Shards of Madness

I wake up in a world without color.

Not in a poetic, "everything feels dull and lifeless" way, but in a literal, "someone put a grayscale filter on existence" kind of way.

The sky is an oppressive gray, the buildings are duller than my grandmother's drapes, and my hands? My hands look like they've been printed straight out of a noir film.

I take a deep breath and immediately regret it. The air is thick, like it's holding secrets, and not the fun, "surprise party" kind. More like, "the call is coming from inside the house" kind.

And then I see it.

A tiny, shimmering, colorless shard. It glints, despite the absence of light. Like a piece of a mirror that’s had all its shine sucked out.

I kneel and pick it up. It hums against my skin. And that’s when I hear his voice.

“You keep collecting those, and you’ll end up knowing things you don’t want to know.”

I look up. And there he is.

The man who seems too perfect for this place. Not in a knight-in-shining-armor way, but in a "this man is dangerous, and I'm going to make the worst decisions of my life because of him" way.

His sharp jaw looks like it was carved from sin itself. His eyes are black holes, pulling me in, promising destruction.

“You have three seconds to explain before I assume you’re a hallucination and start licking streetlamps,” I say, slipping the shard into my pocket.

He smirks. “And here I thought you’d ask my name first.”

“Oh, I don’t care about your name, sunshine. I care about why you look like you belong in a Victorian ghost story and why I keep finding pieces of a broken, invisible mirror.”

His smirk widens. “Because you’re not supposed to be here. And those pieces? They’re your way out.”

Now, here’s where a normal person might start asking important questions. Like, “What do you mean I’m not supposed to be here?” or “How do I get out?”

I, however, have never been normal.

Instead, I say, “I’m getting serious ‘gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss’ energy from you, and I have no choice but to be into it.”

His eyes darken, and not in a human way. More in a “the abyss is staring back, and it is amused” way.

“That’s going to be a problem,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Because you have a choice, little troublemaker. You can find all the pieces, wake up in your world, and go back to your safe, color-filled life.”

He reaches out, fingers grazing my jaw in a touch so fleeting it might be imagined.

“Or,” he continues, voice turning to velvet-wrapped poison, “you can stay here. With me. In this world of madness. Where the rules don’t matter, and the only thing keeping you from losing your mind entirely—”

He grips my chin now, tilting my face up to his.

“—is me.”

Oh, that is so unfair.

“You’re giving me an existential crisis and a raging lady boner at the same time,” I whisper.

He chuckles, low and dark, and it sounds like damnation.

“Choose wisely, little one. Because once you pick a side… there’s no going back.”

And as I feel another shard calling to me from the distance, I wonder.

Do I want to wake up?

Or do I want to fall deeper?

I don’t make a decision right away. That would be responsible. That would be sane. And I am neither of those things. Instead, I do what any self-respecting lunatic would do—I ignore him and start collecting more shards.

The second piece is wedged into the eye socket of a grinning skeleton slumped against a wall. Nice touch. If this world is trying to scare me, it’s going to have to try harder. I yank it free and wipe the nonexistent blood on my pants.

“Building a puzzle or just hoarding sharp objects?” he asks, leaning casually against a lamppost that’s flickering like it can’t decide if it wants to be on or off.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I shoot back, flipping the shard between my fingers like a coin. “So, are you here to help, or are you just my personal harbinger of doom?”

He laughs, and it’s the kind of sound that makes my spine feel like it’s being played like a violin. “Why choose? I can be both.”

I hate that I like the way he looks at me, like he’s already won some game I didn’t even know I was playing.

The third piece is harder to find. It’s in the hands of a little girl. Or what used to be a little girl. Her eyes are hollow, her smile too wide, and she giggles as she clutches the shard to her chest.

“You can have it,” she says sweetly. “But you have to trade me.”

Great. A demon child with an attitude. “Trade you what?”

Her smile stretches wider. “A kiss.”

I stare at her. “You have no lips.”

She cackles. “Then make it count.”

I consider my options:

1. Kiss the horrifying child and get the shard.
2. Stab Victorian Ghost Man for answers.
3. Burn everything down and see what happens.

Decisions, decisions.

“You really shouldn’t kiss strange girls in strange places,” he murmurs from behind me. “You don’t know where they’ve been.”

“You sound jealous,” I say, just to be annoying.

“I sound entertained,” he corrects, watching with dark amusement. “But go on, make your trade.”

I sigh and blow the creepy kid a kiss. She giggles, tosses me the shard, and vanishes into smoke.

“That was disappointing,” I mutter, pocketing the piece. “I thought she’d at least try to eat my soul.”

“She was too scared of what she might find,” he says cryptically, walking ahead. “Come on, little troublemaker. The game’s not over yet.”

Oh, I am so screwed.

By the time I find the fourth shard, the world is starting to unravel.

Buildings stretch like they’re made of melting wax. The ground bends in ways that defy physics, curving upward into spirals that lead nowhere. And the shadows? They’re moving when they shouldn’t be.

I’m starting to wonder if I should be concerned.

Or if I should be thrilled.

“Tell me something,” I say, twirling the latest shard between my fingers as we navigate a street that flickers between existence and nothingness. “What happens if I collect all of these and decide not to wake up?”

He stops walking. Turns to me. Studies me like I’m something sharp and dangerous, which is fair, considering I now have four shards of unknown, reality-breaking power in my possession.

“You stay,” he says simply.

“Yeah, got that much. But does this place stay the same? Or do things… change?”

His smirk is slow, wicked. “Oh, little one. This world is shaped by you. If you stay, it will become whatever you desire.”

That’s… an unsettling thought. And a tempting one.

I glance at the next shard, glinting in the distance like a promise.

The real question is: what do I desire?

And just how much madness am I willing to embrace?

The fifth shard is waiting for me in the mouth of a headless man. Lovely.

“Gotta say, the interior decorating here is just chef’s kiss,” I mutter, crouching down. The body is slumped against a cracked stone wall, its hands still curled like they died trying to hold onto something.

“You should be flattered,” my shadow of a companion says, watching me with his usual smirk. “The world is just trying to impress you.”

“Yeah, well, I’d prefer chocolates and a heartfelt poem over corpse art, but here we are.” I reach into the gaping neck hole and retrieve the shard. It comes out slick with something that better not be blood.

“Five down,” I say, wiping it on my sleeve. “How many more before I get my grand prize?”

He tilts his head, considering. “That depends. Are you still convinced you want to see what’s on the other side?”

I glance at the fragments I’ve collected so far. They fit together, just barely. A puzzle without a picture. A mirror with no reflection.

“What do you think I should do?” I ask, half-joking, half-serious.

His gaze darkens, amusement fading. “I think you should stop.”

It’s the first time he’s sounded almost concerned.

Which, naturally, makes me want to do the exact opposite.

“Oh, sunshine,” I murmur, stepping closer. “Are you worried about me?”

His fingers brush my wrist, a touch so light I could pretend it didn’t happen. “I just don’t think you’re going to like what happens next.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, tightening my grip on the shards, “I’ve never been a fan of liking things anyway.”

The world shudders.

The air shifts.

And the next piece of the puzzle reveals itself.

A door, standing alone in the middle of the cracked, shifting street.

Waiting.

A door. Just standing there like it’s a casual Tuesday, with no regard for the fact that the whole world around it is currently having an existential meltdown.

I can feel the pulse of the shards in my pocket, all five of them now, thrumming like a heartbeat of something alive. Maybe it’s the power of the mirror pieces, maybe it’s just me starting to lose my grip on reality, but I’m getting this sense of something... important behind that door.

I look at the man beside me, his eyes narrowed, lips tight, like he’s calculating the odds of me doing something monumentally stupid.

“You know what this is, right?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he watches the door, a muscle in his jaw ticking as if he's already running through all the ways this could go wrong.

“Let me guess,” I say, my voice low and teasing. “The door is a metaphor for choices, right? Like the whole ‘choose your fate’ kind of deal?”

He doesn’t smile. In fact, he looks downright serious now, which is rare and, frankly, off-putting.

“This isn’t a choice, little one,” he finally says, his voice like gravel sliding down a cliff. “You don’t want to open that door.”

“Why?” I ask, barely hiding my curiosity. “Is it gonna reveal your terrible past? An ex-girlfriend who lives in the shadows? Or maybe it’s full of your childhood traumas, with a side of doom? Come on, I need more than ‘don’t do it’—give me the juicy details.”

He steps closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming, the air thick with something dangerous. “This world,” he murmurs, his gaze turning to the door as if it’s calling to him too, “is already fragile. You break it, and there’s no fixing it. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

I snort. “Oh, so I’m the one who’ll break it? You’ve been handing me shards of whatever the hell this reality is, and now I’m the bad guy?”

He doesn’t flinch, but his eyes do darken. “It’s not about being the bad guy. It’s about the cost of getting what you want. And trust me, you’re not ready to pay it.”

I study him for a moment, trying to read between the lines. He's holding something back. I can feel it, like a secret stuffed in his back pocket.

“Listen,” I say, my fingers twitching towards the door, “I’m not here for your cryptic nonsense. Either you tell me what happens next, or I walk through this door and we both find out.”

His eyes flash, a flicker of something dangerous, something older than the world around us, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve pushed too far.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says quietly, but there’s something almost pleading in his voice now. “And you’re about to lose.”

I laugh, but it's thin, the humor not quite reaching my eyes. “I’ve been losing since I woke up in this freak show.”

And then, because I am nothing if not a sucker for bad decisions, I step toward the door.

It creaks as I touch it, like it’s alive, like it’s been waiting for me all this time.

And the world trembles again.

"Stop," he says, his voice ragged now. “You think you’re ready for this? For what comes next? You think you're not just a pawn in this twisted game?"

I turn back to him, eyes narrowed, but my hand stays on the door’s handle. “I’m not afraid of your game. I’m already in it.”

For a moment, just a moment, I see something flicker behind his eyes. Not amusement. Not even frustration. But something that looks a hell of a lot like fear.

And that, my dear friend, is enough to make me smile.

I open the door.

The world falls away.

The door swings open with a groan that’s almost human, and as I step through, everything shifts.

I can feel it instantly—the air is different. It’s thinner, like I’ve crossed into a space between breaths, a place where time has no real grip. The world behind the door isn’t dark, but it’s... empty. Like a canvas, waiting for something—anything—to give it meaning. The walls, or whatever they are, stretch infinitely upward, a deep shade of... nothing. Not black, not white, not gray. Just nothing.

I glance behind me to see if the door is still there, but it’s gone. Vanished. Like it never existed in the first place.

And then, of course, he’s there. The man in the Victorian ghost outfit. The one who somehow doesn’t belong here, and yet here he is, standing in the middle of this endless space like he’s the one pulling all the strings.

"Well," I say, breaking the eerie silence, "this place has ‘existential crisis’ written all over it. Is this what happens if I decide to stay? A void that swallows all meaning?"

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he steps forward, his dark eyes taking me in, measuring me. He looks almost... sad? No, it’s gone before I can even finish the thought.

“You shouldn’t have come here," he finally says, his voice almost distant.

I cross my arms, suddenly feeling very alone in this endless emptiness. "But I did. And now I’m here. So, what’s the play now? Gonna lecture me some more, or do I get the *‘you’re not ready for the truth’ speech’?”

He steps closer, his presence making the empty space feel even more oppressive. The air hums with a low, vibrating tension, like the world itself is holding its breath.

“No,” he says softly. “I’m going to give you a choice. One you won’t be able to ignore.”

I snort, because at this point, “choices” are my favorite thing. "Oh? More choices. Just what I needed. What are the options this time? Eat my soul, or drink the Kool-Aid?"

He doesn’t laugh, but I swear I see a flicker of something in his eyes. A ghost of amusement, or maybe it’s pity.

“You can stay here,” he says, his tone heavy with meaning. “With me. In this world. Where nothing matters, but everything is possible. You can shape this place. Mold it to your will. You’ll never feel alone. Never be bored. And you’ll have the power to do anything you want.”

I laugh, a short, sharp sound. “And what do you get out of it? My undying affection? My soul to add to your collection? Or do you just enjoy watching me stumble into your twisted little games?”

His gaze darkens, but he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

I raise an eyebrow, studying him carefully. "And the other option? What’s the price for waking up?"

His lips tighten. "You already know the price. The moment you started collecting those shards, you sealed your fate. It’s not about whether you want to wake up. It’s about what you’re willing to leave behind.”

I’m silent for a long moment, the weight of his words sinking in. The shards pulse in my pocket, reminding me of what I’ve collected—what I’ve become.

“You think you can just walk away from this?” he asks, almost pitying, almost taunting.

I don’t say anything. Instead, I reach into my pocket and pull out the shards, the jagged pieces of this broken world. They hum, each one alive with the same dark energy that’s been following me since the beginning.

“What’s the price, really?” I ask, my voice quiet but sure. "I’ve got the shards. I’ve walked through the door. I’m here. What happens now?"

He steps closer, so close that I can feel the heat of his presence, and for a second, I think he’s going to tell me—the big secret, the dark truth. But instead, he just looks at me, his eyes unreadable.

“You’re the price,” he says finally. “You’ve always been the price. The moment you chose, you became the price. For everything.”

The shards in my hand vibrate violently now, as if they’re trying to break free of my grip. And in that moment, I realize—this isn’t just about me. It never was.

The door is gone. The world is unraveling around me. And I’m the one holding it all together.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. And then, because I know there’s no going back, I make my decision.

I throw the shards into the void.

And watch the world break.

I toss the shards into the abyss, but instead of falling, they explode, sending cracks through the nothingness. The world around me begins to bend, twist, and break like reality’s playing a cruel game of Jenga. Every shattered piece of the void whispers to me, calling to me. And suddenly, I understand—I am the chaos. I am the destruction and the rebirth.

His eyes widen, but I don’t care. I smile, sharp as glass. “If I’m staying, then I’m creating.”

And the madness? It’s mine now. Every last drop of it.