When Light Dies

"No matter what happens..."

The voice was soft—tender, almost trembling—but steady. She was lying beside him, bare skin pressed against his, golden hair spilled across the pillow like morning sunlight trapped in silk. Her eyes, filled with tears and something more devastating than fear—hope—searched his face.

"I'll come back to you. Even if it costs me everything."

His own voice, strained with unspoken weight, replied.

Then everything burned away.

---

Faint murmurs drifted through the veil of sleep. Echoes.

"Dad, look."

A child's voice, hesitant.

"He's waking up."

Another voice, older, worn down by years. Quiet as dusk.

Haruki's eyelids trembled before parting. The world swam into view, a blurred palette of dim light and shadow. His breath hitched, panic rising as he tried to speak—but his mouth was bound tightly with tape, sealing every sound. A bitter taste of stale adhesive clung to his tongue.

He tried to move.

But both his arms and legs refused—restrained, tied down. The bindings cut coldly into his skin. He fought, grunted, pleaded through muffled breath, his body thrashing in futile resistance. The sound of fabric stretching. Wood creaking.

Then—

Footsteps.

Two silhouettes emerged into the flickering candlelight. A man and a boy. The small room was cloaked in warmth and dread, its windows shrouded by heavy dark fabric, nailed boards pressed firm to each opening. Candles sputtered in glass jars on the floor, dancing shadows across the walls. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and silence.

The man stepped forward first—cautious, one hand raised as if trying to tame a wild animal.

"Shhhhh… Easy now. Easy. I won't hurt you. But I need you to listen. Closely."

Haruki froze, panting through his nose. The boy hid behind his father's legs, his small fingers clutching the fabric of his coat. He looked no older than seven.

The man knelt beside Haruki, his features revealed by candlelight—rough beard, tired eyes sunken in sleeplessness, and a makeshift weapon in his other hand: a rusted pipe, gripped like a lifeline.

"I'm gonna take the tape off. But promise me something—no yelling. Not a sound. Not a whisper too loud. You do that, and…" He paused, eyes flickering toward his son, then back to Haruki with grave finality. "I'll have to do something neither of us wants. Understand?"

Haruki nodded, desperate.

The man hesitated, then slowly peeled the tape away. The pain was sharp, tearing at the skin of his lips, but the gasp that followed was worse—like the first breath after drowning.

Haruki coughed, gasped again, then whispered hoarsely, "Please… what's going on…?"

The man ignored the question at first. He pointed to Haruki's side, where the layers of his shirt had been pulled up and a blood-stained wrap marked his ribcage.

"That wound. You been bitten?"

"What?" Haruki blinked, confusion washing over him. "No. I… I was shot. During a mission. I was in a coma. I just woke up—"

The man's grip on the pipe tightened, eyes narrowing.

"Shot? Where? When? What mission?"

"I don't know what day it is," Haruki replied, his voice trembling. "I swear. I was part of a recon team. Middle East. Got hit. Woke up in a hospital. Then everything was… empty. Deserted."

Silence. The man's expression didn't soften. If anything, it hardened, eyes scanning Haruki's face like searching for cracks in a mask.

Before another question could come, the boy tugged on his father's coat again, whispering.

"Dad… she's here."

Time seemed to freeze.

The man reacted instantly—snuffing out the candles with swift, practiced movements. One by one, darkness swallowed the room until only faint outlines remained. Haruki's breath caught in his throat.

He didn't even have time to ask before the man crawled over, quickly untying the ropes.

"Don't move," he whispered, voice razor-sharp. "And don't speak. Not a single word."

The boy whimpered, trembling, and his father embraced him tightly, cupping a hand over his mouth. The child began to cry, his sobs muffled and shuddering. The man held him close, burying his face against the boy's hair, whispering broken things Haruki couldn't hear. His voice cracked with emotion, but he made no sound loud enough to be heard outside the room.

Haruki sat up, rubbing his raw wrists, eyes darting around in the dark. The atmosphere was wrong—he could feel it. A crawling dread under his skin.

"Over here," the man whispered. "Quiet. Look."

He pointed toward a small gap between the fabric covering the boarded window. Haruki crouched and peered through.

Outside, under the pale glow of a crooked streetlight, stood people. Dozens. Men and women. Children.

But none of them were right.

Their limbs jerked like puppets strung on frayed wire. Their necks twisted too far, jaws trembling open and shut as if mumbling things to themselves—broken, disjointed conversations that no longer made sense. Their eyes moved too quickly, scanning in every direction, then stopping, staring blankly ahead. Some walked in circles. Others just stood.

Their faces were still human—but every gesture was wrong.

Haruki's heart sank into ice.

Then—

Knocking. Soft at first. Then again. Rhythmic. A woman's hand pressed against the doorframe. The wooden knob rattled gently.

Haruki turned slowly toward the door and peered through the peephole.

It was a woman in a thin nightgown, barefoot, head tilted slightly to one side. Her eyes were wide open, lips moving as if whispering something to herself—but no sound came. Her skin was pale. Too pale.

She looked… ordinary. And that made it worse.

The knob twisted again.

The boy let out a sudden wail—a sharp, panicked cry.

The man's reaction was instant. He clamped his hand over the boy's mouth again, tears slipping from his eyes as he held his son tighter, rocking him, whispering, begging under his breath.

Haruki backed away from the door, dread sinking into his gut like cold iron. He looked at the man, who now sat against the wall, holding his child like the world was ending. Silently crying.

The knocking stopped.

But the silence that followed was worse than the sound.

Haruki sat frozen in the dark, breath shallow, listening to the stillness.

And somewhere beneath it all—beneath the human faces and the candlelit room, beneath the veil of quiet horror and whispered fears—he felt it.

Something ancient. Something watching.

And the promise echoed again in his mind—

"No matter what happens… I'll come back to you."

He didn't know where she was.

He didn't know what she had become.

But the world he knew was gone—and whatever replaced it wasn't done with him yet.

(To be continued...)