Chapter 282

No one knew where the Ray of Hope had come from. It appeared overnight in the dusty corner of an abandoned warehouse, just outside the outskirts of the city. Its barrel gleamed as though freshly forged, yet it held a strange, unsettling aura about it.

No one could quite place it, but the weapon, dubbed the "Ray of Hope," was believed to be capable of bringing joy to anyone who fired it. It promised peace, even when the world around it had long since fallen to ruin.

Milo had heard the stories. His mother used to talk about them—how, before things had gotten this bad, the Ray had been the beacon of salvation for many. She'd told him that just one shot would send a bolt of light into the soul, a gift of something beyond the misery of their existence.

It wasn't long before the Ray made its way to his town. Everyone spoke of it, passed the stories on like prayers. People would find the Ray in strange places: on the outskirts of the woods, in the basements of old houses, hidden beneath the floorboards of abandoned apartments. The place didn't matter—the fact was, the Ray would show up when it was needed most, when despair had crept in too deep.

But Milo hadn't believed in the Ray. Not really. He'd seen too many false hopes come and go, seen too many people rise up, claiming that this thing or that would finally make everything okay. It never did. Things didn't get better. They just got worse.

Yet, when his mother had fallen ill, Milo found himself standing in front of an old man who claimed to have the Ray. The man said it had been his grandfather's, passed down through generations. The weight of the weapon seemed immense, heavy in Milo's hands, as if it were a curse rather than a gift.

"This will help her," the old man had assured him, his eyes too wide, his smile too eager. "A single shot, and she'll be free from her pain. Hope is powerful, boy. And the Ray brings hope."

Milo had stood there, holding the gun, staring at the barrel. His mother had barely moved in her bed for the last two weeks. She was wasting away, her body thinning as the disease slowly overtook her. He'd tried everything, but nothing worked.

He'd heard the stories of people who'd been shot with the Ray and had felt something inside them spark to life again. Hope. Courage. Strength. He'd heard the laughter of people who had been near death but were brought back by the mere act of shooting the Ray into the air.

The Ray. He couldn't understand why he thought it would be different for his mother. Why he had let the story seduce him. The thoughts buzzed in his head as he made his way back home, the Ray cold in his grip.

It was night by the time he reached the shack that had been his home for as long as he could remember. The wind howled around him, but inside was nothing but silence. His mother lay still, a mere shell of the woman she used to be. The blankets didn't even cover her properly, and her skin had taken on a sickly, grayish hue. He hated the sight of her like this.

Milo placed the Ray on the table beside her bed. He stared at it for a moment, and the weapon seemed to stare back at him. He felt a tightness in his chest. Could it really work? Was there still hope for her, or was it all just another illusion?

His fingers trembled as he reached for the Ray. The metal was unnaturally smooth, almost too cold. He could feel the weight of something in it, something far darker than the promise of hope it carried. But he pushed those thoughts aside, gritted his teeth, and pointed it at her frail form.

His breath caught. Would this truly work? Or would it do the same as every other attempt?

He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

The blast didn't come. No bright light. No warm surge of relief. Instead, the Ray emitted a faint, almost imperceptible hum—one that echoed in his bones.

The room went cold.

Milo opened his eyes. He blinked, trying to understand what had just happened. But something felt... wrong. His mother hadn't stirred. She hadn't moved at all. There was no change in her. Just the same empty shell of her body. He took a step back. Nothing.

And then his chest tightened in a way that no sickness had ever made him feel before. A pressure, a tightness, a suffocation that had nothing to do with the outside world but everything to do with the weight of his own regret. The Ray sat on the table, silent, but its presence consumed the room.

His mother's breath had stopped. The soft, rhythmic sound he had taken for granted no longer filled the air. Her eyes remained wide open, the glassy stare now turned toward him. Not just a vacant stare—no, it was something more. Something beyond.

A strange noise rang out, not quite a scream but more like a gurgle from deep within her chest. It wasn't her voice. It wasn't a voice at all. It was a sound like something alive but not human, some kind of thing that couldn't belong in a body anymore.

The room spun. Milo stumbled back. He wanted to scream, to shout, to do something, but his throat was dry, constricted. His eyes locked on her, on the way her mouth twisted into something that was no longer human. Her fingers curled, and her legs jerked like they were being pulled by strings.

The Ray sat in the corner, innocent in appearance. But that hum—he could feel it now, vibrating through his chest, growing louder, more insistent. It wasn't hope. It wasn't a gift. It was something far worse, something that had taken his mother long before the Ray had ever touched her.

A crack split the room, sharp and sudden. The sound of her bones snapping, like dry branches underfoot, filled the air. Milo screamed. He ran to her side, trying to stop it, trying to fix what he had done, but his hands couldn't reach her. The twisted shapes her body was taking, the unholy contortions that followed each new break, made it clear she was no longer the person he had loved.

And still, that hum—louder now, almost deafening. The Ray hadn't given her hope; it had given her something far worse. It had turned her into something else, something that wasn't human.

In a desperate frenzy, he grabbed the Ray and aimed it at her again. He fired. The blast went wide, shooting into the wall. It did nothing.

The pressure in his chest grew unbearable, like something was crawling under his skin. He couldn't breathe. His mouth opened, but no sound came. His vision dimmed, and he collapsed to his knees.

His mother—if she could even still be called that—moved toward him. Her body, now fully twisted, her limbs jerking with unnatural speed, closed the gap between them. Her mouth opened wide, impossibly wide. There was no hope in that gaze, no comfort, only an endless abyss of hunger.

Milo raised the Ray again, but his hand shook too violently. It slipped from his grip. He had no power over it anymore. He had no power over anything.

And then her twisted face was over his, her eyes unblinking, unseeing. Her mouth descended, and he could feel her breath, cold as the grave. His body convulsed as she kissed him with a force that broke his bones, his spirit. He could feel his life drain away, but it wasn't death that awaited him. It was far worse.

The Ray sat in the corner, quiet now, as if waiting for the next soul to arrive, to feel the weight of its hollow promise.