In the beginning, there was darkness.Nameless. Primal.But within its womb, light was born — blind like a child, and just as helpless.Light became hope.And then — a weapon.
Light can save.
And light can kill.
Remember this, child.
The dream crumbled like ash.
First came warmth — sticky, as if someone had poured hot water on his chest. Then, a creak. Rusty, strained. And darkness. Not the kind that hides stars for eons, but something closer. Personal. Beneath his eyelids.
He opened his eyes.
Heavy. Dry. The world wavered like behind warped glass, then slowly settled. The dim light from a ceiling lamp flickered, as if on the verge of death. The air was thick, reeking of mold, metal, and something rotten.
He sat up. His head filled with a heavy weight, like lead.
"Where... am I?" — The words fell out, as if they didn't belong to him.
The room. Small. Metal, rust-eaten throughout. Sheets of flaking paint clung to the walls, remnants of posters maybe — now just pale scraps, vague silhouettes.
The bed he woke on groaned under him. Hard, with a sagging mattress. In the corner — shelves. Books. Items. Food packages. He reached for one. Flipped it over. Date: Best before 2030. A dark mold had bloomed across the lid.
He rose slowly. The floor creaked beneath him. The metal under his soles felt brittle, as if it might give way at any moment.
"What… is going on?"
Something clenched in his chest. Suddenly. Then — pain. Like an invisible hand gripped his temples. He clutched his head. A thin stream of blood trickled from his nose. Hot. Viscous.
He pressed his palm to his face, wiped it, stared at the crimson smear.
Emptiness.
Where memories should have been — a gaping void.
He didn't know his age. Didn't know who he was. Where he came from. Where he was born. Who he had spoken to. What he loved, who he hated. Not a single face. Not one name. Only—
"Dave. My name is Dave…"
He exhaled. Dully. Exhausted.
The thought came on its own. Not as a guess — but a residual flash. The only thing he could call his.
It terrified him. Burned inside. Not knowing oneself — worse than being trapped. Worse than death.
He leaned against the wall. Standing there, breathing heavily, feeling his knees tremble.
"It's terrifying. I know nothing about myself.But… despite that…I can't give up."
He didn't know where the thought came from. But he clung to it like a drowning man. Something still lived inside. Something wasn't broken.
He looked at the door. Rusted. Massive. Thick metal. An old control panel to the side — long dead.
I have to get out. I need to understand who I am. Where I am. What happened to the world.
He took one step, then another. His legs obeyed reluctantly, as if the body hadn't moved in a long time. He opened the door. Beyond it — a narrow hallway, outlines barely visible in the dark.
To the right — a door. He pushed it. A bathroom.
Low ceiling. Tiles — cracked, chipped in places. The mirror was cloudy. He stepped closer.
And froze.
Stared. Unrecognizing.
A young man. Early twenties, maybe. Dark hair, slightly tousled like he'd just woken up. Gray eyes. Empty. As if nothing lived behind them. A T-shirt, plain pants, worn out.
He ran a hand across his face. Then to his forehead.
Something beneath the hair.
He parted the strands. Carefully.
A mark.
Black. A circle with thin lines radiating outward — like rays. Resembling the sun. Or what was left of it.
He clenched his teeth.
"What is this…"
But before the question formed, a thought flashed:
"The light of the sun will save you.But it will also destroy you."
He staggered back. Looked around. His breath quickened. His chest heaved.
He didn't understand what it meant. But the phrase lodged itself like a splinter in his mind. Deep.
He opened the medicine cabinet. On the shelves — jars, blister packs. He picked one up, examined it. Expiry date — 2029. Some were labeled by hand. Medicine for cough, pain, nausea.
"All expired…"
The stench from the bottles was suffocating. Like everything inside had died. A long time ago.
Something caught his eye in the drawer's corner. He pulled it out. A gun. A couple of bullets. Not new, but not rusted either. He checked the slide. The lubricant still held. Smelled of oil and iron.
"This'll do…"
He took the weapon. Tucked it into his waistband. The weight pulled pleasantly on his back. Something about it felt… familiar. His hands found the right grip. Fingers — steady.
He left the bathroom. Returned to the corridor. At the very end — a massive door. Thick. There was no other word for it. Like an emergency airlock. Maybe — the exit.
He stepped closer. Pressed his palm to the metal. Cold. Rough.
"Well then… let's go," he said. Quietly.
End of Chapter 1.