Coolos3

Trapped in a locked concrete room with no memory, Lukas awakens to a chilling note: “You have 24 hours to confess.” A raspy voice from a rusted speaker delivers cryptic clues every hour, each one unraveling a dark past he can’t fully grasp—blood-stained hands, a river’s edge, and the faint echo of a scream. Amid the chaos of his fractured mind, one name shines through the fog: Raisa, a woman tied to him by love, betrayal, or something far worse. As glimpses of her warmth clash with visions of violence, Lukas struggles to piece together the truth. Is he a victim, a killer, or a pawn in a game he doesn’t understand? With time slipping away, the line between guilt and innocence blurs, and the final confession may leave more questions than answers—about Raisa, about himself, and about the door that waits beyond the 24th hour.

Echoes of 24 Hours

The gate loomed, its rusted bars glinting with 13, a scar against the mist as the flood roared behind us, water crashing against stone, its rust-stained fingers clawing the air. I gripped Raisa's hand—or her shadow—her form flickering, her green-hazel eyes wide, alive—or hollow. The necklace swung in my fist, its heart pendant a pulse against the chaos. "Through it," I said, my voice a whip cracking the haze, "we're not stopping."

Her breath hitched—or the wind's—her voice sharp, "Through? Lukas, it's locked—it's them!" The gate rattled, a low hum rising—or screaming—whispers threading through the bars: Mara's "You promised," Toren's "You broke us," Lira's "You left." My chest tightened, the flood surging closer, its tide licking my heels. "Locked?" I snarled, lunging forward, my hands slamming the bars—or passing through—the metal cold, then hot, then nothing.

The mist twisted, the village fading—or sharpening—beyond the gate, a field of cracked earth stretched, dotted with shadows—or stones—tilting in the gray light. Raisa yanked me back—or dissolved—her cry piercing, "Don't—it's the river—it's us!" Water erupted, not behind, but ahead, bursting from the ground, dark and swift, a mirror reflecting not sky, but faces—Mara's glare, Toren's frown, Lira's tears—swirling, then her, Raisa, screaming, her scar vivid, then gone.

I stumbled, the necklace slipping—or held—the gate groaning as the flood crashed from both sides, trapping us—or me. "No!" I roared, my voice breaking, shoving forward—or falling—the bars bending—or vanishing—my hands clawing air, or her, or water. Her laughter echoed—or drowned—"You're breaking, Lukas—breaking us!" The earth split, the mist burned, and the gate sang, a rusted howl as the flood swallowed—or spat me—into the field, Raisa's voice fading, "Beyond?" leaving me sprawled, alone—or not—on cracked ground, the 13 glinting in the silence.

The Gate’s Rusted Song