Aryan weighed his options carefully, his eyes moving between the mysterious footprints leading into the jungle and the river's edge where he could continue his journey. The mist on the water had grown thicker, swirling in ghostly patterns that seemed almost deliberate. Whatever shadow lurked within that gray veil appeared to be waiting—but for what, he couldn't say.
The voices that had tormented him upon his arrival echoed in his memory. Those terrible commands to kill, to survive at any cost.
Had this other person heard them too? Had they experienced the same terrifying visions, the same unbearable pain?
The thought both comforted and disturbed him. He wouldn't be alone in his suffering, but what if those voices had affected this stranger differently?
The evening light was fading at its own pace—slower than usual days. Maybe it can take hours for darkness to arrive.
Before following the trail, Aryan looked down at his feet and grimaced. His remaining shoe had been lost to the river during his struggle. Now he was completely barefoot, making his journey through this hostile environment even more treacherous.
Moving carefully over roots and fallen branches. As he walked deeper into the forest, he noticed disturbing marks on some of the older trees—deep gouges carved into the bark, as if made by razor-sharp claws. The scratches were too deliberate to be random, too deep to be made by any ordinary animal. They looked almost like territorial markings.
After some time, the footprints began to fade, becoming harder to distinguish in the softer forest floor. But Aryan pressed on, guided now more by instinct than by clear tracks.
Then he heard it—voices carried in the still air.
He froze instantly, his hand moving instinctively to the sword strapped across his back. Something felt wrong. His senses screamed warnings he couldn't quite understand, but the feeling of being watched, of impending danger, was unmistakable. He scanned the surrounding trees and shadows.
Nothing.
Gathering his courage, Aryan called out, "I know you're there. We should talk."
Silence stretched for several heart beats, making his uneasiness grow exponentially. His fingers found the hilt of his sword, drawing the heavy blade partially.
He was about to call out when the figure emerged, slowly and deliberately, each step calculated with the precision of a hunting cat. He moved with an unsettling grace that spoke of adaptation, of someone who had already embraced the brutal reality of their situation. His black and white prison uniform was torn and stained with dirt, but it was the glint of metal in his right hand that made Aryan's blood run cold.
Criminal or—?
The man's cold smile widened as he took in the sight of Aryan's drawn sword. "Interesting," he said, his voice soft and conversational. "You want to talk… with that?"
"It's just for protection," Aryan replied, though he didn't lower his weapon.
The man tilted his head, studying Aryan with the intensity of a scientist examining a specimen. "Safety," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "From me? At least there is someone who is a little sensible."
The man began moving closer with measured, deliberate steps. As he approached, the object in his hand became clearer—a long, curved claw-like weapon, its surface stained with dark spots that definitely weren't paint. They were the rusty brown of dried blood.
Aryan's grip tightened on his sword as he watched the stranger advance, never taking his eyes off that bloodstained weapon.
"Stop," Aryan commanded, his voice steadier than he felt.
The man paused, his cold smile never wavering. When he spoke again, his voice carried an almost amused tone. "Don't you want to talk?" he asked, gesturing casually with his bloodied claws. "Though I must say, conversations tend to go more smoothly when both parties aren't armed to the teeth."
Aryan glanced at his claws. A slight hint.
The man's lips curled slightly. "Ahh, this…" He raised his claws slightly. "It's just for protection, you know…"
Aryan kept his sword ready but lowered it slightly, trying to project a less threatening posture while maintaining his guard. "This distance is fair enough for conversation."
The stranger nodded approvingly, as if Aryan had passed some unspoken test. "Smart. I can respect caution." He shifted his weight, the claws catching another glint of light. "I'm Ranjir. And you are?"
"Aryan." The name left his lips reluctantly, but something about the man's directness demanded honesty.
"Do you remember how you ended up here?" Aryan finally asked, his voice cutting through the oppressive quiet. "How you arrived in this place?"
Ranjir's smile widened slightly at the question, but there was no warmth in it. After a brief silence, he tilted his head thoughtfully. "I don't know. Not entirely." He paused, his eyes growing distant for just a moment before snapping back to sharp focus. "I remember being in a cell, waiting. But I don't remember what I was waiting for. Then suddenly I was running through this jungle with these in my hands." He raised the claws slightly, examining them as if seeing them for the first time.
"Did you heard any voices in your head?" Aryan asked carefully. "The whispers and strange visions when you first arrived?"
Something flickered across Ranjir's features—recognition, perhaps even amusement. He looked directly at Aryan, and for a moment, the mask of civility slipped to reveal something far more dangerous underneath.
"Yes. I heard them too." He tilted his head again, studying Aryan with the intensity of a scientist examining a specimen. "Everyone says the same thing, actually. Interesting, isn't it?"
Hope flared in Aryan's chest despite the circumstances. "Everyone? You've met others?"
"Three actually," Ranjir replied matter-of-factly. "And before you get too excited, I did exactly what the voices suggested." He said it with the casual indifference of someone discussing the weather, but the implications hit Aryan like a physical blow.
The voices had been insistent, seductive in their simplicity.
Kill to survive. Everyone here is your enemy and go beyond insanity...
Aryan had fought and rejected those whispers, had chosen to seek out truth by himself. But this man—this cold, predator—had listened to it. Had obeyed without question.
"What have you done?" Aryan whispered, horror creeping into his voice. "How do you believe in something that might be nothing at all? What if it all lie and you're just being deceived?"
Ranjir's laugh was soft and utterly devoid of warmth. "Lie?" He shook his head as if Aryan had asked something childishly naive.
"Actually, I have behaved nicely until one of them tried to killed me. So why shouldn't I return the favor?" His grip tightened on the claws, knuckles whitening. "From that moment, I understand how this place works. I know why we're here."
The casual admission of murder made Aryan's stomach lurch, but it was Ranjir's next words that truly chilled him to the bone.
"Whatever force brought us here is playing games with us, Aryan. Elaborate, deadly games. And I intend to win this time, even if I have to kill every single person and become the last one standing." His voice remained conversational, but his eyes burned with an intensity that spoke of absolute conviction. This wasn't madness—it was worse. It was cold, rational ruthlessness.
Aryan felt his body betraying him, unconsciously taking a step back. The movement was small, but Ranjir noticed it, his smile widening with predatory satisfaction.
"You think I'm insane," Ranjir observed, his tone almost amused. "That's what they all said and didn't listen my words. But insanity implies irrationality, and there's nothing irrational about survival."
Another step back. Aryan couldn't help himself. Every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to get as far away from this insane man as possible. But Ranjir made no move to follow, seemingly content to let his words do the hunting.
"The voices, maybe they show us who we really are?" Ranjir continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Go beyond morality to survive. I am doing the same. Nothing bad in it, right?" He examined his bloodstained claws again, then looked back up with those cold, dead eyes.
"And if you're so passionate about doing good—about being noble—then surrender yourself fully. It'll save us both a lot of time." Ranjir glanced toward the trees, his eyes distant, as if he could see something beyond them. "Then again, time doesn't seem to matter here anyway. So, what do you say?"
The words hung in the humid air like a death sentence. Aryan realized with crystalline clarity that he was looking at what he could have become—what perhaps he was meant to become. The voices hadn't been lying about the danger. They simply hadn't mentioned that the greatest threat wouldn't come from some external force, but from the people around him who had chosen to embrace the darkness.
"You're wrong," Aryan said, his voice firm despite the fear coursing through him. "There has to be another way. We don't have to obey it and let it make us monsters."
Ranjir's cold smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp in the filtered light. "Monsters?" He chuckled softly, the sound devoid of any warmth. "Look around you, Aryan. This unknown makes monsters of us all. The only choice is whether you accept it or die denying it."