The Vanishing Name

Aarav's breath came in short, sharp gasps. The figures loomed closer, their hands stretching toward him. Cold. Too cold. The air around them warped like a mirage, distorting reality itself.

Then—a whisper. Not from them, but from somewhere inside his own mind.

"Say your name."

His name? Aarav tried to speak, but his tongue felt heavy, his throat constricted. His name… something was wrong. He knew it, didn't he?

The figures stilled. Their black eyes widened in unison. The walls pulsed, the dim light throbbing like a second heartbeat.

"Say it!"

The whisper grew urgent, desperate.

Aarav forced his lips apart. His name. He had to remember—

Nothing.

A hollow, yawning void stretched where his name should be. Like it had been stolen.

Panic surged through him. He had memories, thoughts, fears—but without a name, who was he?

The figures moved again, their whispers weaving together in a dreadful chant.

"He is forgetting. He is almost ready."

No. No, no, no! Aarav clenched his fists. He wasn't ready for whatever they wanted. He stumbled backward, but the walls shifted, trapping him like a living cage.

A flicker of movement—something different.

A figure at the very back, watching but not moving. Unlike the others, its face wasn't blurred. It was clear. Too clear.

And then Aarav saw why.

It was him.

Not a reflection. Not a trick of light. Him. Standing there. Expressionless. Unblinking.

And when it spoke, the voice was his own.

"You took too long. Now, I take your place."

Aarav barely had time to scream before darkness swallowed him whole.