Val pov(first person point of view)
Consciousness came back slowly.
Not all at once.
First there was the cold floor beneath me.
Then the stiffness in my back.
And finally-
Pain.
A deep, burning ache spread through my ribs(This means Val pressed his bloody hands against the door earlier while trying to stop the bleeding. The blood stayed on the door as handprints when it dried.) and abdomen(The abdomen is the stomach area of your body, between your chest and your hips. It is the part of the body that contains organs like: the stomach the intestines the liver) the moment I tried to breathe too deeply. I winced and immediately forced myself to slow down.
“Easy…” I muttered weakly.
I stayed where I was for a moment, letting my lungs adjust. Each breath came shallow at first, careful and controlled(Shallow means small and not deep. In the story it means Val is breathing very lightly because deep breaths hurt his injuries). The bandages wrapped around my torso (Torso means the main part of the body (chest and stomach area))felt stiff and sticky, dried blood pulling against the fabric every time my chest moved.
But I was alive.
That alone took a second to fully process.
My eyes slowly focused on the cracked ceiling above me. The faint metallic smell of blood still hung in the air.
My blood.
A lot of it.
I swallowed and carefully turned my head.
The floor around me was still stained dark red. The door beside me had dried handprints smeared across the metal where I’d tried to keep pressure on the wounds.(This means Val pressed his bloody hands against the door earlier while trying to stop the bleeding. The blood stayed on the door as handprints when it dried.)
“…Yeah,” I murmured quietly.
“That was bad.”
Very bad.
I shifted slightly, and the pain flared again along my ribs and shoulder. Not as sharp as before-but still enough to remind me that the injuries hadn’t magically disappeared.
Which meant the hemostatic tablets had done their job.
They slowed the bleeding.
But they hadn’t fixed the damage.
I exhaled slowly and pulled my backpack closer.
“Let’s see what else you guys packed in here,” I muttered under my breath.
My fingers moved through the compartments(The abdomen is the stomach area of your body, between your chest and your hips. It is the part of the body that contains organs like: the stomach the intestines the liver) more carefully this time. Every motion tugged at the bandages wrapped around my torso.
Eventually I found another small container tucked deeper inside the bag.
A narrow bottle.
I frowned and turned it so the label faced me.
Emergency-In case of severe blood loss. For humans.
“…Huh.”
I blinked at it.
Then the realization hit me.
When I collapsed earlier, my vision had already been fading. My hands had barely been steady enough to take the hemostatic tablets.
I must have missed this completely.
“Great timing, Val.” I muttered dryly. “Found the important one after nearly bleeding out.”
Still…
If this was specifically for severe blood loss-
It was probably meant for situations exactly like this.
I twisted the cap open and shook one of the small tablets into my palm.
“Please just be a painkiller,” I murmured.
I swallowed it.
For a moment-
Nothing happened.
Then a strange warmth spread through my chest.
Not painful.
Not burning.
Just… warm.
The sensation moved slowly through my torso, like heat spreading under my skin. I frowned slightly as the tight, tearing ache along my ribs eased a little.(A tearing ache means pain that feels like something inside your body is being pulled or ripped. Here it means his injured muscles and wounds hurt when he breathes or moves.)
Then I felt something else.
Pressure.
Under the bandages.
I blinked.
“…Wait.”
The sensation intensified for a second, and I felt the skin beneath the wrappings shift faintly-like something tightening, pulling together.(Val can feel his wounds healing a little under the bandages. The skin feels like it is pulling itself together to close the injury.)
My wounds were closing.
Not fully.
Not even close to fully.
But enough that the sharpest pain dulled almost immediately.
“…That’s not a painkiller.” I muttered.
I carefully peeled the edge of one bandage back just enough to look.
The gash along my ribs was still there.(A gash is a large, deep cut in the skin. So Val has a serious cut in his side near his ribs.)
Still ugly.
Still bloody.
But the open tear had partially sealed, the edges pulled closer together like the tissue was trying to knit itself back into place.(Edges means the sides of the wound. The sentence means the two sides of the cut are moving closer as the body heals.)(Knit means to join things together tightly (like knitting cloth). Here it means his body is slowly repairing the wound.)
“…Okay.” I breathed.
“That’s… really useful.”
Curious now, I leaned back against the wall and began checking through the rest of the medical supplies packed in the bag.
Some of the labels were familiar.
Painkillers.
Psychological stimulants.(Psychological means related to the mind or brain. Stimulants are medicines that increase alertness or mental energy. So these pills probably help someone stay awake or focused.)
Antipoison tablets.
Basic things Cooler had briefly explained to me before.
But then there were others.
Things with names that were far less comforting.
I picked up one sealed container and read the label slowly.
Super-Duper Regenerative Compound-Emergency Use Only.
Below it, in smaller text:
For catastrophic injuries including limb loss.
I blinked.
“…Limb loss?”
I turned the container over.
Another warning had been written beneath it.
Extreme caution advised. Excessive medical compound intake may result in toxic overload. Use only when absolutely necessary. Evaluate your injuries carefully before administration.
There was also a small handwritten note attached to the inside of the pouch.
Too much medicine can become poison. Use only what you truly need.
If you experience unknown conditions, these medicines may help stabilize you.
I stared at the note for a moment.
Then slowly exhaled.
“…Right.”
A faint image crossed my mind.
Zalveriah.
And the cloaked figures that had handed me the backpack before I left.
I hadn’t thought much about it at the time.
But now-
Now I understood how much preparation they had put into this.
“…Thanks.” I muttered quietly to no one in particular.
I carefully returned the medicines to the pack and zipped the pouch closed.
Then I leaned back against the wall again for a second, letting my body process the sudden shift.
The bleeding had slowed.
The wounds were still serious.
But now they weren’t actively trying to kill me.
Which was a huge improvement.
After a moment, I braced one hand against the floor and slowly pushed myself upright.
Pain shot through my side immediately, but it wasn’t the blinding agony from earlier.
Just a harsh reminder.
“Yeah… okay,” I muttered through clenched teeth as I stood.
“Definitely shouldn’t be moving this soon.”
I straightened carefully, letting out a slow breath once I was fully upright.
My shirt was still soaked with blood. The bandages were visible beneath the torn fabric, dark stains spreading across them.
I probably looked like I’d crawled out of a disaster.
But at least I was standing.
I rolled one shoulder slightly and winced.
“Note to self,” I murmured.
“Don’t exert yourself immediately after nearly dying.”
I took another careful breath and glanced toward the five doors again.
I was still in this place.
Still trapped.
Still not safe.
Which meant-
Resting forever wasn’t an option.
Even if every step hurt.
I adjusted the backpack straps slowly and steadied myself.
Then I looked back toward the 5 doors.
Well.
Four now.
One of them was already off the list.
And judging by the blood still drying on my shirt and the memories of that thing tearing through rows of bunker beds like paper-
That door was definitely not an option anymore.
I exhaled slowly.
“Four left,” I muttered.
Not great odds.
But better than five.
My gaze drifted across the remaining doors, studying each one again. The warped frames. The cracked hinges.(Hinges are the metal parts that let a door swing open and closed.) The hollow darkness beyond the seams.(Seams are small gaps where the door meets the wall or frame. “Beyond the seams” means the dark space behind the door, visible through those tiny cracks.)
If the door I chose before led to that barracks… and that creature…
Then it meant something important.
The things behind these doors weren’t random.
Each space might have its own environment.
Its own rules.
Its own… inhabitants.
Which meant the creatures themselves might not all be the same either.
Maybe they had different abilities.
Different behaviors.
The one I ran into back there clearly had some kind of effect tied to its eyes-those black sclera, white pupils. Looking into them caused hallucinations. Headaches. Loss of consciousness. I experienced it myself.
But when I looked-
Nothing happened.
I frowned slightly.
“…Why?”
That question was going to bother me.
Because either I got lucky…
Or something about me prevented it from working. But I don't think thats it.
Neither answer felt comforting.
I took a step forward-
And the room tilted.
My vision swam for half a second.
“Crap-”
I caught myself on the wall as dizziness rolled through my head. A sharp pulse throbbed behind my eyes before it slowly faded.
“…That’s not good.”
Blood loss.
Even with the medicine, my body hadn’t magically reset.
I was still injured.
Still recovering.
Still one bad mistake away from collapsing again.
I stayed there for a moment, breathing slowly until the dizziness settled.
When the room finally stopped shifting, I pushed myself upright again.
Carefully.
More aware now.
Much more aware.
The danger behind those doors wasn’t theoretical anymore.
I had proof.
But that also meant something else.
If I was going to survive here, I needed information.
About the creatures.
About the rooms.
About whatever this place actually was.
And somewhere in all of this-
There had to be a projector.
Because that film reel didn’t hide itself under a bunk bed for no reason.
Which meant the next door might hold answers.
Or another nightmare.
Or both.
I adjusted the backpack on my shoulders again and looked at the doors one more time.
Part of me almost wanted to test something.
To learn more about those creatures.
If they really had different abilities… if their weaknesses were different…
Understanding them could save my life later.
The problem was-
I had absolutely no idea how to test that safely.
“…Yeah,” I muttered under my breath.
“I’ll figure that out later.”
For now-
I just needed to choose another door.
I stepped forward slowly, eyes moving across the remaining four.
“…Alright.” I said quietly.
“Round two.”
I stared at the remaining four doors.
For a moment, I considered doing the whole random choice thing again.
But then I paused.
“…Actually.”
That was a terrible idea.
If I kept picking doors randomly, I’d eventually forget which ones I’d already gone through. And considering how badly the last one went, accidentally repeating the same nightmare sounded like a spectacularly stupid mistake.
I rubbed the back of my neck.
And then, for some reason, I imagined Eclipsara standing beside me.
Arms crossed.
Expression completely unimpressed.
I could practically hear her voice.
“Val.”
“…Yeah?”
“You’re about to choose randomly again, aren’t you?”
“…Maybe.”
“You almost died five minutes ago.”
“Technically I didn’t die.”
“That is not the point.”
“…Okay, fair.”
The imaginary version of her gave me a look that clearly meant: think for two seconds.
Right. Organization.
I turned toward the door directly next to the one I had just come out of.
If I went in order, I wouldn’t confuse myself later.
One door at a time.
Left to right.
Or right to left.
Either way, it kept things simple.
“…Alright.” I muttered.
“Second door.”
I reached for the handle.
And opened it.
The moment I stepped through, the environment changed again.
But this time-
Light.
A lot of light.
I blinked once, adjusting as brightness flooded my vision.
Rows of ceiling lights stretched across a massive room, bathing everything in a steady glow(A steady glow means light that stays constant and does not flicker or change. It means the room is bright and evenly lit, unlike the darker rooms Val saw earlier.). Compared to the dim gray spaces I have been dealing with so far, it almost felt… welcoming.
Almost.
I took a few steps forward.
Tables.
Dozens of them.
Long cafeteria tables arranged in rows across a huge open space.
Some were still upright.
Others had been knocked over.
A few were broken entirely, metal legs bent or snapped like someone had shoved them aside in a hurry.(Metal legs are the metal supports under the tables that hold them up. The sentence means the table supports were bent or broken like someone pushed the tables very hard.)
But there were no stains.
No blood.
No burn marks.
No signs of violence.
Just disruption.
“…Okay.” I murmured.
That alone was strange.
If something bad had happened here, you’d expect some kind of trace.
Instead, the room felt oddly… preserved.
My eyes moved across the walls.
And then I noticed something else.
Color.
Bright colors.
Drawings.
They were everywhere.
Crayon-like sketches stretched across sections of the walls. Stick figures. Smiling faces. Cartoon animals. Colorful shapes that overlapped each other in chaotic layers.
Some of them looked like games.
Others looked like little stories.
One drawing showed a tiny stick figure hero with a cape punching a much bigger stick figure villain that had jagged teeth (Jagged teeth means sharp, uneven teeth with rough points. In the drawing it means the villain was drawn to look scary or monster-like.)and an exaggerated scowl. The hero had a huge smile on its face while the “bad guy” looked dramatically defeated. (A scowl is a very angry facial expression, where the eyebrows go down and the mouth turns down. Exaggerated means made bigger or more dramatic than normal, so the drawing shows an extra-angry cartoon face.)
I stared at it for a moment.
“…Was this a kids’ cafeteria?”
It definitely felt like one.
The drawings weren’t hidden either.
They were everywhere.
Across walls. Near tables. Even around some of the support pillars.
Which meant the children probably hadn’t been punished for it.
If anything, it looked encouraged.
The bright artwork clashed strangely with the abandoned feeling of the rest of the place.
Colorful.
But empty.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
It made no sense.
From barracks to cafeteria. From horror to… this?
Why did the doors even go to these locations in the first place?
I shook my head and exhaled.
I continued walking slowly between the tables, my footsteps echoing faintly in the open room.
Toward the far side of the cafeteria.
That’s where I saw it.
The serving area.
A long counter(A counter is a long flat surface used to serve food or work on, like in cafeterias or kitchens. Here it means the place where workers would give food to people.) stretched across the back wall with metal rails and empty food trays built into it. Behind it, a wide opening led deeper into another section of the building. (This means there is a big doorway behind the counter that goes into the kitchen area.)
(Stretched here means extended from one side to the other. The sentence means the serving counter runs along most or all of the wall at the back of the room.Metal rails are long metal bars used to guide or hold trays in place. In cafeterias they help slide trays along the serving line.)
The kitchen.
And unlike the other rooms I’d seen so far, this one didn’t look like a maze.
The path to the kitchen was completely straightforward.
No twists.
No strange layouts.
Just a direct walk forward.
I tilted my head slightly.
“…That’s quite simple.”
Still.
If there was anywhere useful to search in a cafeteria-
It would be the kitchen.
Something that explains all this hopefully.
And maybe..if I was very lucky…
Something that could play that film reel, but since this was a cafeteria, it felt unlikely still.
So after one last glance around the colorful, silent cafeteria, I adjusted my backpack and started walking toward the kitchen entrance.
I moved through the entrance and stepped into the kitchen.
The difference from the cafeteria was immediate.
Metal surfaces lined the walls. Industrial ovens stood silent in one corner. Long preparation counters stretched across the room, their surfaces dulled by dust and time(Dulled means no longer shiny or bright. It means the metal counters look old and dusty instead of clean and polished). Hanging racks held cooking utensils-ladles(A ladle is a deep spoon used for serving soup or liquid food. A spatula is a flat cooking tool used to flip or move food like pancakes or eggs.), spatulas, large stirring spoons-all swaying slightly from the movement of air I’d carried in.(Swaying means moving gently back and forth. The sentence means when Val walked in, the air he moved caused the hanging tools to slowly swing a little.)
It was unmistakably a kitchen.
A large one.
The kind meant to feed a lot of people.
Children, most likely.
I walked toward the refrigerators first.
If anything had been left behind, it would probably be there.
I pulled one open.
Empty.
Completely empty.
No containers.
No trays.
Not even old packaging.
Just cold metal shelves and stale air.
“…Expected.” I muttered quietly.
I closed the fridge and moved farther inside.
That’s when I noticed something sitting near the cooking pans.
A small notepad.
It rested beside one of the larger stovetop burners(A stovetop burner is the round heating part of a stove where pots and pans sit while cooking.), partly tucked under a metal ladle as if someone had set it down quickly and forgotten about it.
I picked it up.
The paper was worn, but not as decayed as everything else around it.(Worn means used a lot and slightly damaged. Decayed means broken down or rotting with age. The sentence means the notebook is old but still in better condition than the rest of the room.)
I flipped it open.
Handwriting filled the pages.
Adult handwriting.
But… strangely cheerful.
The first page listed names.
Lots of them.
Each followed by notes.
Lina-likes her soup warmer than the others. Extra carrots.
Daren-allergic to nuts. Absolutely no peanut oil.
Kel-loves the new tomato stew recipe. Ask if he wants seconds.
I paused.
Then flipped another page.
More names.
More notes.
But these were different.
They weren’t just food lists.
They were personal.
Arin didn’t eat much today. Ask if he’s feeling okay tomorrow.
Jessa laughed at the spicy noodles again. Maybe reduce the pepper.
Try the honey bread again. The kids loved it last time.
Rin smiled a lot today. Said the new soup was “the best ever. Gonna make it again.”
I slowly turned another page.
And another.
Every single entry was detailed.
Careful.
Who liked what. Who needed substitutes. Who had allergies. Who had favorite recipes.
Some pages even had small notes scribbled beside them like reminders.(Scribbled means written quickly and a little messy. The sentence means the cook quickly wrote little reminders next to the names.)
“Kids loved the new recipe today.”
“Remember to make extra stew on Fridays.”
“Lina asked if we can add berries next time.”
I stood there quietly for a moment.
Whoever had written this cared. A lot.
Not just feeding them. Actually paying attention and remembering the small things.
I flipped toward the back of the notepad.
The final pages were mostly blank.
Except for one near the end.
Three numbers were written there.
Not food notes.
Not names.
Just three short codes.
Three lock combinations.
“…That’s different.”
I closed the notebook slowly and looked around the kitchen again.
Then I noticed something I hadn’t paid attention to before.
Another door.
Off to the side of the kitchen.
Smaller than the others.
More private.
It had a lock on it.
A keypad.
I turned the notebook slightly in my hand.
Three codes.
A locked door.
“…Office.” I murmured.
That would make sense.
A place for records. Schedules. Administrative stuff.
There were probably more records in there.
Maybe even answers.
I glanced down at the codes again.
Then back at the door.
“…Well,” I muttered quietly.
“Guess I know where I’m going next.”
I walked up to the door and looked at the keypad.
“…Alright.”
I entered the code.
For a second nothing happened.
Then-
Click.
The lock disengaged.
“Good.”
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It was an office.
Small. Quiet. Simple.
A single desk sat in the middle of the room with a chair tucked behind it, facing the door like someone had been working there not long ago.(Tucked means pushed neatly into place. The sentence means the chair was pushed in under the desk like someone left it neatly.)
But the desk itself was empty.
Too empty.
I stepped closer and looked it over for a moment before crouching slightly and opening one of the drawers.
Inside, a few things were sitting together.
A journal.
An old newspaper.
And another film reel.
My eyes immediately locked onto that reel.
“…Another one?”
I picked up the reel and turned it slightly in my hand. It looked just like the other one I had found earlier.
Without wasting time, I slipped it into my backpack.
Two reels now.
That had to mean something. I just still didn’t know what yet.
After that, I pulled the rest of the items out of the drawer and set them on the desk.
The journal and the newspaper.
Both looked like they might take a while to read.
I pulled the chair out and sat down, letting my body relax for a moment.
The chair creaked slightly under my weight.(Creaked means making a small old wood or metal squeaking sound. The sentence means the chair made a quiet noise when Val sat down because it’s old.)
Then I leaned back a little and casually rested my legs on the desk.
“…This might take a bit.”
I picked up the journal first.
If anything in this room had answers, it was probably this.
So I opened it and began reading.
Entry 1
Name’s Garrick Hale. Human. A 44 years old man.
Which already makes me stand out around here in Daemina. Most of the staff in this place are beastfolk, elves, or some other long-lived race that probably thinks forty-four is ancient or even young.
Apparently I’m supposed to start writing things down.
That’s what the therapist told me anyway.
Said it would be “good for me.” and “good for processing thoughts.”
Something about processing thoughts, anger management, emotional reflection, whatever nonsense he kept rambling about while charging me more money than the food in this place probably costs in a month.
I told him writing journals sounded stupid.
He said I should try it anyway.
“Whenever you feel like talking but don’t want to talk to someone, write it down instead.”
So here I am.
Writing.
Still feels stupid.
Anyway, if someone’s reading this someday for whatever reason, here’s the situation.
I’m an ex-criminal.
Yeah. Not proud of it, not ashamed of it either. It’s just the truth.
Did some bad things, did my time, got out, and now the system decided I needed “rehabilitation work.” Their words, not mine. Offering job placements for people like me.
Apparently that means cooking.
For kids.
Life’s funny like that.
Not the good kind of funny.
More like the “how the hell did I end up here” kind.
Technically I didn’t choose this job.
It was either this… or go back to a cell.
Turns out when you’ve got a record, a face like mine, and a missing eye, most places don’t exactly rush to hire you. Can’t blame them.
So when they offered me this job cooking meals here, I took it.
Mostly because nobody else wanted it. Long hours. Too many mouths to feed. Most people quit after a few weeks.
That should have been my first warning.
I still don’t understand how that happened.
And now out of all the jobs they could’ve shoved me into, I somehow ended up being the one responsible for feeding a building full of little monsters.
For some reason the administration decided that someone like me-someone who doesn’t exactly have a lot of options-would be perfect.
Lucky me.
I still don’t even know what this place really is.
It looks like a school.
But it doesn’t feel like one.
Too many strange rules.
Too many locked doors.
Too many staff members who don’t answer questions.
Pay isn’t great either.
Honestly I’m surprised anyone runs this place at all.
But hey.
Work is work.
They give me ingredients.
I cook food.
Kids eat it.
That’s the job.
Simple enough.
Still feels weird though.
Never thought my life would end up like this.
Cooking stew for a bunch of kids I don’t know.
Therapist would probably say that’s “progress.”
I say it’s just survival.
Anyway.
Therapist said I should write when I feel like it.
So I guess this counts.
That’s enough for today.
Entry 2
Don’t know what day it is.
Nobody here tells me much.
Schedules exist, but they change constantly. Feels like the people running this place enjoy keeping things confusing.
Anyway.
Something weird happened today.
The kids actually liked the food.
Actually liked it.
Not just the usual polite “thanks for the meal” stuff either.
One of the little brats came up to the serving counter and said the stew was “awesome.”
I made a simple tomato stew. Nothing fancy. Just vegetables, broth, spices, whatever ingredients the storage room had left.
I expected the usual reactions.
Complaints.
Whining.
Kids being kids.
But they loved it??
I had a line of them asking for seconds.
Seconds.
One of them-little kid with messy hair, I think his name was Kel-said it was “the best stew ever.”
Best stew ever.
Kid clearly hasn’t eaten much good food in his life.
Another one asked if I made the honey bread myself.
I told them obviously I did. Who else would?
Kid looked at me like I’d just performed some kind of miracle.
Weird little brats.
They keep coming back asking what I’m cooking next.
Apparently they like when I experiment with recipes.
Still.
I guess it felt… good.
Strange feeling.
They cleaned the trays completely.
Every last bite.
I don’t think anyone’s ever praised something I’ve done before.
Not really.
Back when I ran with my old crew the only compliments you got were when a job didn’t go wrong.
That’s a pretty low bar.
But these kids?
They act like I’m some kind of chef.
And theres another matter. Most people who saw my face usually just looked uncomfortable.
Hard to blame them.
Missing eye.
Big scar running across the left side of my face.
Not exactly friendly-looking.
Most folks assume I’m trouble the second they see me.
The kids though?
They don’t seem to care.
None of them stare.
None of them ask questions.
They just eat the food and call me “Mr. Garrick.”
Guess rough faces don’t matter much when you’re handing out dessert.
Heh.
Weird little brats.
But I guess I don’t mind it.
Entry 3
The kids asked me something strange today.
They want to draw.
Not on paper.
On the cafeteria walls.
I told them that was ridiculous.
Kids are supposed to draw on paper.
Or at home.
Or literally anywhere else that isn’t the walls of a cafeteria.
They insisted.
Apparently they really wanted the walls to be colorful.
Something about the place feeling too gray.
I told them that wasn’t my problem.
I’m the cook.
Not the art teacher.
But they kept asking.
Every meal.
Every break.
Same question.
“Mr. Garrick, can we draw on the walls?”
“Mr. Garrick, do you have crayons?”
“Mr. Garrick, pleeease?”
Persistent little gremlins.
Eventually I gave up.
Went out and bought crayons and markers myself.
Probably wasn’t supposed to. Administration hasn’t said anything yet though.
But I figured if the kids were going to do it anyway, they might as well use something that washes off.
When I dumped the boxes on one of the tables and told them they could go wild.
You’d think I just handed them treasure.
They ran around the cafeteria laughing like maniacs.
Within an hour the walls were covered in drawings.
So now the cafeteria looks like a crayon explosion happened.
Stick figures everywhere.
Animals.
Bright shapes.
Some weird drawings of heroes fighting monsters.
One kid drew a giant dragon with sunglasses. I still don’t understand that one.
The kids seem unusually happy about it.
Laughing more.
Smiling more.
Louder too.
Running around showing each other their drawings.
Honestly?
It’s strange.
Kids are supposed to already be happy at home, right?
Playing with toys.
Drawing.
Doing all that stuff kids do.
So why did drawing on cafeteria walls make them this excited?
Makes me wonder what their homes are like.
It’s just crayons.
Not my business though.
I just cook the food.
Still.
The place looks… better with color.
Don’t tell anyone I said that.
Can’t deny that.
Even if it’s covered in terrible artwork.
Heh.
Stupid brats.
Entry 4
Something feels… off lately.
I can’t really explain it.
The cafeteria’s busier than ever.
The kids keep hanging around even after meals are done.
At first I figured they were just killing time.
But it’s more than that.
They want to stay here.
With me.
Not that I understand why.
I’m just the cook.
But lately they’ve been sticking around long after the trays are cleared.
Talking.
Drawing.
Some of them even help me carry utensils back to the kitchen.
I didn’t ask them to.
They just do it.
One kid asked if he could help stir the soup yesterday.
Another wanted to watch how I make the honey bread.
They always seem to gravitate toward wherever I’m working.
If I’m chopping vegetables, they sit nearby and talk.
If I’m baking bread, they watch.
If I’m cleaning the kitchen, they wander in and start asking questions about cooking.
Persistent little gremlins.
I tell them to get out of the kitchen most of the time.
Health codes and all that.
But sometimes I let them stand near the counter while I cook.
Just watching.
They ask a lot of questions.
Mostly about food.
Sometimes about random things.
One of them asked if I ever fought a monster once.
I told them no.
Kid looked disappointed.
But the strangest thing?
Some of them asked if they could sleep in the cafeteria.
Not all the time.
Just whenever I’m working late.
Said they like it here.
Said the place feels “safe.”
That part bothered me.
Kids usually want to sleep in their own rooms.
Or their homes.
But these ones?
They seem perfectly happy curling up on chairs or resting their heads on the tables while I’m finishing the evening cleanup.
Administration hasn’t said anything about it.
Which is another strange thing.
Actually…
That’s the part that bothers me the most.
The staff.
They’re… calm.
Too calm.
Doesn’t matter what happens around here.
Noise.
Kids running around.
Chaos during meal hours.
They just walk through the cafeteria like nothing matters.
No reactions.
No complaints.
No real conversations either.
I tried making small talk with one of them earlier.
Asked how long they’d been working here.
They just smiled and said, “Please focus on your responsibilities, Mr. Hale.”
Then walked away.
That’s been the answer every time I ask questions.
Feels like everyone here knows something I don’t.
And they don’t want me knowing it.
But whatever’s going on…
The kids don’t seem to notice.
They just keep laughing and drawing on the walls.
Still calling me Mr. Garrick.
Still asking what I’m cooking next.
I probably shouldn’t care.
But I do.
Not that I’d ever admit that to anyone.
They’re still little brats.
Even if they keep hanging around me like I’m some kind of parent.
One of them called me a dad or papa.
Once again. Stupid brats.
Heh.
Entry 5
Something happened today that caught me completely off guard.
One of the girls approached the serving counter after dinner.
Small kid.
Quiet.
Demon race.
Pretty sure she’s a succubus, judging by the horns and tail.
She waited until the other kids left before walking up to me.
Then she asked me something.
"Mr. Garrick… can I take some food home for my older sister?"
I think I just stood there for a second.
Didn’t know what to say.
No kid here had ever mentioned family before.
Not once.
So hearing that caught me completely off guard.
I didn’t ask why.
Didn’t feel like my place.
But the kid looked nervous.
Like she expected me to say no.
So I made another portion. Just packed up some extra food for her as well.
I then handed it to her.
She smiled like I’d just given her the greatest gift in the world.
Said thank you.
Then ran off.
That was a few days ago.
Now she asks every day.
Same thing.
Food for her sister.
And every day I give it to her.
Extra portions too.
If there’s leftovers, I make sure she gets the best of it.
Don’t know why.
Just feels like the right thing to do.
But the whole thing has me more worried than before.
Because now I know at least one of these kids has family.
Which makes the silence from the others even stranger.
I tried asking the staff about it earlier.
Just casually.
Asked if the kids live nearby.
Or if they go home after classes.
You know what they told me?
"Focus on your duties, Mr. Hale."
That was it.
Didn’t answer a single question.
Just that same polite voice again.
Focus on your duties.
Starting to hate that sentence.
Something’s going on in this place.
I know it.
But every time I try to ask about it, I get the same wall.
Still…
I’ll keep doing what I can.
Even if that just means giving a kid extra food for her sister.
Entry 6
Something’s definitely wrong.
The cafeteria’s been getting quieter.
Not all at once.
Slowly.
At first I didn’t notice.
But now it’s obvious.
Some of the kids stopped showing up.
At first it was just one or two.
I figured maybe they were sick.
Or maybe something happened at home.
Kids disappear from school sometimes.
It happens.
But then more stopped coming.
One by one.
Every few days another familiar face just… doesn’t show up anymore.
No explanation.
No announcements.
Nothing.
I tried asking the staff again.
Same fucking response as always.
"Everything is operating normally."
That answer’s starting to make my blood boil.
Even the succubus girl hasn’t come by the last two days.
No request for food.
No smile.
Nothing.
I don’t like it.
Not one bit.
If something’s happening to them, someone should say something.
But nobody does.
Everyone acts like nothing is wrong.
Like this is normal.
I started paying attention to the news more lately too.
Someone left a newspaper in the cafeteria earlier this week.
Big headline about the Demon King.
Apparently there’s talk about expanding military efforts.
Preparing for war.
Typical political stuff.
I’ve always had mixed feelings about the Demon King.
People say he’s a good ruler.
And honestly?
I believe that.
The country’s stable.
Crime’s lower than it used to be.
Even someone like me got a second chance.
That counts for something.
But the man has a reputation.
When he believes in something, he goes all in.
No hesitation.
No halfway measures.
Sometimes that’s good.
Sometimes not so much.
And right now I can’t help thinking about all these missing kids.
Probably unrelated.
Hopefully unrelated.
Still.
Something feels wrong here.
Really wrong.
And I can’t stop thinking about it.
Problem is…
What am I supposed to do?
I’m just the cook.
An ex-criminal who got lucky enough not to rot in prison.
So what right do I have to start asking questions?
What right do I have to get involved?
Not a guard.
Not a soldier.
Not someone important.
Just a guy now making stew in a big kitchen.
Where do you even start when something feels wrong but no one will tell you anything?
And...
Even if there is something wrong-
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it.
Entry 7
Something happened tonight.
And before I even start writing this down, I can already hear that damn therapist’s voice in my head.
“Garrick, you’re under a lot of stress. Your mind might be exaggerating things. You should rest.”
Yeah.
Right.
According to him, if something doesn’t make sense, the answer is always the same.
“You’re tired. Get some sleep.”
Except I know what I saw tonight.
And I know what I heard.
And sleep isn’t going to magically make it disappear.
Anyway.
I was in my room earlier tonight.
Just got back from the kitchens.
Long shift. Same as usual.
I was sitting at the table when someone knocked on the door.
Which already felt strange.
Nobody comes to my door.
Staff don’t bother with me unless they need food.
And the kids sure as hell don’t know where I live.
Or at least… I thought they didn’t.
When I opened the door, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
It was the succubus girl.
The one with the green eyes.
Standing there.
Crying.
For a second I just stared at her.
First thought in my head wasn’t concern.
It was confusion.
How the hell did she find my room?
I never told her.
Never told any of the kids.
But before I could even ask, she ran straight at me and grabbed my coat.
Crying so hard she could barely speak.
Kept saying the same thing over and over.
“My sister… my sister isn’t home.”
Now at first that sentence didn’t even register.
Because something about it felt wrong.
I asked her what she meant.
Asked her how she even knew where I lived.
She didn’t answer either question.
Just kept crying and repeating herself.
Then she said something that made my stomach twist.
She said she ran away from her home to come find me.
Ran away from her home.
Which made no damn sense.
Because if she had a home…
Why was she always eating in the cafeteria?
Why was she always hanging around with the other kids?
Why did she look like she lived here?
But she was shaking so badly I couldn’t just stand there asking questions.
So I grabbed my coat and followed her.
She ran the whole way.
Through streets I didn’t even know were around here.
Back alleys.
Half-broken roads.
Places that looked like the city forgot they existed.
Eventually she stopped in front of a building that looked like it had been kicked around by a giant.
Cracked walls.
Broken windows.
Roof looked like it might cave in if the wind blew too hard.
“This is home.” she said.
I didn’t say anything.
Just followed her inside.
The place was worse than it looked.
One bed.
One desk.
A bathroom that barely worked.
No proper kitchen.
No supplies.
Nothing a kid should be living in.
She ran around the room calling for her sister.
Over and over.
No answer.
Eventually she just sat on the floor and started crying again.
I sat down too.
Did the only thing I could think of.
I started asking questions.
Questions that had been stuck in my head for weeks now.
About where the kids live.
About why some of them stay so late in the cafeteria.
About why nobody talks about families.
At first she didn’t want to answer.
Then she did.
And the things she told me…
I’m writing this sentence three times because my brain still doesn’t want to accept it.
The things she told me don’t make sense.
They can’t make sense.
If my therapist were sitting here right now he’d probably lean back in that chair of his and say:
"Garrick, that sounds like a stress hallucination. You should rest."
Yeah.
Maybe I should.
Maybe if I sleep long enough I’ll wake up and realize this whole thing was just my imagination.
Because the alternative…
The alternative means what she told me is real.
And if it’s real…
Then I’ve been standing in that cafeteria every day smiling at those kids while something far worse has been happening right under my nose.
I’m not writing what she said here.
Not tonight.
My head’s a mess.
I need time to think.
Time to figure out whether I’m losing my damn mind.
Because right now…
I honestly hope I am.
Entry 8
It’s been a while since the night she came to my door.
I haven’t been sleeping much.
Funny thing is, the therapist was half right.
I did try sleeping it off.
Thought maybe I’d wake up and realize I misunderstood everything the girl said.
But no.
Every time we meet, she tells me more.
Little pieces.
Little details.
Things she clearly wasn’t supposed to say out loud.
And every single one of them makes the picture clearer.
And worse.
Way worse.
We meet in secret now.
Not in the cafeteria.
Too many ears there.
Too many of those polite smiling workers walking around pretending everything’s normal.
Instead we talk in quiet places.
Places where nobody’s listening.
Or at least I hope nobody is.
She tells me things about the kids from the cafeteria.
About where they go sometimes.
About what they do.
About what they’re expected to do.
And the more she talks, the more something clicks in my head.
Those newspapers I’ve been reading.
All those headlines about the war.
All those reports about victories.
About how our side keeps winning.
Keeps pushing forward.
Keeps somehow knowing exactly what to do.
I used to think it was good strategy.
Good generals.
A strong army.
Now I think it’s something else entirely.
Something ugly.
I never thought people could be this cold.
This practical.
This willing to treat lives like tools.
And I’ll say this right here in writing because I don’t care anymore.
My opinion of the Demon King has changed.
I used to think he was a tough ruler.
Maybe harsh.
But fair.
Someone who wanted the country stable.
Someone who gave criminals like me a chance to start over.
Now?
Now I think he’s just an extreme bastard. Someone I want to strangle with my own hands personally.
A man who decided the ends justify whatever twisted means he can come up with.
And the worst part?
He probably thinks he’s doing the right thing.
What’s the point of all this?
That’s the question that keeps bouncing around my head.
What’s the damn point?
Even if the war is won…
Even if every enemy army gets crushed…
What does it matter if this is how you do it?
And there’s something else I heard recently.
Rumors.
Apparently the Demon King’s son died.
No one knows exactly when.
Some say a year ago.
Some say longer.
But everyone agrees on one thing.
The King changed after that.
Got colder.
More aggressive.
Like something inside him snapped.
Maybe that’s part of it.
Maybe losing a son makes a man desperate.
But if that’s the case…
Then he’s dragging a whole lot of other people down with him.
Including those kids.
I’ve been trying to find the girl’s sister.
Asking quiet questions.
Looking at places I normally wouldn’t bother with.
I finally found something that might be a lead.
But I also heard rumors.
And if those rumors are true…
Then the search might already be pointless.
Because if they’re right…
Her sister is probably already dead.
And I don’t have the heart to tell that to a kid who still believes she’s alive somewhere.
I think I need another journal.
A different one.
Because the more I write here, the more I start wondering who might eventually read it.
And after everything I’ve learned…
That thought makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I won’t write names anymore.
Not hers.
Not the others.
If someone finds this journal, I don’t want them tracing anything back to the kids.
This will be my last entry in this one.
From now on I’ll write somewhere else.
Somewhere safer.
Assuming a place like that even exists anymore.
Val pov(first person point of view)
I closed the journal slowly.
For a moment, I just sat there in the chair, staring at the desk in silence.
“…That explains a few things.”
Not everything.
Not even close.
But enough pieces were starting to line up that I could at least make a few guesses now.
I leaned forward and grabbed the folded newspaper I found.
The front corner of it was torn.
The date had been ripped out completely.
“…Convenient,” I muttered.
No way to know exactly when this was printed.
I unfolded the paper and looked at the front page.
A large headline stretched across the top:
Possible Children Sightings During the War.
Below it were several photographs.
Or at least… what were supposed to be photographs.
They were blurry.
Grainy.
Unreliable.
Each one showed vague shapes that almost looked like children standing in the distance.
Small silhouettes in the middle of what looked like battlefields.
Dark figures in places they definitely shouldn’t have been.
Even the article itself sounded uncertain.
I read part of it quietly.
The newspaper claimed that soldiers had reported seeing children appearing during battles… only for them to vanish moments later.
Witnesses described them as showing up suddenly.
Standing silently.
Watching.
And then disappearing just as quickly.
No one could confirm if the sightings were real.
Some soldiers believed they were hallucinations caused by stress.
Others believed they were enemy tricks.
Some believed something else entirely.
But a few insisted they were real.
The article ended with the same question repeated several times.
Was it truth… or myth?
“…Interesting.”
I flipped the page.
Another headline caught my eye.
Rumors Circulating That the Demon King’s Son Is Dead.
No photograph accompanied this one.
Just text.
Rumors.
Speculation.
Unconfirmed reports.
I read through part of it before folding the newspaper shut again.
Then I leaned back slightly in the chair, thinking.
“…That must be a different Demon King.”
The one in Daemina that I knew about had five wives.
This newspaper never mentioned a single one.
Not once.
Which meant either the reporter somehow ignored that…
Or this wasn’t the same Demon King.
I didn’t have proof.
But the more I read, the more the idea made sense.
A different Daemina.
Or maybe something even stranger.
Then another detail from the journal floated back into my mind.
Garrick had mentioned the succubus girl.
Green eyes.
“…Green eyes…”
I only knew two people with that eye color so far who were succubi.
But that didn’t mean anything.
Not here.
If this really was a different Daemina entirely, it could easily be someone else. Those people might not even exist here.
For now, the only thing I could say with any confidence was this:
My theory that this place belonged to another Daemina was starting to look like the only explanation that made any sense.
Still.
That didn’t answer the real question.
What happened here?
I exhaled slowly.
“…I stayed here too long.”
The cafeteria and this office had been useful.
But I couldn’t just sit here forever reading old records. The longer I stayed, the more exposed I was if those creatures decided to start moving around.
I folded the newspaper again.
Then I picked up Garrick’s journal.
Both of them might be important later.
So I slipped them into my backpack.
Then I stood up from the chair and stretched slightly.
My ribs still ached a little, but the pain was manageable.
I walked toward the door of the office and stepped back into the kitchen.
From there, the path back through the cafeteria waited.
And beyond that…
The door I originally came through.
Time to move again.
I walked back through the cafeteria slowly.
My footsteps echoed softly across the open room.
What surprised me the most…
Was that nothing happened.
No movement.
No creatures.
Nothing.
After everything I had seen behind the other doors, the silence here felt almost unnatural.
Part of me expected something to crawl out from under a table.
Or from behind the serving counter.
But the room stayed quiet.
Completely still.
“…Strange.”
Deep down, a thought crossed my mind.
One that didn’t really make sense.
This place felt… sacred.
I didn’t know why that word came to mind.
But the more I looked around the cafeteria, the more the feeling stuck.
The colorful drawings.
The long tables.
The quiet kitchen beyond the counter.
For a place surrounded by so much darkness…
This room had somehow stayed different.
Like it had been protected in some strange way.
Eventually I reached the door I had originally come through.
Before opening it, I stopped.
And glanced back at the cafeteria.
The drawings on the walls stood out more now that I knew who made them.
Children.
Kids who just wanted somewhere they could laugh, draw, and eat in peace.
For a moment, I wondered if this had been the only place they were allowed to be themselves.
My eyes drifted toward the kitchen again.
Then another thought crossed my mind.
If I was right…
Those bunker beds I saw earlier might actually be-
…
I stopped the thought before finishing it.
I didn’t want to think about that possibility right now.
Instead, I lowered my head slightly.
A quiet gesture.
A small sign of respect.
For the children.
And for the man named Garrick Hale.
Despite everything I had read…
Despite knowing how this place probably ended…
Part of me still hoped he was okay.
Even if the chances of that were almost nonexistent.
I reached for the door handle.
But just before I opened it-
I heard something.
A faint sound.
From the kitchen behind me.
Soft.
Subtle.
Almost like metal shifting slightly against metal.
Or a utensil barely being moved.
I froze for half a second.
…
Then I exhaled quietly.
And opened the door.
I didn’t look back.
Whatever had made that sound…
I didn’t want to see it.
So I stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind me.
