yet weirdly advanced.
"What the hell was Father doing with this…?"
He removed the jar lid carefully. The weapon slipped into his hands with a satisfying weight. Unexpectedly smooth. Balanced. Crafted.
His father was a researcher—a scientist. Tor expected syringes, scalpels, maybe prototype devices… but not a martial weapon.
Then he saw it.
A single word carved on one of the rods.
Alicia
Tor's breath hitched.
"Mom… this belonged to her?"
The idea felt surreal. His mother… wielding something like this? Or maybe his father made it for her? A gift? A weapon for protection? Something symbolic?
He didn't know. But anything connected to her was precious.
"I'm taking this."
He folded the nunchucks gently and slid them into the backpack's side strap, securing them tightly.
His preparations complete, Tor slung the backpack over his shoulder. It felt heavy, but this weight felt necessary—like armor. Like a path forward.
He turned one last time to the chamber he had woken up in. The place where he saw the ghostly image of his father. The place covered in dust, broken dreams, and forgotten research.
"Goodbye," he whispered.
And then he headed toward the end of the chamber.
The closer he got to the exit, the more the stale air shifted into something cooler. He pushed aside the fallen crates and pulled open the metal door. Rust scraped loudly. Behind it, a vertical ladder climbed into darkness.
He placed his foot on the first rung.
It trembled slightly but held.
He began to climb.
The darkness was thick, damp, and suffocating. Every foot he ascended, dust rained down over his shoulders. The ladder stretched longer than he expected—like a tunnel reaching from death back into life.
His muscles ached from hours of stillness earlier, but he climbed relentlessly.
When he reached the top, his hand pressed against a wooden hatch.
He shoved it open.
Light—weak but natural—spilled in, momentarily blinding him.
Tor hauled himself out.
He emerged into a house. A dusty, empty, abandoned house. Wooden planks bent inward as if the place had been hit by storms. Broken furniture lay scattered around. The walls were cracked, the air stale and unused.
This place… it was far from any settlement. He could feel it. Too quiet. Too lonely. This may have once been a researcher's hideout, or perhaps a safehouse his father kept.
He wiped his face with his sleeve again and looked around the dim room.
"No people. No voices."
Just wind. Just dust. Just silence.
He had truly left the chamber.
He had truly stepped into the world again.
A world waiting for him to unravel everything.
A world infected.
A world filled with parasites.
A world hiding his mother.
A world holding the truth behind his father's death.
Tor tightened the straps of his backpack.
"I'm ready," he whispered.
And he walked toward the ruined door, toward the world that awaited him—toward the path he would carve with his own hands.
---
The moment Tor stepped out of the dusty, creaking house, the cold wind brushed across his face. His expression didn't shift—not even a flicker. Only his eyes narrowed slightly as he stared toward the distant ruins of the settlement he once called home.
"I forgot to do something important," he said quietly.
The words came out flat, emotionless. His throat didn't tremble. His eyes didn't soften. But deep inside, something heavy pressed against his ribs.
He tightened his grip on the backpack straps and started walking.
The path back to Cracik Unit 14 was not long, but the silence hanging over the land made every step feel lonely. The tall grasses were flattened, scorched in some places. Fire-blackened trees stood like silent witnesses, their branches clawing at the sky.
When Tor reached the top of the familiar hill, he stopped. His gaze swept across the village.
Houses were torn open. Roofs collapsed. Some walls still smoked faintly. Ashes danced in the wind.
A place that once lived now looked like a graveyard.
Tor didn't react. Not out of numbness—out of endurance.
He walked straight toward his own home.
The door was already off its hinges. The floor was cracked, and broken glass covered the ground like frozen tears. He stepped over it carefully, pushing deeper into the dim interior until he reached the place where he and his father used to sit, eat, and talk.
Then he saw him.
His father's body lay near the collapsed kitchen wall. The skin had started to grey, his chest sunken. One eye was missing, and his legs were torn away below the knees. Dried blood marked the floor like dark rust.
Tor crouched beside him, lowering himself slowly.
"Father…" he whispered.
He placed his hand gently on the remains of his father's arm. The skin felt cool and fragile, as if even a slight touch could break it apart.
"Forgive me. I couldn't save you."
His voice was almost too quiet for the empty house to carry. He leaned forward and touched his head to his father's shoulder for a moment.
"But at least… let me give you a proper burial."
He stood up and made his way outside. He found an old shovel—rusty, but usable—and returned to the yard. The earth was hard and dry, fighting him every time he pushed the metal in. But Tor didn't stop.
He dug slowly, methodically, without rushing.
Each scoop of dirt thrown aside echoed through the silent ruins.
After what felt like hours, he created a grave deep enough to hold the remains. He returned inside, lifted his father's upper body carefully, and carried him out.
He laid the body gently into the grave. No tears. No breakdown. Only a quiet sadness sitting deep in his bones.
"Rest now," Tor said. "I'll carry your will."
He filled the grave back up with steady movements. When the dirt reached the top, he pressed his palm against the mound and bowed his head slightly.
One burial wasn't enough.
Not for a village that lost everything.
Tor walked toward the next collapsed home. Inside, he found another body—the old herbalist woman who always gave him dried leaves for fevers. Her arms were twisted unnaturally, her face partly eaten away.
He dug another grave.
Then another.
And another after that.
For the entire first day, he found twenty-seven bodies scattered across Cracik Unit 14—some burnt, some torn, some left half-consumed by parasites.
Tor buried each one.
He didn't speak much, only repeating a few words every time he lowered another body into the ground.
"I couldn't save you."
"But let me bury you properly."
"Rest now."
He dug until the sun began to set, painting the ruined settlement in hues of red and gold. His hands blistered, the skin peeling. Dirt got under his nails, dried blood stuck on his palms, and the shovel's grip dug cuts into his fingers.
But he didn't stop.
When the night grew cold, he searched the ruins for food. Many houses had been looted or destroyed, but some jars of dried grains, old canned vegetables, and sealed bread packs remained untouched. He ate only enough to keep his body moving—just a small handful.
Then he slept curled beside the ashes of a house that no longer existed, using a burnt cloth as a blanket.
The next morning, he continued.
Day after day.
He searched every corner of the village. He stepped over broken fences, crawled into collapsed rooms, removed debris piece by piece. He found bodies in wells, under stairs, inside locked storage rooms, even hidden inside basements.
He buried each of them.
He worked under the sun. He worked under the rain. He worked even when his back screamed in pain.
Tor did not speak often. But whenever he lowered another person into the ground, he whispered the same thing:
"I couldn't save you… please allow me to give you peace."
He ate whatever food remained in the settlement—root vegetables, preserved jars, stale dried meat. He drank from the well after purifying the water with charcoal and old filters.
Every night, he sat quietly beside the graves—hundreds of them by now—staring at the sky with an expression that revealed nothing but exhaustion.
After the final burial, he stood up slowly, dust sticking to his arms and face.
The wind blew softly, brushing through the field of fresh graves.
Tor closed his eyes for a moment.
"All of you… rest."
He touched the handle of his shovel—a tool that had become heavier with every soul he buried.
Then he turned toward the edge of the settlement.
There was nothing left to do here.
No one left to save.
Only a path waiting for him beyond the ashes.
And Tor began walking.