symptoms

The next morning, Hope jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat. His heart thudded against his ribs, but it felt... distant, like it wasn't entirely his. The familiar chill of his crumbling hideout crept into his bones, but this wasn't the usual discomfort of sleeping on a worn-out mattress in a half-collapsed building.

No, this was something else.

His limbs were heavy, like they'd turned to lead overnight. Every breath felt like dragging air through broken glass, sharp and labored. A dull, throbbing pain settled in his chest, spreading like wildfire through his veins. It was the kind of pain that spoke of something deeper than exhaustion—something closer to decay.

He forced himself to sit up, his vision swimming. The edges of the room blurred, darkening as if shadows were leaking into the corners of his sight. His skin felt clammy, too cold and too hot all at once. His fingers trembled as he reached for the water bottle stashed by his bed, but even lifting it felt like a monumental effort.

This wasn't just being tired. This wasn't hunger or dehydration.

This was something else.

Hope had seen it before—the signs were unmistakable. The slow, creeping weakness. The bone-deep exhaustion. The feeling that your body was shutting down, piece by piece. It was the look people had when they were about to be pulled into The Ashlands. The symptoms of The Veil—the slow death of the soul.

No... no, no, no.

Panic flared in his chest, sharper than the physical pain. His mind raced. He'd always kept his head down, always avoided the chaos that dragged people into The Veil. This wasn't supposed to happen to him. He was careful. He was invisible.

But now, his body felt like it was betraying him, piece by piece.

Staggering to his feet, he stumbled toward the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. What he saw made his blood run colder than the night air ever could.

His reflection was pale, almost gray. His eyes, usually sharp and wary, were sunken and dark, like the light inside them was being snuffed out. His lips were tinged blue, his skin waxy, like the life was already draining from it.

He pressed his hand against the mirror, his fingers leaving faint smudges on the glass. The reflection didn't quite match his movements, lagging a heartbeat behind. And for the briefest moment, he thought he saw something else in the glass—a shadowy figure, hollow-eyed and grinning, waiting to take his place.

Hope stumbled back, his chest tightening with fear. This was it. His soul was being taken. He'd heard the stories—once the symptoms started, it was only a matter of time before you were dragged into The Ashlands.

And in there... survival wasn't guaranteed.