"Mum!"
His eyes shot open in agitation, his body jerking violently as he threw his hands forward as though trying to grab someone who wasn't there. His fingers grasped at empty air before dropping back down, the sudden realization crashing into him that he was alone—lying on a worn-out bed, staring at a cracked ceiling.
A deep, irritated groan left his throat as understanding settled in. It had all been a dream.
"Shit!" Steven hissed as he pushed himself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed. His expression twisted with anger and lingering unease as he rubbed his eyes slowly, trying to chase away the remnants of sleep and the images that clung stubbornly to his mind.
'Of all the times… why am I dreaming of them?' he asked himself, his jaw tightening.
His eyes drifted instinctively toward the small television positioned across the room. The screen flickered erratically, emitting a faint glitching noise as it shifted between the image of a news broadcast and a blinding white screen—the unmistakable sign of a failing signal and dying broadcasting channels.
Steven narrowed his eyes and focused, forcing himself to pay attention. He stared hard at the distorted images, doing his best to gather as much information as he could before the screen glitched again. After a while, his lips flattened into a hard line, and a low voice filled with restrained frustration escaped him.
"Another one again."
The news report spoke in grim detail—an entire city lost to the Shadow Eaters. Countless lives erased, properties reduced to rubble, entire districts swallowed by darkness. The broadcast carried the familiar undertone of dread, the ever-present reminder that humanity was inching closer and closer to extinction. Anyone who watched the news long enough would feel chills crawl up their spine.
It had been many decades ago when the apocalypse began.
An unexplainable disaster had unfolded across the Earth, starting with a massive piece of space debris crashing into one of the continents. Before the world could even begin to understand what was happening, the debris released a curse—one that spread like an invisible plague across the planet.
History would come to know it as the Plague of the Gods.
From within that debris, the Shadow Eaters were born. They poured out endlessly, spreading across the Earth, invading cities, nations, and continents alike. Bombs proved useless. Guns failed. Knives, blades, and every weapon known to mankind were nothing more than toys before them.
For the first time in recorded history, humanity faced a catastrophe that genuinely threatened to erase the entire race.
Yet, by some miracle, something impossible happened.
Systems emerged—choosing a special few among humanity. And with those chosen individuals, mankind fought back. Together, they defended against the endless hordes of Shadow Eaters and established fortified strongholds—isolated bastions of survival in a cursed world.
Within one of those many strongholds lived Steven.
An orphan.
A man who had lost his entire family to the Shadow Eaters.
However, none of that weighed heavily on his mind anymore. What was the point of dwelling on the past when the future waiting for him was far grimmer?
Steven shifted his gaze away from the television and toward a small table positioned beside his bed. It was something he had crafted himself—crooked, unstable, and barely holding together. Resting on it was a half-empty bottle of whisky, its elegant branding far too expensive for someone of Steven's status.
He reached for the bottle roughly, his fingers curling around its neck as he brought it to his dry lips. He took large gulps, barely pausing to breathe until the bottle was emptied entirely. When he finally lowered it, a rough burp escaped him.
"Good stuff—"
Knock! Knock!
The sudden, violent knocking at the front door cut him off mid-thought, snapping his attention toward the source of the noise. Through the thin wooden door, filtered sunlight cast several overlapping shadows onto the floor—too many for comfort.
The knocking came again, louder this time, followed by a coarse voice.
"Hey, you brat! Where's the rent you promised me? You're already eight months due!"
Steven's expression darkened instantly.
'Eight months…' His eyes flicked down to the empty bottle still in his hand. A crooked smile tugged at his lips. "Worth it."
The knocking returned, but this time it escalated into violent bashing. The wood groaned under the force as the same voice shouted again.
"You bastard! I know you're in there! You bought expensive drinks last night! I'm gonna beat your ass, you brat!"
The crashes against the door intensified, the sound of strained wood filling the room. Grunts and curses followed—his landlord, a fat, horrid drunk, accompanied by at least two others. The air felt heavy as they prepared to beat the living breath out of him.
Steven let out a slow sigh.
"Too bad for them," he whispered calmly.
He dropped the bottle, letting it shatter against the floor, and began rolling up the sleeve of his left arm at an unhurried pace.
Right on time, the wooden door exploded inward. The hinges screamed as it swung violently, barely holding together as three men forced their way inside.
But none of them stepped forward.
The landlord and his two companions froze the moment their eyes adjusted to the light. Their gazes locked onto Steven's left arm, where a distinct circular sigil was etched into his skin—dark, ominous, and unmistakable, like a living tattoo burned into flesh.
Steven didn't need to explain.
He knew what it meant.
And judging by the fear etched onto their faces, so did they.
A crooked smile spread across Steven's lips as he slowly lifted his head. He opened his mouth, the words sounding as though they were painfully wrenched from deep within his chest.
"I don't think I'll be able to pay that rent… as you can see."
His eyes gleamed darkly.
"I've been cursed."
//Author's Note//
Save to your library and read a few chapters, enjoy this adventure with me.