A Dream of Crimson and Steel

A chill prickled Sawyer's skin, a sensation that blurred the line between wakefulness and a dream. Had he drifted off again? The question hung in the air, heavy with uncertainty. He knew this feeling, this unsettling sense of unreality, but this time, it felt different, more…persistent.

"No, Sawyer!" a voice echoed in his mind, firm yet gentle. "We talked about this, remember? You just have to trust me and tell me."

He recoiled internally. "I can't," he thought, the words catching in his throat. "She made me promise. I swore I wouldn't tell anyone."

"But she's gone, isn't she?" The voice persisted, laced with a hint of sadness.

"No," Sawyer whispered, the denial instinctive. "She's not gone." The memory of her, vivid and painful, flared in his mind.

"Sawyer," the voice urged, "we have to move on. We have to accept that she's gone. Now, tell me, is this a dream, or is it real?"

"It's…real, of course…right?" Doubt gnawed at him. He wasn't sure anymore.

"How do you distinguish dreams from reality, Sawyer?"

He hesitated. "Um…objects, time, faces, themes, location…" he mumbled, grasping for logical answers.

"And now? What do you think?"

A wave of dizziness washed over him. He couldn't focus. "I…I think I'm dreaming," he finally admitted.

"Why do you think so?"

"I…I can't see your face!" The realization struck him with sudden clarity. In his dream, faces were always blurred, indistinct.

Sawyer jolted upright in bed, his heart pounding against his ribs. Cold sweat slicked his back, and his breath hitched in his throat. He glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand. 2:15 AM. "Fuck!" he cursed, raking his fingers through his damp hair. His sheets were twisted and soaked with perspiration. He threw back the covers, his bare feet hitting the cool floor. "Man, I need a fucking coffee," he muttered, grabbing a bathrobe and shuffling out of his room.

As he descended the stairs, a strange sensation crept over him. It felt as though he was wading through thick, viscous liquid. Each step was a struggle, his feet sinking into an unseen resistance. He glanced down, and his eyes widened in disbelief. The polished wooden steps had vanished, replaced by a sea of red, grainy sand that reached up to his knees. He was sinking, pulled deeper with every desperate movement.

Panic seized him. He tried to scream, but his voice was trapped in his throat, a silent cry of terror. He flailed his arms, grasping for anything solid, but the distance between him and the banister, the walls, the very world around him, stretched and distorted, receding into an impossible void. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable.

He opened them again, gasping for air. The sand was gone. He was still on the stairs, but the familiar surroundings of his house had dissolved into a harsh, alien landscape. His chest heaved, his breath ragged and shallow, as if he'd run a marathon. He was no longer wearing his pajamas but some sort of rough, unfamiliar clothing. A dull ache throbbed in his side.

He looked down. He was carrying someone. A girl. She was unconscious, her head lolling against his chest. Her hair, a dark, matted red, clung to her face, stark against the unnatural pallor of her skin. He couldn't make out her features clearly; they were obscured, as though veiled in shadow. She wore a strange garment, a bronze chest plate, dented and scratched, clearly a piece of armor. Beneath it, tattered fabric revealed the faint, sickening stain of blood.

The clanging of metal echoed in the distance, a harsh, rhythmic sound that resonated with each step he took. His own armor, light and unfamiliar, creaked and groaned with his movements, its weight a heavy burden on his already exhausted body. He could feel the faint rise and fall of the girl's chest, a fragile reminder that she was alive, but the deep gash on her shoulder whispered a different story.

His legs screamed in protest, but he pushed himself onward, each stride a battle against his body's desperate need for rest. He didn't know where he was running, or what he was running from. He only knew that he had to protect her. This girl, a stranger, was now his sole focus.

He didn't understand why. He didn't know her name. He just knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that he would protect her with his life. He couldn't control his actions, his body moving with a strange, preternatural awareness. He was a passenger in his own skin, forced to watch as his body reacted to the dangers around them.

A searing red blast of energy shot past him, narrowly missing his head. "Fuck! Fuck! For the love of God!" he shouted, the words tumbling out in a mix of terror and disbelief. He was horrified that he'd invoked the name of God after such a crude outburst. What was happening to him?

Another blast hurtled towards them, this one unavoidable. Sawyer braced for the impact, but his body, acting on its own accord, spun around, flinging the girl over his shoulder. In one swift motion, he slapped the blast away, the force of the impact sending him staggering backwards through the sand. He scrambled towards the girl, pulling her close. His hand instinctively went to his side, where a sharp pain radiated outwards. He looked down, and his fingers came away stained with blood.

Sawyer's gaze dropped to his side, his breath hitching in his throat. A gaping wound marred his flesh—a clean, circular hole several centimeters in diameter, piercing straight through him. He could see the sandy ground through the gruesome opening. How…? How was he still alive? The question echoed in his mind, a surreal counterpoint to the agonizing throb of pain. How was he even moving with an injury like this?

The thought churned in his mind, but a more pressing question surfaced: What could have inflicted such a precise and devastating injury? A blade? Some kind of projectile? He couldn't recall the moment of impact, only the searing pain and the sudden, terrifying realization of its severity.

The answer arrived swiftly, heralded by a slow, deliberate clapping that echoed through the air, each clap a chilling drumbeat against the silence. His body stiffened, every nerve ending screaming in warning. He knew this feeling, this primal dread that clawed at his gut. He'd experienced it once before, a fleeting brush with death that had left an indelible mark on his soul—the chilling certainty that oblivion was near, a predator circling its prey.

He tried to push himself up, to face the threat, but his strength deserted him. He collapsed back onto the sand, the girl's unconscious weight a heavy burden in his arms. Instinctively, he shifted, trying to shield her with his body, his eyes scanning the shadows for the source of the ominous clapping.

Three figures emerged, their movements slow and deliberate, each step measured and purposeful. Women. They were dressed in peculiar, almost theatrical attire—long, flowing gowns in vibrant, unnatural hues that seemed to shimmer and pulse in the dim light. Tall, pointed hats, like those from old fairy tales, adorned their heads, bobbing slightly with each step. Each woman carried a slender stick, a wand, that glimmered with an unsettling light.

Sawyer's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear. He knew, deep down, who they were. The pieces clicked into place, the strange events of the day coalescing into a horrifying reality.

Witches.

They were real. Not figures of myth and legend, but flesh and blood, standing before him, their presence radiating an aura of ancient power.

"You have lost, Arbitr," the lead witch called out, her voice sharp and commanding. "Give us the key, and we will let you live."

A cold sweat trickled down Sawyer's spine. Fear, raw and paralyzing, gripped him. He knew he was outmatched, half-dead from his injury, burdened with the unconscious girl, facing three fully charged, bloodthirsty witches. He was no warrior, no match for their magic.

Something was wrong, though. He could feel it, a strange disconnect. His powers… they were muted, diminished. He couldn't access the full extent of his abilities, as though a invisible barrier restricted him. How? Why? He had to escape, to get the girl to safety, but the familiar surge of power he relied on was absent.

"Don't even think about escaping, Arbitr," the lead witch said, her words laced with amusement. Sawyer's gaze darted around him, and he saw the other two witches flanking him, effectively cutting off any avenue of escape.

His head slumped, a wave of despair washing over him. Had he given up? He didn't know. He only knew that the witches shouldn't have the key. No matter what. He tried to communicate with Arbitr, to warn him, but his voice wouldn't obey. He was trapped, a silent observer in his own body.

He watched as Arbitr knelt beside the girl, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "I'm sorry," Arbitr whispered, tears streaming down his face. Sawyer felt his pain, a raw, visceral ache that resonated through him. He was dying.

The girl's wound was closing, the skin knitting back together before his eyes. The unnatural pallor of her skin was fading, replaced by a healthy flush.

"I guess this is goodbye, Sawyer," Arbitr said, turning to face the lead witch. A faint smile touched his lips.

"What do you think you're doing?" the witch snarled, raising her wand. The red energy at its tip pulsed menacingly. Arbitr swallowed hard, his gaze lingering on the girl.

"Your last chance!" the witch shrieked.

"I know I won't survive," Arbitr said, his voice surprisingly calm, "but neither will any of you."

"Rutilis Telum!" the witch shrieked, and a beam of crimson energy shot towards Arbitr like a laser. He sidestepped the attack, but another beam, originating from his right, slammed into him, sending him crashing to the ground. He rolled, his body screaming in protest, and extended his hand as if pulling something towards him. The witch, caught off guard, was yanked forward, her neck falling into Arbitr's outstretched hand. With a swift, brutal twist, he silenced her.

"Buy me time, sister!" the remaining witch yelled, raising her hands towards the sky and beginning an incantation.

"I won't let you!" Arbitr roared, and a sword materialized in his hand. It was a dark blade, eighteen inches long with an eight-inch hilt, etched with glowing runes. He charged at the incanting witch, swinging the sword in a wide arc. She dodged effortlessly, and another red beam erupted from her wand.

"Rutilis Telum!" she cried again. But before the beam could reach him, a second sword, this one shimmering with an eerie, blood-red light, appeared in Arbitr's other hand. He lunged, the red blade flashing, and impaled the witch from the side. She crumpled to the ground, her spell unfinished.

He yanked the blood-red sword from her body and turned towards the last witch. She was smiling, seemingly unconcerned, as if she had completed her incantation.

"You're too late," she taunted.

Arbitr simply released his grip on the first sword. It spun through the air like a deadly fan, before plummeting towards the witch. The blade moved with blinding speed, instantly bisecting her. Her headless body fell to the ground, the severed head beside it, the evil smile still frozen on her face. She continued to mutter, "You're too late," the words echoing eerily.

"Shut up!" Arbitr snapped, his gaze fixed on the sky. It was now a swirling vortex of red and darkness. "That stupid witch…" he muttered, turning towards the girl.

He gently placed the key in her open hand, closing her fingers around it. "I can't let this monstrosity leave this realm," he whispered, his voice heavy with despair. "Maybe if we had met in another life… I would have loved you back. Goodbye, Elise."

The ground beneath her feet turned a viscous black, and she began to sink into it. As she was being pulled down, she grabbed his hand and cried out, "Wake up!"

Sawyer jolted upright in his bed, tumbling onto the floor.

"Keep it down!" a voice yelled from downstairs. "These fucking students…" the voice grumbled, presumably addressing someone else, possibly his wife.

Sawyer sat up, disoriented, and looked around for his phone. He found it beside his bed, amidst a chaotic pile of books and half-eaten snacks. He checked the screen and recoiled in shock. 7:30 AM.

"Fuck!" he yelled, scrambling to his feet. "I'm so dead!"

**************************************

Sawyer weaved through the morning traffic like a maniac, miraculously avoiding collisions and speeding tickets. His phone buzzed incessantly on the passenger seat. He glanced at the screen.

Aiden.

He answered.

"Yo, Say. Where the fuck are you?"

"I'm, like, three corners away," Sawyer replied, his voice strained.

"Well, if you're not here in fifteen, then you're three corners away from the afterlife. Professional reddy words, exactly."

Sawyer could hear Aiden's laughter echoing through the phone. Aiden fancied himself a comedian, despite Sawyer's repeated (and often brutal) critiques of his humor. But he'd take Aiden's awful jokes any day over facing Professor Reddy's wrath. Professor Reddy, the head of the city's national teaching hospital, was a formidable figure, notorious for his scathing critiques and demanding expectations. He made sure every student felt the sting of his disapproval.

Professor Reddy's face was a study in escalating fury, a crimson tide rising from his neck to his hairline. He was, Sawyer suspected, responsible for at least sixty percent of the medical school dropouts. A veritable titan of terror, a… well, a total fuck face, Sawyer thought, amending his initial assessment with a touch more venom.

Sawyer screeched his car to a halt in the hospital driveway, the tires protesting loudly. He leaped out, then, halfway to the entrance, stopped dead in his tracks. He doubled back, yanked open the car door, and grabbed his bag from the passenger seat, muttering a string of curses for his near-forgetfulness.

Bag slung over his shoulder, he sprinted towards the reception hall, weaving through the trickle of early-morning arrivals.

"Good morning, soon-to-be Doctor Sawyer!" the receptionist, Mrs. Julie, chirped cheerfully as he flew past her desk.

"Not if the head professor kills me first!" he retorted, barely slowing his pace as he snatched the offered cup of coffee. Halfway down the corridor, he twisted around mid-stride and yelled, "Oh, and good morning to you too, Mrs. Julie!" before disappearing around the corner.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and switched it off with a decisive swipe. No distractions today. Not when he was already flirting with disaster.

He rounded the final corner and slipped into the changing room, the heavy door swinging shut behind him with a reassuring thud. He exhaled slowly, trying to calm his racing heart as he dropped his bag onto the bench. He pulled out a neatly folded set of scrubs—the deep green ones that marked him as a student surgeon at the prestigious teaching hospital.

With practiced efficiency, he stripped off his civilian clothes and tugged on the scrubs. He adjusted the top, ensuring it fit perfectly, then clipped on his hospital ID tag. "Sawyer West Reid, Student Surgeon," the inscription read, catching the light for a fleeting moment.

Before leaving, his hand instinctively went to the inside pocket of his bag. He pulled out a delicate gold necklace, a simple chain with a small, blade-shaped pendant. It was a precious heirloom, passed down from his mother. He brought it to his lips, kissing the cool metal briefly, a silent invocation of courage.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, tucking the necklace safely beneath his scrub top. "Let's do this."

He pushed open the door and stepped out, his stride now purposeful as he headed towards the surgical wing.

There were countless rules governing the hospital, especially for student surgeons, but three unspoken rules reigned supreme:

 Don't speak unless asked a question.

 Don't touch a patient unless assigned.

 Don't be late.

Sawyer had broken the first two on occasion, but he had always, religiously, adhered to the third. Until today. Today, he had crossed the line.

He cautiously pushed open the door to the operating theatre. A sea of students stood clustered inside. He tiptoed towards the back, trying to blend into the crowd.

"Mr. Sawyer West Reid!" a voice boomed, laced with barely suppressed fury.

Sawyer swallowed hard. He turned to see Aiden giving him a thumbs-up, his expression a mix of sympathy and amusement. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, revealing the source of the thunderous voice.

Professor John Stevens, popularly called reddy by the students because of how his face popped red when he was mad at them.

Sawyer could see the crimson flush creeping up his neck, his face a mask of barely contained rage. He clutched his observation board under his arm and walked towards the professor, each step a journey towards his potential doom. "Oh fuck," he muttered under his breath.

"You'd better have a damn good explanation for being late," Professor Reddy growled, cutting off Sawyer's preemptive apology with a wave of his hand. "And I don't want to hear any of that traffic nonsense." Sawyer snapped his mouth shut, wisely deciding that silence was his best defense.

**************************************

"I…overslept?" Sawyer mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You overslept?" Aiden echoed, incredulous, as he grabbed a lunch tray.

"What did you expect me to say, man?" Sawyer retorted, exasperated.

"Anything! Literally anything! Your cat died? Your house fell down? You died?"

"I don't have a cat," Sawyer pointed out.

"The professor doesn't know that," Aiden countered. "Wait a minute, that's not even the point! All I'm saying is, you should have come up with a better excuse."

"Oh, maybe next time I will think of something," Sawyer said sarcastically.

"Next time? Oh, pfft. You don't have a next time," Aiden said dramatically. "You're on night shift until next week, remember? And you're supposed to take the PKs on their introduction classes."

"WHATT?" Sawyer exclaimed. 

"Oh no, what? When and how? Because you are so toasted!" Aiden replied. 

"Come on! Couldn't you talk to the professor for me?" Sawyer pleaded.

"No can do," Aiden replied, shaking his head.

"Come on, Aiden, he's your dad!"

"He is my dad," Aiden conceded, "but trust me, I don't want to join you on night duty."

"Ah, you're useless, bro," Sawyer groaned.

"So, I've heard. Anyways, can I see your project?" Aiden asked, changing the subject.

"No."

"Not even a maybe?"

"How about a no?"

"Okay, how about this?" Aiden proposed. "I convince him to reduce your death sentence to four days and an introduction with the PKs, and then I get to use your project as a reference? Isn't that a good deal?"

"You mean you get to copy my project," Sawyer corrected him. "And no. Three days, no introduction, and then we're good."

"Three days? Come on! Who do you think I am? A god? No can do. Four days max, with the introduction," Aiden insisted.

"Is this really your best offer?" Sawyer asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes! Sadly, yes, it is," Aiden admitted.

Sawyer sighed. "Fine. I'll take it."

"Good!" Aiden said, extending his hand for a shake. Sawyer slapped it away.

"Until I'm sure it's done, no project," Sawyer said firmly, digging into his sandwich.

"Oh, come on! Can I at least have a peek?" Aiden whined.

But Sawyer didn't reply. He pulled out his phone and started scrolling on Connect.

"Wait, you're back on Connect, and you didn't tell me?" Aiden asked, craning his neck to see Sawyer's screen.

"Not really. I just use it to look at pictures," Sawyer replied vaguely.

"Pictures?" Aiden asked, his voice laced with suspicion. "You know, things like that make me question our relationship, like, bro?"

"Come on, Aiden, you know how much of a friend you are to me," Sawyer said, trying to deflect the question.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now, whose pictures are you looking at?" Aiden persisted.

"My mum," Sawyer replied quietly, almost reluctantly.

"Oh, my bad, bro," Aiden said, pulling back.

His waist buzzed. He glanced down at his phone. "Oh, man, I have to run, Say. I've got, like, three hours of consultation duty."

"Break a leg," Sawyer replied, not looking up.

"Sure," Aiden said, grabbing his sandwich and hurrying off.

Sawyer continued to scroll through his phone. He hated the noise in the lunch hall. He wished he had his headphones with him, but he'd forgotten them at home.

The noise slowly subsided. Sawyer looked up. The hall was empty.

"Huh? Ehm, guys?" he called out, but no one answered. The door leading to the kitchen creaked open. A hand, dark and grimy, reached out and grasped the doorframe.

The room beyond was shrouded in darkness, and the air that wafted out smelled of rotten flesh. Sawyer was used to it; it was a familiar, if unpleasant, aroma in certain parts of the hospital. He held his breath and watched as the door was pushed open wider.

He scrambled to his feet and made for the door leading to the main hall. He pushed it open… and recoiled in shock. Everyone from the lunch hall stood in the main corridor, arranged in two neat files, staring intently at the dark, seemingly endless corridor beyond.

They slowly turned towards him as he opened the door, their eyes… their pupils were completely white, devoid of any iris. "What the fuck?" he gasped, taking a step back. They began to move towards him, their blank, white eyes fixed on him.

He retreated, step by agonizing step, until his back slammed against the door to the lunch hall. He could hear his own ragged breathing, his body trembling with fear. An unnerving silence descended.

A hand, gnarled and impossibly pale, shot out from the darkness beyond the glass panel in the lunch hall door. It snaked through the small opening, its fingers, long and skeletal, wrapping around Sawyer's wrist in a vise-like grip. He recoiled with a strangled cry, his heart leaping into his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the worst, a vision of decaying flesh and bone seared into his mind. He could almost feel the clammy touch of the dead hand, the phantom scent of decay filling his nostrils.

He flinched, expecting the cold embrace of something inhuman, but nothing happened. The grip didn't tighten, didn't pull. He remained suspended in that moment of terror, his breath trapped in his lungs.

Finally, hesitantly, he opened his eyes.

He was back in the lunch hall, sitting in his chair, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. The scene was normal, mundane. Students chatted and ate, oblivious to his near-supernatural experience. A half-eaten sandwich lay on his tray, next to a carton of milkshake. He stared at his hand, turning it over and over, half-expecting to see the marks of the ghostly grasp. But there was nothing.

He let out a shaky breath, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. "Oh, my bad. I'm sorry," he mumbled, feeling foolish. He glanced around the lunch hall, meeting the curious stares of a few nearby students. He offered a sheepish grin and shrugged. "Don't know how they make these things these days," he muttered, referring vaguely to his phone, as if the strange episode was simply a technical glitch. He switched off the screen and grabbed his lukewarm sandwich and milkshake. With a final, hurried glance around the room, he bolted out the door, eager to escape the lingering unease.