Ouch!
Ahh... My head hurts...
Cyris Neal woke up from a dream or perhaps a nightmare. He looked around and saw he was still in the office.
His head begins to hurt again. As if he was hit on the head by an pole.
Cyris Neal then looked down under his desk where his bag laid on the floor. He grabbed the bag, putting it on his lap. He then pulled the zipper of his bag and took out a bottle of painkillers.
As Cyris Neal popped the lid open. He felt another sharp sense of pain on his head. He tried to take a pill but nothing came out of the bottle of painkillers.
Damn it...
As Cyris Neal stood up from his desk. The bag on his lap fell onto the ground. The stuff inside his bag fell out. He held the empty bottle of painkillers on his right hand tightly and decide to go wash his face.
Thud...
Cyris Neal placed his palm on his head as he slowly walked toward the restroom. He threw the empty bottle of painkillers on the trash can outside the rest room.
He then entered the rest room and walked towards the faucet turning the handle, letting the water flow.
Rippling
He splashed water onto his face and looked into the mirror trying to remember what just happened.
More specifically, What happened in his dream.
...
In his dream, he met an unknown figure. Or perhaps... a being—an entity beyond comprehension. Its face was shrouded in darkness, and a robe cloaked its entire body.
"Cyris Neal..."
Cyris blinked in confusion. He didn't know this figure—yet it knew his name.
"W-Who are you?"
he stammered, instinctively stepping back.
"I am the force that ushers in your next beginning. In three days, the life you know will unravel... and something else will rise in its place."
The voice was calm and steady, almost soothing in its certainty.
"What do you mean by that...?"
Cyris asked, staring into the void where a face should have been.
Then it hit him.
He pinched himself. He felt the pain.
Am I dreaming?
It feels too real... Usually, dreams flicker and vanish—but this... this lingers. It's vivid, longer than it should be.
The entity spoke again, pulling him from his spiraling thoughts.
"You've walked this path long enough. It's time to become what you were always meant to be—not as you are, but as you will become. Beyond this ordinary life."
The figure stepped closer, slow and inevitable.
Cyris's voice cracked with uncertainty.
"Become what I'm meant to be? What am I supposed to become?"
"That's not for me to decide. The seed was planted long before this life... I am only the hand that ushers it forth."
A hush fell between them. The space itself seemed to warp and shiver.
"Am I going to die?"
Cyris barely whispered the words, struggling to hold on to reason. The figure's presence was overwhelming, like standing before a storm that hadn't broken yet.
"Not in the way you fear. Death is only the door. You are already walking toward it—step by step. On the third dawn, the sun will not rise for you. But you will rise, all the same."
"Why me?"
"Because your soul remembers what your mind has forgotten. Because the world has need of what you will become."
The dreamscape shattered. The ground crumbled beneath him, and Cyris fell into the void.
The last thing he saw was the figure smiling. Then it whispered something distorted, echoing as he sank into darkness:
S## Y## S##N...
...
At present.
Cyris Neal no longer felt anything. There is no longer any pain on his head. He splashed more water on his face. Turning the faucet off. Before taking out a towel from his pocket and wiping his face.
"What kind of sick dream was that..."
"Perhaps I'm just tired from overworking myself... I should head back and get some rest."
Cyris Neal returned to his desk and knelt down to pick up the items that had fallen out of his bag.
While picking up his things, he noticed he was holding a pendant shaped like a four-leaf clover—the one his mother had given him before she died.
A faint smile crossed his face before he rose to his feet and looked at his desk.
On the corner of the desk sat a flower pot, and beside it was a framed photo of his family taken when he was ten years old.
In the middle of the desk were a computer, a keyboard, and a mouse. On the opposite side, books and documents were neatly arranged.
Cyris Neal slung the bag over his shoulder and made his way back to his apartment safely.
As he entered, Cyris Neal was greeted by the familiar sight of his modest apartment. It was small and simple. The living room shared space with a compact kitchen, while a narrow hallway led to a tiny bathroom on the left and a small bedroom on the right.
Cyris Neal stepped inside and set his bag down by the door before heading to his bedroom. At the center of the room stood his bed. To the left of it was a small desk, while on the right stood a dressing mirror and a modest closet.
He walked over to the bed, plopped down, and closed his eyes, quickly drifting off to sleep.