The city was dead.

  Only the skeletal remains of shattered skyscrapers and colossal mounds of concrete remained. A thick shroud of dust choked the sky, turning the sun into a faint, sickly smear. Where birdsong or the roar of traffic once filled the air, only a heavy, lethal silence hung now.

  Then that silence was ripped apart.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  Explosions tore through the ruins in rapid succession. The final blast hit like a hammer from hell. The tallest skyscraper shuddered, twisted like cheap paper, and collapsed in on itself. A storm of debris exploded outward—severed limbs, rivers of blood, and desperate screams rising from beneath the rubble.

  From the swirling dust and smoke, a lone silhouette slowly rose.

  His breathing was ragged. His right hand pressed hard against his stomach, dark, almost black blood leaking between his fingers. The wound was deep. Fatal.

  He lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at the “thing” charging straight toward him through the haze. There was no fear on his face—just tired, mocking amusement.

  “Damn it…” he rasped, voice rough with dust. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

  He pressed harder on the wound and grinned through the pain.

  “Yeah… I think I finally get why I didn’t die that day.”

  The world went black.

  Darkness.

  An endless, bottomless void.

  A single pale red light drifted down from above, illuminating a shallow pool of water below.

  A young man lay half-submerged in that water—seventeen or eighteen years old, black hair, pale skin, athletic build.

  He shot upright like a man drowning, gasping violently. His eyes were bloodshot, chest heaving as if he had just clawed his way out of hell itself.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Where… the hell am I?”

  His voice echoed into nothingness. Shaking, he staggered to his feet. The only sound was water sloshing around his ankles. When he turned, his breath caught.

  Three doors floated in the void.

  The left door was black metal, riddled with bullet holes, burn marks, and vicious claw scars—like it had survived a war by itself. Explosions and metallic clashes echoed behind it.

  The middle door was flawless white marble inlaid with gold. Cheerful children’s laughter drifted from beyond it, followed by a crackling, distorted voice that somehow felt comforting: “Come here, Rust… It’s over now. Everything’s fine.”

  The right door wasn’t a door at all. It was a living wound. Breathing black organic tissue covered its surface, fresh blood seeping from every crack and dripping into the water below.

  Any sane person would have run for the white door.

  Rust didn’t.

  His mind screamed Middle one! but his body moved on its own. The blood in his veins pulled him toward the grotesque, bleeding door on the right—like it was calling him home.

  First step.

  Explosions roared louder from the left door.

  Second step.

  The children’s laughter from the middle door died. In its place rose piercing, soul-shattering sobs.

  Every step made the sounds louder. Screams. Blasts. Wailing. Blood trickled from his ears. He felt his eardrums tearing, yet he didn’t stop. There was no pain—only that irresistible pull.

  The moment his fingers were about to touch the bloodied surface—

  The ground vanished.

  He fell into the endless abyss.

  The last thing he saw was the black door cracking open, just a sliver.

  His eyes snapped open.

  There was no sky—only charred, dead tree branches covered in a strange white powder. It looked like snow but wasn’t cold. Like ash, but not gray.

  Rust coughed hard as he sat up. The powder was everywhere—hair, eyelashes, folds of his clothes. It felt like he had been sleeping for a hundred years.

  A sudden wind howled through the forest, sweeping the white dust away in a swirling storm.

  He still didn’t understand anything. Dream? Reality? How long had he been here? Where was here?

  His mind gave him nothing but emptiness.

  He stood. His body felt heavy, yet strangely full of energy. He took one step—and his foot hit something solid.

  A large military backpack.

  He unzipped it. Survival rations, full canteens, spare magazines, a matte-black handgun, and a heavy tactical knife in its sheath.

  He drew the knife. Cold steel. Engraved on the hilt:

  RUST And beneath it, in smaller letters:

  P.A.R.A.D.O.K.S

  The name echoed in his skull.

  Rust… That’s me, isn’t it?

  He slung the pack over one shoulder and looked down at himself: black tactical shirt clinging to his frame, worn but tough camo cargo pants, and heavy combat boots tightly laced.

  These weren’t civilian clothes.

  Questions burned in his mind, but the forest wasn’t going to answer them.

  From deeper in the trees came the faint snap of a branch.

  Rust chambered a round in the handgun, sheathed the knife, and started walking.

  North.

  He didn’t know why. He just knew he had to.

  The darkness of the forest swallowed him whole.