Rody’s breath came in ragged gasps, each one burning in his chest as he struggled to find a way out of the blazing inferno. The fire had consumed everything in its path, reducing the elegant bistro to a hellscape of flames and smoke. The air was thick with the stench of burning wood, searing metal, and something far worse-charred flesh.
His hand clutched the jagged remains of the wine bottle, sticky with Vincent’s blood. It dripped onto the floor, leaving dark red stains that quickly dried in the heat. Vincent’s body lay crumpled on the cold tile, his once pristine chef’s coat now soaked in crimson, spreading out in a pool that reached Rody’s feet. He was motionless, his eyes wide open, frozen in a final expression of shock and pain. Rody could still feel the resistance of Vincent’s flesh giving way under the force of his hand, the shattering of glass as it broke skin and sinew.
For a moment, Rody stood there, paralyzed by the enormity of what he had done. The man who had tormented him, haunted his nightmares, and turned his life into a twisted game of survival, was now dead by his hand. But instead of relief, all he felt was an overwhelming, suffocating sense of dread. The flames encircled him, an angry beast ready to devour everything.
“Gotta get out. Gotta get out of here,” Rody muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the roar of the fire. He turned toward the door, his hands trembling as he tried to push it open. It didn’t move. Panic set in as he yanked on the handle, the metal searing hot under his touch. It was locked, trapping him inside the very nightmare he had tried so desperately to escape.
“No… no, this can’t be happening,” he whispered, the rising terror choking him. He scanned the room, his eyes wild, searching for the key that would set him free. But the flames were too fast, swallowing everything in their path.
With a sickening realization, Rody knew the only place left to check was Vincent’s body. He turned back, his heart hammering in his chest. He had to do it, even though every fiber of his being screamed at him to run. There was nowhere to go. Vincent held the key to his freedom, even in death.
Stepping cautiously over the fallen beams, Rody approached the lifeless figure of his tormentor. The flames cast eerie shadows on Vincent’s pale face, his features unnervingly calm despite the brutal violence that had ended his life. Rody hesitated, bile rising in his throat as he knelt beside Vincent. His hands hovered over the man’s bloodied chest, unsure where to begin.
“Come on… just do it,” he urged himself, closing his eyes tightly as he reached into Vincent’s pockets. His fingers fumbled, slick with sweat and blood, as he searched desperately for the key. But there was nothing. He tried the other pocket, then the one after that, his movements becoming more frantic as he realized the truth: there was no key.
Before he could comprehend the full weight of his situation, the ceiling above groaned ominously. The wooden beams, weakened by the fire, gave way with a deafening crack. Rody had no time to react as the roof collapsed in a storm of debris and flames, plunging him into darkness.
—
Rody’s eyes snapped open, his body jerking awake as he gasped for air. His heart pounded in his chest, the memories of the fire still vivid and terrifying. But the suffocating heat, the choking smoke, the relentless flames-all of it was gone. In its place was an unfamiliar calm, a serene quiet that was as unnerving as the fire had been.
The room around him was soft, almost delicate in its design. Cream-colored walls, faint floral patterns, the scent of fresh linen mingling with something faintly floral. He was lying in a bed, the sheets cool against his skin. This wasn’t the bistro. This wasn’t the hellish place where he had just fought for his life.
His confusion deepened when he felt the weight against his side. Slowly, hesitantly, Rody turned his head, his breath catching when he saw who was beside him.
Vincent.
But this wasn’t the Vincent he knew. The man beside him looked so different, so… fragile. His hair was longer, cascading down to his shoulders in soft waves, free of the greasy slickness Rody was used to. The perpetual bags under his eyes were gone, his skin paler but smoother, more serene. Yet there was something off, something deeply disturbing.
Rody’s gaze fell to Vincent’s lips, noticing the angry red mark marring them-a wound, as if someone had bitten down hard enough to draw blood. The sight sent a chill down his spine, a cold dread settling in his stomach.
In a rush of panic, Rody threw off the sheets, needing to distance himself from this strange and unsettling version of Vincent. As the sheets slipped from the bed, they revealed more of Vincent’s body, and Rody recoiled in horror. Vincent was completely naked, his pale skin marred by dark bruises and cigarette burns that dotted his flesh like grotesque, angry stars.
The sight of it all made Rody feel sick, his mind racing to understand. This wasn’t possible. Vincent was dead. He had killed him, hadn’t he? The memory of stabbing Vincent, of watching him bleed out on the cold tile floor, was seared into his mind. But this-this was something else entirely.
“What the fuck… what the fuck is going on?” Rody muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. He looked around the room, desperate for any clue, any explanation, but there was nothing. Just the soft, peaceful bedroom and the horrifying reality of what lay beside him.
His breath hitched when Vincent stirred, a soft groan escaping his lips. Rody froze, his heart pounding in his ears as Vincent’s eyes slowly fluttered open. For a moment, there was a distant look in Vincent’s eyes, as if he was trying to orient himself. Then his gaze found Rody, and his expression softened into something that looked almost like relief.
“Rody… you’re awake,” Vincent murmured, his voice soft, almost tender. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed his fingers against Rody’s arm. The touch was gentle, familiar, but it made Rody’s skin crawl.
Rody jerked back, his body tensing as he stared at Vincent in disbelief. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the Vincent he knew. But the way Vincent looked at him, with that sad, resigned expression, sent a wave of guilt crashing over him.
“Vincent… what the hell is happening?” Rody demanded, his voice shaking. “Where am I? What is this?” He needed answers, something to make sense of the nightmare he had woken up in.
Vincent’s brow furrowed slightly, and he shifted closer to Rody, his movements slow, as if he were in pain. “You… you were so angry last night,” he whispered, his voice filled with a sorrow that Rody couldn’t understand. “I’m sorry, Rody. I’ll do better, I promise…”
The words hit Rody like a punch to the gut. Angry? Last night? None of this made sense, but the way Vincent spoke, the way he looked at him with those pleading, guilt-ridden eyes-there was a dark implication hanging in the air, one that Rody couldn’t ignore.
“No… no, I didn’t… I would never-” Rody stammered, his mind spinning as he tried to process what Vincent was saying. He didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to think about the possibility that in this twisted version of reality, he was the one who had hurt Vincent. The bruises, the burns-they were all too real, too raw.
Vincent reached out again, his hand resting on Rody’s cheek this time, his touch soft and hesitant. “It’s okay, Rody. I know you didn’t mean it. I forgive you…”
The words cut through Rody like a knife, the casual acceptance of his supposed cruelty too much to bear. He shook his head violently, tears stinging his eyes as he pulled away from Vincent, pushing himself to the edge of the bed.
“I didn’t… I didn’t do this,” Rody choked out, his voice thick with emotion. But even as he said it, the doubt gnawed at him, the images of Vincent’s broken body seared into his mind. What kind of monster was he in this world?
Vincent seemed to sense Rody’s turmoil, and he scooted closer again, his fingers brushing against Rody’s arm in a way that was both tender and desperate. “Please don’t leave, Rody,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I love you… I need you…”
Rody felt like he was suffocating, trapped in a nightmare that he couldn’t escape. The Vincent he had known-the cold, calculating man who had tormented him-was gone, replaced by someone broken and vulnerable. But this version of Vincent, with his sad eyes and bruised body, was just as much of a torment. The guilt, the confusion, the overwhelming sense of wrongness-it was all too much.
He wanted to scream, to run, to do anything but sit here and face the twisted reality he had been thrust into. But there was nowhere to go. He was trapped in this strange, suffocating world with no way out, and the weight of it was crushing him.
As Vincent leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Rody’s shoulder, Rody’s breath caught in his throat. The sensation was tender, but it burned like acid against his skin. He shuddered, fighting the urge to shove Vincent away. His heart was a storm of confusion, guilt, and revulsion.
Vincent pulled back slightly, his dark eyes searching Rody’s face, as if looking for some sign of affection, some hint that things could be normal between them. But Rody’s face was a mask of horror and disbelief. Vincent’s expression faltered, pain flickering across his features. “Rody… did I do something wrong?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The question twisted like a knife in Rody’s chest. Vincent’s voice, so fragile and pleading, felt alien. The Vincent he knew would never sound like this, would never be so vulnerable. It was all wrong. Everything was wrong.
“I don’t… I don’t understand what’s happening,” Rody finally managed to say, his voice hoarse. He looked around the room, searching for something-anything-that could explain how he had gone from the burning wreckage of the bistro to this strange, twisted reality.
“Please, Vincent… where am I? What is this place?” Rody’s voice cracked with desperation. He couldn’t stay here, not like this, not with this version of Vincent that felt so grotesquely wrong.
Vincent’s gaze dropped to the bed, and his fingers tightened around the sheets, twisting them in his hands. “This is our home, Rody,” he said quietly, his voice laced with sorrow. “We’ve been together for so long… don’t you remember?”
“No, I don’t!” Rody snapped, his frustration and fear boiling over. “I don’t remember any of this! I’m not supposed to be here-I’m not supposed to be with you!” The words came out harsher than he intended, but he couldn’t stop himself. The claustrophobic weight of the situation was crushing him, and he needed answers.
Vincent flinched, pain flashing across his face, and for a moment, he looked like a wounded animal. But then he lifted his gaze, his eyes filled with a quiet resignation. “You always say that when you’re upset,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a sadness that cut through Rody’s anger. “But then you come back to me. You always come back…”
The words sent a cold chill down Rody’s spine. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was some deeper, darker truth lurking beneath the surface of Vincent’s quiet acceptance. This wasn’t just a different reality-this was a nightmare crafted from his worst fears.
“Vincent…” Rody began, but his voice faltered. What could he say? That this was all some terrible mistake? That the bruises and burns on Vincent’s body weren’t his doing? That he wasn’t the monster Vincent seemed to think he was?
But Vincent didn’t seem to want answers. He reached out again, gently cupping Rody’s face in his hands. His touch was warm, tender, and it sent a shiver through Rody’s body. “Please don’t leave me,” Vincent whispered, his voice breaking. “I can’t take it when you leave…”
Rody’s heart twisted in his chest. The desperation in Vincent’s voice was like a physical weight pressing down on him, suffocating him. He wanted to push Vincent away, to scream that he wasn’t the person Vincent thought he was, but something held him back. Maybe it was the raw vulnerability in Vincent’s eyes, or maybe it was the nagging doubt in the back of his mind, whispering that he was somehow responsible for all of this.
“I… I won’t leave,” Rody said, his voice barely audible. The words felt like a betrayal, a surrender to the twisted reality that had trapped him. But he didn’t know what else to do. He was lost, caught in a web of confusion and guilt, with no way out.
Vincent’s face softened in relief, and he leaned in, resting his forehead against Rody’s. “Thank you,” he whispered, his breath warm against Rody’s skin. “Thank you, Rody… I love you so much.”
Rody closed his eyes, his hands trembling as he fought to keep his composure. He felt trapped, like a prisoner in his own mind, unable to escape the horror of what he had done-or what he might do.
As Vincent’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a gentle embrace, Rody’s thoughts spiraled into a dark abyss. He didn’t belong here. This wasn’t his life, and this wasn’t the Vincent he knew. But as Vincent’s warmth seeped into him, as the weight of the situation pressed down on him, Rody couldn’t shake the terrible feeling that maybe, just maybe, he deserved this. That maybe this was his punishment for what he had done in the fire.
The room around them was quiet, the soft hum of the world outside a stark contrast to the turmoil in Rody’s mind. He was trapped, not just in this strange reality, but in a twisted nightmare of his own making. And as Vincent held him close, whispering words of love and devotion, Rody could feel the darkness closing in around him, suffocating him, drowning him in a sea of guilt and confusion.
He had wanted to escape, to break free from the nightmare of the bistro. But now, in this new reality, he realized that the nightmare wasn’t over. It had only just begun.
Rody stayed silent, his mind a storm of conflicting emotions, as Vincent clung to him like he was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. The closeness of Vincent’s body against his, the warmth of his breath, the scent of him-it all felt so wrong. But Rody couldn’t pull away. Not when Vincent was so fragile, so desperately in need of comfort.
But the moment of silence was soon shattered by the harsh reality that surrounded them. As Vincent shifted slightly in bed, his movements caused the sheet to slip further down, revealing more of his scarred body. Rody couldn’t help but notice the ugly welts along Vincent’s back, the deep, angry scars that crisscrossed his pale skin. Some of the marks were old, faded to a sickly white, while others were fresh, a dark purple that stood out starkly against his ghostly complexion.
The sight made Rody’s stomach churn with a mixture of disgust and rage. The marks looked like the aftermath of relentless violence, a testament to the years of abuse Vincent had endured. It was hard to imagine that this Vincent-so broken and scarred-could have once been the same person Rody had come to fear and hate in his own reality.
Rody’s gaze traveled to the cigarette burns that marred Vincent’s torso, each one a small, round wound that told of deliberate cruelty. The burns dotted his chest and arms, some of them clustered together in places that made Rody wince. He didn’t have to ask to know where they came from. The realization that the person who had inflicted those wounds was somehow *himself* in this twisted reality made Rody’s blood run cold.
Vincent seemed to notice Rody’s focus on his injuries, and his body tensed. He drew back slightly, a shadow of fear flickering in his eyes, as if he expected Rody to lash out at him. His hands, which had been gently holding Rody’s face, retreated to his own lap, fingers twisting nervously.
“I’m sorry,” Vincent whispered, his voice trembling. “I know it’s… I know I’m not…” He couldn’t seem to finish the sentence, his words trailing off into a pained silence. The apology hung in the air like a noose, tightening around Rody’s throat.
Rody shook his head, horrified by the way Vincent seemed to blame himself for the abuse he had suffered. “Don’t apologize, Vincent,” he said, his voice cracking. “You don’t have to be sorry for anything. This… this isn’t your fault.”
Vincent looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe Rody’s words. “But… I’m not good enough,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the bed. “You always say that I’m not good enough. That I’m a failure… that I deserve this.”
The words hit Rody like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath out of him. “I said that?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. He felt sick, his mind reeling with the knowledge that in this reality, he had become the very monster he had feared Vincent to be.
Vincent nodded, his shoulders trembling with barely-contained emotion. “But it’s okay,” he continued, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible. “I know you don’t mean it. I know you love me, Rody… I know you do.”
Rody’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he tried to process what he was hearing. The idea that he could have done this to Vincent, that he could have reduced him to this broken, submissive shell of a man, was unbearable. “Vincent,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “I don’t know how to fix this, but I swear, I’m not going to hurt you. Not anymore.”
Vincent blinked, surprise and confusion flickering in his eyes. “You always say that,” he said, his tone laced with quiet despair. “But then… then you get angry, and it happens again. But it’s okay, Rody. I know you can’t help it. I know you’re hurting too.”
The resignation in Vincent’s voice was like a knife twisting in Rody’s chest. He could see it now-the years of psychological manipulation, the erosion of Vincent’s self-worth until he believed that he deserved the abuse. The Vincent of this reality had been trapped in a cycle of violence and pain for so long that he couldn’t even recognize it as wrong anymore.
“I’m not that person, Vincent,” Rody said, forcing himself to meet Vincent’s gaze. “I don’t know what’s happening, or why I’m here, but I swear to you, I’m not going to hurt you. Not ever again.”
Vincent stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to believe him. His eyes searched Rody’s face, looking for any sign of the man who had tormented him for so long. But all he found was sincerity, and something inside him seemed to break. Tears welled up in Vincent’s eyes, and he bit his lip to keep them from falling.
“I want to believe you,” Vincent whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of years of fear and pain. “But I’m so scared, Rody… I’m so scared that you’ll leave me, or that you’ll… that you’ll hurt me again.”
Rody’s heart ached at the sight of Vincent’s vulnerability, the way his body was shaking with suppressed sobs. Without thinking, Rody reached out and pulled Vincent into his arms, holding him tightly. Vincent stiffened at first, as if expecting a blow, but then he melted into Rody’s embrace, his body trembling with silent tears.
“It’s okay,” Rody whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “You don’t have to be scared anymore. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I’m so sorry, Vincent… I’m so, so sorry.”
Vincent clung to him, his fingers digging into Rody’s back as he buried his face in Rody’s shoulder. His sobs were muffled against Rody’s skin, each one a heartbreaking reminder of the pain he had endured. Rody held him tighter, wishing he could somehow take away all the hurt, all the scars that marred Vincent’s body and soul.
As the minutes passed, the room filled with the sound of Vincent’s quiet sobs, the weight of his pain pressing down on them both. Rody could feel Vincent’s heart pounding against his chest, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he let go of years of pent-up fear and despair.
Rody’s mind raced as he tried to figure out what to do next. He was trapped in a nightmare, a reality where he was the villain, and Vincent was the victim. But there had to be a way out-a way to fix this, to save Vincent from the hell he had been living in.
“I’ll protect you,” Rody whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “I swear I’ll protect you, Vincent. No one will ever hurt you again-not even me.”
Vincent pulled back slightly, his tear-streaked face tilted up to look at Rody. His eyes were red and puffy, but there was a spark of hope in them, a glimmer of something that had been buried for too long. “Do you really mean it?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“I do,” Rody said, his heart breaking at the raw vulnerability in Vincent’s eyes. “I don’t know how I ended up here, but I promise, I’ll find a way to make things right. You don’t deserve this, Vincent. You deserve so much better.”
Vincent’s lips quivered, and for a moment, it looked like he was going to break down again. But then he nodded, a small, tentative nod, as if he was daring to hope that things could change. “I… I want to believe you, Rody,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I really do.”
Rody’s heart swelled with determination. He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he would find a way to help Vincent-to free him from the chains of abuse and fear that had bound him for so long. He owed it to Vincent, and he owed it to himself, to be better-to be the person Vincent needed him to be.
But as Rody held Vincent close, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the darkness that had brought them together wasn’t done with them yet. There were still shadows lurking in the corners of this twisted reality, secrets that Rody had yet to uncover. And as much as he wanted to believe that he could protect Vincent from the horrors of the past, he couldn’t ignore the nagging fear that something far more sinister was still at play.
For now, though, all he could do was hold Vincent and promise him the safety he deserved.
Rody lay there for what felt like hours, holding Vincent in his arms, the weight of the world pressing down on him. He tried to focus on the warmth of Vincent’s body against his, the steady rhythm of his breath slowly evening out as he drifted into an uneasy sleep. But no matter how hard he tried to push it away, the reality of the situation kept gnawing at him, a constant reminder that he was trapped in a hell of his own making.
When Vincent finally stilled, his breath coming in soft, even puffs against Rody’s chest, Rody gently pulled away, careful not to wake him. He needed to think, to clear his head, to figure out how the hell he had ended up in this nightmare. Slipping out of bed, he quietly padded across the room, searching for anything that might give him a clue.
The room was small and sparse, furnished only with the bed, a dresser, and a small nightstand. The walls were a dull, lifeless gray, the kind of color that sucked the warmth out of the air, leaving everything cold and sterile. There were no pictures, no personal belongings-nothing that spoke of the person who lived there. It was as if the room had been stripped of any trace of humanity, leaving only an empty shell.
Rody’s eyes landed on the dresser, and he quickly made his way over, hoping to find something-anything-that could help him understand what was happening. The top drawer was filled with neatly folded clothes, all of them drab and worn, as if they had been washed too many times. Underneath the clothes, Rody found a small, battered notebook, its pages yellowed with age.
He opened the notebook, his heart pounding in his chest as he skimmed through the pages. The handwriting was messy and uneven, as if the person writing had been in a hurry, or maybe too distraught to care. The words were a jumble of thoughts, half-finished sentences, and frantic scribbles, but one thing was clear: this was a record of Vincent’s life.
The more Rody read, the more his stomach churned with horror. The notebook was filled with entries detailing years of abuse-both physical and emotional. The words painted a picture of a man who had been systematically broken down, his spirit crushed under the weight of constant torment.
*”I’m sorry,”* one entry read, the words scratched into the page with such force that the paper had torn. *”I tried to be better. I tried to make him happy, but it’s never enough. I know I deserve it. I know it’s my fault. I just wish he would love me again.”*
Another entry, written in a shaky hand, described a particularly brutal beating, the words barely legible through the tears that had smudged the ink. *”He said I was worthless. That I would never be good enough for him. I tried to apologize, but he wouldn’t listen. He just kept hitting me, over and over. I thought he was going to kill me this time. Maybe it would have been better if he had.”*
Rody’s hands shook as he read the words, the full weight of what Vincent had endured crashing down on him. He couldn’t believe it-couldn’t believe that he had been the one to do this. The Vincent he knew had been cruel and ruthless, but he had never imagined that he could be capable of this level of sadism.
But as he turned to the next page, his breath caught in his throat. The entry was dated only a few days ago, and the words were written in a trembling hand, the letters barely recognizable.
*”He told me he loves me today. I want to believe him, but I’m so scared. I know I’m not good enough for him, but I can’t help hoping that maybe… maybe he’ll change. Maybe he’ll stop hurting me. But I’m so scared. What if he doesn’t? What if this is all I’ll ever be-a punching bag, a toy for him to break and discard when he’s done?”*
The entry ended there, the words trailing off into a shaky line, as if Vincent hadn’t been able to finish his thought. Rody’s heart ached for him, for the man who had been so desperate for love that he had clung to the hope that his abuser could change. And now, here Rody was, in this twisted reality, and the one person who needed saving was the same person he had once feared.
Rody closed the notebook, his hands trembling as he placed it back in the drawer. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to make this right. But one thing was clear: he couldn’t let Vincent suffer any longer. He had to find a way out of this nightmare, to free Vincent from the hell he had been living in for so long.
But as Rody turned away from the dresser, his eyes landed on the nightstand next to the bed, and his breath caught in his throat. Sitting on top of the nightstand was a small, silver key-the very key he had been searching for when the roof had collapsed on him. The key that had been in Vincent’s pocket when he had… when he had killed him.
Rody’s heart pounded in his chest as he reached for the key, his fingers trembling as they closed around the cold metal. How had it ended up here, in this twisted reality? And what did it mean? He didn’t have time to ponder these questions, though, because as soon as his fingers touched the key, a sharp pain shot through his head, blinding him with its intensity.
He stumbled back, clutching his head as the pain grew more and more unbearable. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he thought he was going to pass out. But then, just as suddenly as it had started, the pain vanished, leaving him gasping for breath.
When Rody opened his eyes, the room was different. The walls were no longer gray, but a deep, rich red, and the bed was gone, replaced by a large, ornate mirror that hung on the wall in front of him. The mirror’s surface was polished to a shine, reflecting Rody’s pale, sweat-soaked face back at him. But as he stared into the mirror, his reflection began to change.
The image of himself blurred and shifted, morphing into something else entirely. Rody’s heart raced as he watched his reflection transform into a version of himself that was twisted and grotesque, with dark, hollow eyes and a cruel, twisted smile. The reflection raised its hand, and Rody instinctively reached out to touch the mirror, but as soon as his fingers brushed the surface, the image shattered, the glass splintering into a million tiny pieces that rained down around him.
Rody stumbled back, his heart pounding in his chest as the shattered pieces of the mirror fell to the ground. But when he looked down, the pieces weren’t just glass-they were fragments of memories, images from another life. He saw flashes of Vincent’s face, twisted in pain and fear, and his own hands, stained with blood.
He saw himself standing over Vincent, a cruel smile on his lips as he brought a hand down across Vincent’s face. He saw the way Vincent’s body flinched with each blow, the way his eyes filled with tears as he begged for mercy. But there was no mercy in Rody’s eyes-only a cold, unfeeling emptiness.
The memories came in a rush, each one more horrifying than the last. Rody’s head spun as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing, but the images were too jumbled, too chaotic. He saw himself dragging Vincent across the floor, his hands leaving bloody streaks on the hardwood as he pulled him towards the bed. He saw the way Vincent’s body trembled with fear, the way he tried to crawl away, only to be yanked back by the hair.
And then, in the midst of the chaos, Rody saw something that made his blood run cold. It was a memory-one that hadn’t happened yet. He saw himself standing over Vincent’s lifeless body, a knife in his hand, the blade glistening with blood. He saw the way Vincent’s eyes stared up at him, wide and unseeing, the life drained from them.
Rody stumbled back, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the memories finally stopped. He clutched at his chest, trying to steady his racing heart. But the images were burned into his mind, seared into his very soul.
He had to get out of here. He had to save Vincent before it was too late.
Rody turned and ran, his footsteps echoing in the empty room. He didn’t know where he was going-he just knew that he had to get away, to escape the nightmare that was closing in around him. But no matter how far he ran, he couldn’t escape the truth.
In this reality, he was the monster. And there was no running from that.
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