The fluorescent lights in the campus hallway hummed with that familiar, headache-inducing buzz. Ishy walked with his head down, black hoodie pulled low over his forehead. Mid-term season had turned the corridors into a river of stressed students clutching notebooks and coffee cups. No one paid him any attention. To them, he was just another twenty-two-year-old senior trying to survive the final stretch of the semester.
But Ishy knew better. He wasn't the same person anymore.
Under the high collar of his sweater, right where his neck met his shoulder, sat the mark. A dark, blood-colored bruise that refused to fade. It wasn't painful exactly — it was cold. Deep. Like something had pressed its thumb into his flesh and decided to stay. Every time his pulse quickened, the bruise throbbed in response, as if it were alive and listening to his fear.
It had started two years ago at his mother's grave.
He still remembered the cheap plastic flowers he had placed on the dirt. The way the wind had carried away his whispered apologies. He had gone there looking for closure. Instead, he left with this thing attached to him. The next morning the bruise appeared — dark red at first, then slowly turning into that unnatural, almost black shade. Since then, it had never left.
The old campus legends called it the Catalyst Anchor. A soul-tether born from grief. "A longing heart is a porous thing," they said. "Grief is the soil where the Anchor takes root." Ishy used to laugh at those stories. Now he lived inside one.
He kept his head down as he walked toward the parking lot. The weight of the mark made every step feel heavier. He had learned the hard way how to hide it — high collars, hoodies even in the heat, never letting anyone get too close. One wrong glance and people would start whispering "Infected."
The parking lot was nearly empty. Ishy slid into his old, beat-up car and gripped the steering wheel. For a moment he just sat there, eyes closed, trying to steady his breathing. He needed to get back to his rented house. Lock the door. Maybe sleep before the ringing started again.
But the city had other plans.
Halfway home, the traffic lights ahead turned into a sea of blue and red strobes. A checkpoint. Soldiers in full tactical gear stood beside police officers, scanning every vehicle. Since the first wave of "Infected" cases made the news, the government had moved fast. What started as medical alerts quickly became military containment. Anyone showing signs — pale skin, hooded eyes, strange behavior — was pulled aside for "evaluation."
Ishy's hands tightened on the wheel. The line of cars moved painfully slow. When his turn finally came, a bright flashlight beam struck his window like a physical blow.
"Window down," the officer ordered.
Ishy obeyed, keeping his chin tucked low. The hood still shadowed most of his face.
"License and IC," the officer said. His voice was cold, professional. "Pull over to the shoulder. Routine check for Vulnerables. Don't make this difficult."
Ishy's heart hammered. He could already feel the first hints of the ringing starting deep in his ears — a high, crystalline sound that only he could hear. The Anchor was stirring.
He steered the car to the curb. Another officer approached, shining his light directly at Ishy's neck. The beam caught the edge of the blood-colored bruise peeking just above his collar.
The officer's expression changed instantly.
"Ishmael Farron," he read from the license, then looked up with sharper eyes. "Step out of the vehicle."
Ishy's mouth went dry. "I… I haven't done anything wrong."
"Out. Now."
The second officer wasn't looking at Ishy's face. He was staring at the empty air just above his shoulder, as if he could see the invisible tether the Anchor had wrapped around his soul. A Caster. One of the government hunters trained to spot the mark in the overlapping realm.
The ringing in Ishy's ears grew louder, sharper. The world around him started to feel thin, like reality was peeling away at the edges. The ozone smell — metallic and wrong — flooded the inside of the car.
He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Please, not here. Not in front of them.
Memories flashed behind his eyes. His mother's tired smile when she came home from night shifts. The way she used to ruffle his hair and tell him, "You don't have to carry everything alone, Ishy." He had carried it anyway. And now this thing was dragging the last piece of him down with it.
The officer's hand moved toward his holster. "Don't make this a scene, kid. You're coming with us for investigation. Standard procedure for Anchored individuals."
Ishy tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. The Drowse was no longer a distant threat. It was rising like a tide inside his skull — heavy, unstoppable, pulling his consciousness toward the abyss.
The blue and red lights blurred together into a jagged, glowing halo. The officer's voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a deep well.
Ishy's head slumped forward against the headrest. His eyelids grew impossibly heavy. As his chin dropped, the blood-colored bruise on his neck was fully exposed under the harsh flashlight beam.
The last thing he heard was the officer shouting something, but the words dissolved into static.
Then everything went silent.
The real world slipped away completely
***
Ishy's eyes snapped open underwater.
Thick, warm liquid filled his mouth and nose — the taste of iron flooding his lungs. He was sinking fast in a vast Sea of Blood. The liquid was heavy, viscous, and far too red. Panic surged through him as he thrashed wildly, trying to swim upward toward what he hoped was the surface.
But fate refused to let him ascend.
No matter how hard he kicked or clawed, an invisible force dragged him deeper. The Sea of Blood seemed to want him to drown. It pressed against his chest, filled his throat, and refused to release him. Time stretched into eternity. His lungs burned. His vision began to darken at the edges.
His eyes finally gave up. Slowly, they shut.
After what felt like an endless drowning, a powerful wave surged beneath him. It lifted his unconscious body and carried him forward, pushing him roughly onto a shore of crushed white stone and bone.
He lay there, motionless, alone on the desolate beach as the red tide gently lapped at his feet.
The cold wave hitting his ankles finally stirred him.
Ishy's eyes flickered open. He gasped harshly, coughing up thick red liquid. His body jerked as he realized he was no longer underwater. He was on land — wet, cold, and very much alive.
"Thank God… that I'm not dead… yet," he rasped, his voice coarse and broken.
He paused for a brief moment, staring at the bruised sky and the endless crimson sea behind him.
"…For a moment I thought I was still drowning. But now I'm in a different realm… I don't even know where I am."
Ishy sighed in deep frustration. He already knew the truth. He had been pulled into the Fallen Dream — the place where all the Infected eventually met their demise.
Suddenly, a cold, authoritative ethereal voice echoed directly inside his mind, bypassing his ears completely.
[Welcome, Aspirant… You've been expected by the Catalyst Anchor, and it has prepared a gift for you.]