(Note: Icarus' name has been shortened to "Ik"—get used to it.)

"The whole thing seemed insane, from the earthquake to that strange hand. And finally, when I had some time to think, I started wondering about the unknown figure who called himself the Red Mask. That's when I recalled what he said to me—he claimed I was an old friend. But the confusing part is that I don’t have any friends. I’ve lived my entire life alone, raised myself, shaped myself into who I am today. And what did he mean when he said I might not remember him? It’s not like I’m trapped in some kind of insane time loop or something..."

Ik thought anxiously, waving his hands as he ran, desperately trying to reach the end of this vast, endless void.

Run!

Run!

Run!

Ik kept running for half an hour through this infinite expanse. Fatigue began to show on his face as he gasped for air, struggling to breathe.

After another short while, his muscles burned with exhaustion, screaming for a moment of rest. Meanwhile, thoughts flooded his exhausted mind like a waterfall.

"Why is there no end to this darkness? I’ve been running for half an hour, but I still haven’t reached anything... no walls, no barriers, nothing."

He pushed himself forward for another fifteen minutes until, finally, his body collapsed from sheer exhaustion. As he lay there, one terrifying thought echoed in his mind.

"Why is there no end to this darkness? I’ve been running for nearly an hour. This makes no sense—none at all!"

Lying on the unseen ground, Ik’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. Fear and horror were painted across his face.

"No, not now—please, not now!"

Ik pleaded with desperation, clutching his chest as his breathing became rapid, an instinctive attempt to draw in more oxygen.

"Damn it, not now, you damned phobia!"

Ik gritted his teeth, gripping his shirt tightly. The symptoms of a panic attack began to manifest—his body trembled uncontrollably, his limbs twitching as if resisting the inevitable. He writhed on the ground, his mind drowning in fear.

Bite!

Ik bit down on his tongue, a desperate attempt to stay conscious.

"Damn it—wake up, Ik! Don’t lose consciousness, not here! You have to get out of this place… you need to get back to your dear bed… Khazkhaz…"

His mind clung to the image of his familiar, comforting bed—Khazkhaz. But before he could hold onto that small hope, a new terror emerged.

Dark, watery hands began forming from the black liquid surrounding him.

Ik noticed too late.

"Shit, shit, shit! Where did these cursed hands come from?!"

He shouted in despair, struggling to move his exhausted body.

The hands latched onto his left leg. He kicked, trying to shake them off, but there were too many. They seized his right leg, then his arms, then his head—pinning him down, rendering him completely immobile.

Two of the shadowy hands emerged from the mass, creeping toward his face. They moved carefully, almost methodically, as if searching for something.

Then they stopped—right over his eyes.

In that moment, Ik realized what was about to happen.

"No… no… no, no, no, NO!"

He screamed in pure terror.

The hands dug their fingers into his eye sockets.

Blood gushed from the torn flesh as his vision blurred into crimson. His body convulsed in agony, his screams raw and desperate.

Rip!

Tear!

Toss!

His eyes rolled into the black liquid, sinking slowly as if being devoured.

The hands, undeterred, resumed their search. Though Ik’s face was now a mess of blood and torn flesh, the hands did not stop.

Soon, they reached his ears.

"No… no… no… NO! Please—please stop!"

Ik begged hysterically, his face soaked in blood from his ruined eye sockets.

The hands did not stop. Not for a single second.

Their fingers, slick with his own blood, transformed into thinner, sharper shapes.

They pressed into his ears.

Pain—unbearable, blinding pain—flooded Ik’s senses as his own screams drowned in the overwhelming torment.

The hands shredded and twisted, tearing apart his ears until they were nothing more than a bloody pulp of mangled flesh.

But they did not stop there.

They moved beyond his face, continuing their relentless dissection—piece by piece, limb by limb.

Ik’s torn vocal cords bled with every scream he forced from his raw throat. His skin, once whole, had become nothing but scattered fragments of flesh. His mind, already shattered by fear and agony, could no longer process what was happening.

Pain consumed him like fire, burning through every nerve, ripping through every muscle. He tried to focus, to cling to reality, but the darkness swallowed everything.

Then came the memories.

Every wound rekindled a forgotten torment. The past surged forward—painful recollections of weakness, lost friends, moments when he wished he had never existed.

The memories were knives, stabbing deeper into his breaking soul.

He wanted to run, to fight back, but his body refused to move. He could only lie there, drowning in suffering.

The pain grew. And grew. And grew—until it became unbearable.

His breathing quickened. His vision blurred.

And then—

Silence.

His body surrendered.

At last, the agony receded as unconsciousness embraced him.

Darkness.

An infinite void.

He fell into it, leaving behind nothing but a trail of suffering and blood.

—

Time passed.

Ik’s eyes fluttered open.

He stared into the abyss of an endless black sky.

Clouds—grey and lifeless—drifted above him, moving without wind, without purpose. His mind, battered by exhaustion, barely registered their motion.

He lay still, unable to comprehend how he had survived. His body—previously reduced to shreds—had returned to its original state.

And strangely… he could see again.

Before, when he had first arrived in this place, he had been blind. Now, though the darkness remained oppressive, faint outlines were beginning to take shape.

A realization struck him.

He turned his gaze downward, toward the black liquid beneath him.

Its surface was smooth and eerily soft. He reached out, trying to tear through it—but it was impenetrable. Solid. Unyielding.

And then—

A shiver ran through his entire body.

The texture—it was familiar.

It felt exactly like the hands that had torn him apart.

As if responding to his thoughts, the black liquid stirred.

From its depths, the hands emerged once more.

Pale. Elongated. White against the endless black.

They reached for him.

Trembling fingers brushed against his skin, tracing his form like a sculptor shaping clay.

Fear wrapped around his throat, suffocating him.

He tried to move, but his body felt impossibly heavy, as if unseen forces held him in place.

The hands tightened their grip.

Cold. Piercing.

Every touch was a blade, carving into his flesh.

He screamed—

But the darkness devoured the sound.

The hands multiplied, swarming him.

And then—

It began again.

First, the eyes.

Then, the ears.

And then—

Everything.

Piece by piece.

Shred by shred.

Ik, trapped in an endless nightmare, could do nothing but scream.