Lost?

Zayne awoke hours later. It was completely dark outside. His body was slumped in a pool of his own blood, and his mouth was dry, his lips cracked.

"What the hell? Didn't I die?" His voice was hoarse, and even speaking sent a sharp pain through his throat.

He glanced down at his chest. The hole was still there. But it wasn't what he expected—no exposed organs, no raw flesh. Instead, the inside was pitch black, an abyss that swallowed all light. Staring into it filled him with an inexplicable sense of dread.

His gaze shifted to his surroundings, taking in the blood-stained ground. He should be panicking, but he wasn't. In fact, he barely felt anything at all. No shock. No fear. Not even anger toward the one who had done this to him. It was strange.

More unsettling was the realization that he couldn't even remember why he had been killed. He knew it had happened, but the details were hazy, like a dream slipping from his grasp.

He still knew the basics—his name, his parents, his sister. But beyond that? His childhood, his personal experiences, the little moments that made up his life? They were gone.

As he wandered the campus, disoriented, something finally clicked: he couldn't even remember where his dorm was. The panic finally hit.

Everything was setting in now.

His memories were missing.

There was a gaping hole in his chest, filled with something unnatural.

And, most terrifying of all—

He had been murdered in cold blood by something inhuman.

And he had no idea if he was even human anymore.

A sharp pain shot through his head as he wandered aimlessly. He was cold—bone-chillingly cold. Wrapping his arms around himself, he kept walking, desperately trying to remember anything. But nothing came.

Eventually, he collapsed onto a bench, pressing his hands to his temples in a futile attempt to stop the relentless throbbing in his skull.

As he sat there, a strand of hair fell into his face. His breath hitched.

It was white. Pristine, stark white.

His body jolted in shock, making the pain in his head spike even further.

Zayne cursed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fuck! What is happening to me?"

His eyes darted to his hands, then his arms—black streaks, like twisting vines, covered his skin.

As he stared in disbelief, a hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder. He jerked away, leaping off the bench and spinning around at an alarming speed.

A girl stood before him, her skin pale, her hair dyed green and black.

"You good, man? You seem out of it. Do you need some help?"

Zayne's breath caught in his throat. He knew that voice. But when he looked at her face—there was nothing there. Just a swirling mass of black mist.

He stumbled backward, falling onto his back before quickly regaining his composure. His voice was shaky. "I… I don't think I am. I'm seeing things. I'm pretty sure I got drugged or something." He swallowed hard. "Would you mind helping me to the male dorms? I can figure everything else out from there."

She raised a hand to where her mouth should have been.

Zayne's mind reeled. Clearly, I'm seeing things. But she's acting normal… so she must be a normal person, right?

As the girl helped him to his feet, he forced himself to believe it.

She helped him walk to the male dorms, supporting his weight as they moved.

"How are you feeling? Are you sure you don't need to go to a hospital or something?"

Zayne flinched at the word—though he wasn't sure why. A strange unease settled in his chest.

"No hospitals," he muttered. "I just wanna sleep."

The girl nodded and helped him inside. The moment they stepped through the doors, the night security guard—who had been sipping his coffee—nearly spilled it at the sight of her dragging Zayne in.

The guard hurriedly set his cup down and got up to assist. "Zayne? Where the hell have you been? I never saw you come back two nights ago—I was damn near ready to file a missing persons report. You alright?"

Zayne had no clue who the man was, but at least his face was normal. He decided to speak truthfully, hoping the guard wouldn't ask too many questions.

"I… can't remember much right now. Can you just help me to my room? I'll tell you everything once I get some rest."

The man nodded, scooping Zayne up and carrying him to his room. After settling him in, the guard lingered for a moment, a conflicted expression on his face, before finally leaving.

Zayne's entire body felt like lead, and he struggled to stay conscious. He ripped off his shirt and tossed it aside before collapsing onto the floor, unable to make it all the way to his bed.

Apparently, he had been out for two days. He needed to figure out what had happened—needed answers. But before he could do anything, he needed his memories back.

His consciousness faded, and all thoughts slipped from his mind as sleep took over.

Then, the darkness stirred.

Black, shadowy tendrils sprouted from the hole in his chest and the inky lines that covered his body. They slithered toward his head, probing at his skull before slipping into his eyes, mouth, and ears—coiling around his brain like a parasite.

A sudden surge of foreign energy shot through him.

Zayne jolted awake with a scream, his body thrashing against the floor. He rolled across his dorm room, clawing at his face in panic, trying desperately to rid himself of the writhing tendrils. "Get off me!" he snarled, his voice raw with terror.

But then—his movements stopped.

His arms, his legs—his entire body—froze, no longer under his control. His breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps as realization struck: the shadows were trying to take him over. And he had no idea how far along the process was.

"Shit! I won't let you!" he growled.

With sheer willpower, he forced his fingers to move, digging them into the tendrils invading his head. He yanked them away, his grip tightening as he pried them loose. A gut instinct told him—this was why his memories were missing.

Finally, the tendrils weakened, retreating back into the black markings on his arms and disappearing into the abyss of the hole in his chest.

A searing pain erupted in his skull.

Fragments of memory flooded his mind—flashes of moments he had forgotten, things he was certain he had never recalled before.

Gasping for breath, he collapsed onto all fours, his fingers trembling against the floor. His frown deepened as his mind pieced itself back together.

At least now, he knew how he had died. And more importantly—he knew who to talk to in order to figure out what the hell was happening to him.

Oddly enough, he no longer felt tired. If anything, he felt... stronger.

Zayne reached into his pocket, exhaling in relief when he felt the familiar weight of his phone. At least something stayed the same. But when he pressed the power button, the screen remained black. Dead. Figures.

He plugged it into the charger and sat on the bed, rocking slightly as his thoughts raced. Then, unable to sit still, he pushed himself up and stumbled toward the bathroom.

The moment he splashed cold water onto his face, something felt… off.

Slowly, hesitantly, he looked up.

And recoiled.

The reflection staring back at him wasn't him. Not really.

His skin, once a rich, deep brown, was now marred by streaks of black, twisting across his body like ink-stained scars. His hands—completely black, like they'd been dipped in shadow—still faintly smoked at the fingertips. And his hair...

It was pure white.

Zayne's stomach clenched. He lifted a shaking hand to his face, tracing his jawline, his dreadlocks—still intact, yet somehow off. He turned his hands over, flexing his fingers as if he could will them back to normal.

He looked nothing like the person he had been two nights ago.

How did the security guard even recognize me?

A lump formed in his throat, but he swallowed it down. Now wasn't the time to break down.

He splashed his face again, forcing himself to breathe.

After a moment, he stepped back into his room. His phone screen had finally lit up.

Zayne hesitated, then picked it up and dialed.

If anyone knew what the hell was happening to him, it was his sister.