I'm floating somewhere between consciousness and oblivion when the voices start to sharpen, carving through the haze in my skull. My body feels alien—numb, heavy, as though I'm a passenger strapped inside myself. I want to blink, but my eyelids refuse to obey.
A face leans into view: sterile mask of concern, crisp white coat. The doctor's eyes—kind, rehearsed. He speaks with the cadence of someone who's done this a thousand times.
"You collapsed from extreme stress," he says, voice calm but distant. "You need rest. It's the first day of the new year; take it easy. At least three days of bed rest, or you risk another collapse. Here—take these."
He presses a small pack of pills into my palm. My fingers barely close around them. Pills. As if wrapping my fate in capsules could straighten what has bent inside me.
A familiar, mocking voice drifts in: "See? Told you, Cameraman. You work too damn much."
I taste bile. I don't have to look to know who it is: the same faces from the lab, leaning in with false concern, amusement flickering in their eyes. They call me "Cameraman" because they can't be bothered to say "Kamanuzzaman." Too long. Too foreign. Too much effort. But they have energy enough to use me whenever it suits them.
One of them—smug, impatient—folds his arms. "Man, one day you'll wake up and realize you wasted your life here. Should've gone to that New Year's party." His tone is scornful but coated in a thin veneer of concern, the way someone might pretend to worry about a dying plant they helped neglect.
I force a weak laugh, chest aching. "Right. Feel terrible. Probably can't work today."
I reach toward my desk—though the motion feels disconnected from intention—grab the annual report I'd stayed up nights to finish. I push it toward him as if it were a lifeline. "Here. Sorry I didn't submit before the meeting."
He snatches it like carrion. He'll strip it for credit. I've seen it before: my labor feeding their advances. I let the thought flicker: Let them pretend it's theirs. Let them climb over me to feel taller.
Then Sintia steps forward. Her brow is creased with genuine worry—unlike the others' forced concern. "Kama, are you sure you're okay? You looked pale when you came in. You've been staying late every night... I've missed seeing you at lunch." Her voice is soft but earnest, as if she's glimpsed the exhaustion under my composure.
I barely meet her eyes, because I don't want to. Her care feels like another obligation I don't need. I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, shrugging. "I'll live. You're making it sound worse than it is." My tone is flat; I avoid the weight behind her words. Because if I admit how bad it is, I'd have to admit vulnerability—and I can't do that now.
Sintia hesitates, trying another tack: "Maybe you should take a break, even if it's just a day off. Rest isn't a weakness." She offers me a small, understanding smile—one I've seen only from her among this crowd.
I nod curtly, folding my arms. "Thanks, Sintia. But I've handled worse." Inside, I chafe at her attention. I'm used to indifference; someone caring makes me uneasy.
A different colleague—smug, impatient—seizes the moment. "Man, one day you'll wake up and realize you wasted your life here. Should've gone to that New Year's party." His tone is scornful, a thin veneer of concern masking competition. My lips twitch in a humorless grin. "Maybe. But I'd rather waste it on work than empty chatter."
Sintia's eyes flick between me and him, her expression troubled, but she doesn't push further. I watch her step back, shoulders tightening slightly as if disappointed I won't accept her care. I don't stop her—indifference is easier than gratitude or guilt.
Another pats my shoulder, eyes pitying. "Go home, sleep. Do something besides work for once." I nod again, more out of habit than conviction. My mind drifts back to the presence, the command: Ebonveil. Their talk of rest feels absurd when my world has cracked.
I avoid the taxi. The driver's gaze that night lingered too long, as if he sensed something wrong in me. Instead, I ride the bus home, letting the engine's steady rumble hush the chaotic thoughts. Each stop brings me closer to the apartment where my sister waits, unaware of the unseen weight I carry.
I step through the door; she's on the couch, blanket cocooning her. She looks up, concern and relief mingling in her eyes.
"You're home early. What happened?" Her voice threads through the quiet apartment.
I force a grin. "New Year's lull. Everyone was too hungover or lazy, so they let me off." Lies fall easily, but guilt pricks me. She believes me—always has.
"They kicked you out?" she asks, brows knitting.
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "Guess so. Dedication or stupidity—your pick."
She laughs, the sound like a fragile bubble I'm afraid to pop. "You should've come to the party. Would've been fun."
I shake my head. "Parties aren't my thing."
She studies me for a beat, then smiles. "Well, since you're free, hang out with me? You don't get time off."
I swallow. "I'd rather spend time with my adorable sister than strangers."
Her eyes soften. "You always say that, but you never stay home."
I shrug, but the truth stings: I've been blind to her loneliness, drowned in my obsessions. Her apartment garden thrives—raspberries, guavas—but I can't remember the last time I noticed her tending to it.
That evening, I collapse onto my bed. My eyelids droop, exhaustion pulling me under, but before sleep arrives, a cold ripple of fear: What if the presence seizes control while I sleep? My fingers tighten around the sheet.
Then: If it wanted to, it would have already. All it did was speak, issue a command. It hasn't attacked me—yet. But commanding me to go to Ebonveil… I shiver at the memory of its tone: neither coaxing nor threatening, but absolute.
As if I'd do something suicidal. I exhale, but the tremor in my chest won't subside. Night brings no comfort; it only magnifies the question: has my fate already been rewritten?
Morning arrives too soon. The sky outside is dimming in late afternoon light. My sister appears at the door, leaning with that familiar mix of playfulness and worry. "Hey, lazy—look at the time. You slept all afternoon."
I groan, swinging legs off the bed. My body feels oddly normal: no phantom stiffness, no echo of that voice. Relief and dread mingle: relief that nothing happened overnight; dread that the presence still waits, patient.
She places a plate of raspberries and guavas on the bedside table. "Your harvest looks great. Balcony garden must be thriving."
I manage a small smile. "You put a lot of work into it."
Her eyes shine. "It keeps me sane when I can't go out much. When you're at work, it's my company."
My chest tightens. She's lonely—something I've ignored. I reach out and ruffle her hair. "Maybe I should work from home more, keep you company."
She rolls her eyes but doesn't push back. "You'd go crazy without the lab buzz."
I laugh, but it's hollow. "Maybe. But I'd try."
We share a quiet moment. Outside, the city hums, oblivious to the weight I bear. I taste sweetness from the berries but can't savor it fully; my thoughts keep returning to Ebonveil.
Later, on the balcony, I lean against the railing. The air is cool, scented with wet earth. Stars flicker overhead, distant and indifferent. I listen to the city breathing below, feel the faint pulse of life around me—and inside me, the remnant echo of that command.
I close my eyes, summoning honesty: I wanted to save her. I feared she'd leave me first. Now, I sense I may be the one to leave her behind, swallowed by whatever path the Sigil and the presence have set me on.
A deep sigh escapes. All my years of searching, pushing boundaries in the lab, seeking answers in equations and experiments—have they brought me here? Or have they only prepared me to face this: a choice I never sought, in a forest I never planned to enter?
The raspberries' sweetness lingers on my tongue, a fragile reminder of life's small joys. My sister's laughter echoes in my mind, a tether to normalcy. But the silence of the night answers nothing.
I open my eyes to the stars. They burn on, indifferent: points of light in a void. I tighten my grip on the railing.
I don't know what tomorrow holds. But I know I can't ignore what's inside me any longer.
Tomorrow, I will decide whether to obey the command. But tonight, I cling to the last moments of choice, to the memory of home and the sister who believes in me. If I step into Ebonveil, I step into the unknown. If I refuse, I defy a presence I barely understand. Either way, nothing will be the same.
Silence answers.