> January 3, 2010 <

  The soft wind stirred, carrying the fresh scent of grass across Xevera's quiet streets. Wispy clouds drifted lazily across the blue sky—a perfect day by any account.

  Mitsu took it in with a distant gaze. As if days like this mattered anymore.

  As a child, he'd been outgoing enough, easy to please. But since hitting his growth spurt, everything felt different.

  He'd pulled away from the world, brushing off his "friends" and choosing solitude over company. People were exhausting anyway.

  People called him moody, a loner, but Mitsu didn't care. Solitude suited him—he didn't have to pretend or explain himself.

  But today was different. Of course, it had to be today.

  He found himself, once again, caught up in a scheme with the very people he avoided. Led by Joshua, their self-proclaimed ringleader, the group planned a visit to an old manor at the edge of town.

  The place had been abandoned for decades. Rumor had it that it once served as a safe zone for wounded soldiers during the Second World War.

  Local legends said the spirits of the fallen still wandered its halls. Because obviously, no dumbass dare is complete without a ghost story.

  At the manor gates, Joshua laid down the challenge: enter, explore, and whoever turned back first would face endless teasing. Mitsu glanced at the group, unimpressed.

  Part of him wanted to walk away. Too late to back out and give them the satisfaction.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "Alright, let's get this over with," Mitsu muttered, masking nerves behind a disinterested shrug. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn black jeans, eyes locked on the decaying entrance.

  The others paused, surprised. Maybe they'd expected him to chicken out.

  But Mitsu didn't wait. He stepped forward with a steady pace, the old wooden doors groaning as he pushed them open.

  The air inside was damp, thick with rot and a strange chill that crawled across his skin. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, catching glimpses of peeling wallpaper and faded grandeur.

  The others clung together, whispering nervously as they crept in after him. Mitsu ignored them, zeroed in on the eerie stillness.

  Every creak and groan of the house echoed louder than it should. Shadows stretched too far, and the air grew heavier with every step.

  The group split up, daring each other to explore different rooms. Mitsu moved down a narrow corridor alone, the sound of muffled laughter fading behind him.

  A cold unease slid down his spine. The silence pressed in, thick as fog, broken only by the echo of his own steps.

  Then he heard it—faint voices coming from the hallway to his left. Great. Either ghosts or something worse.

  Curiosity tugged at him. He followed the sound, turning into a dimly lit room.

  And froze.

  A flicker of light revealed a group of men slouched on ruined couches and broken chairs. Their faces were sunken, hollow, eyes rimmed in red.

  Bottles and needles covered the floor. Not ghosts. Just a whole new kind of nightmare.

  One of them turned, eyes bloodshot and locked onto Mitsu. "Hey... who the hell are you?" the man slurred, voice sharp despite the haze.

  Mitsu's heart dropped. shit. Shit. SHIT!

  He raised his hands, backing away slowly, trying to look harmless. The air shifted—too late.

  One lunged, grabbed his collar, and Mitsu barely had time to shout. "Hey—wait!"

  But his voice cracked, lost in panic. A punch to the gut knocked the wind from him.

  Then came fists. Boots.

  Something cold—a gun?!—slammed against him with brutal force.

  Pain exploded in every limb. His vision blurred as he collapsed.

  Breathless, dazed, barely conscious, Mitsu caught one last flickering of that damn lighter. And then—nothing.