13. The Vision of Reality
The Vision of Reality
Damian
My breath comes out slow, uneven, as I clench Nichole’s hand tightly in mine. The weight of what we just endured still lingers, coiling around my chest like a vice. The Nightmare Room tried to break us—to consume us—but we made it out.
The silence of the mansion presses against me, thick and watchful, as if the very walls know what we’ve been through. I keep my grip firm, needing the solid feel of Nichole’s warmth, needing the reassurance that she’s real—that we’re both here.
We stand in the grand foyer, the towering ceilings and intricate chandeliers starkly different from the twisted landscapes of our nightmares. The air feels lighter, but it doesn’t erase the echoes of what we just escaped.
Slowly, I turn my head toward the space where the Nightmare Room had been.
It’s gone.
I blink, my pulse stuttering for a second as I take a step back. The massive door—the one that had loomed over us, trapping us inside our worst fears—is no longer there. Not even a trace of it remains. It’s as if it never existed at all.
My chest tightens, a strange mix of relief and unease settling deep in my bones. The mansion acknowledged it.
It saw what we faced.
And now, it’s erased the need for that door to exist.
Nichole squeezes my hand gently, pulling my focus back to her. I glance down, finding her watching me closely, her expression exhausted but steady. There’s a quiet understanding in her gaze—she feels it too.
It’s over.
Nichole’s grip on my hand tightens, grounding me, even though I can still feel the lingering tension in her body. The exhaustion is there, woven into every breath she takes, but she doesn’t let it control her.
She swallows, voice steady but laced with weariness. “Now what?”
I drag my gaze away from where the Nightmare Room had been, pushing aside the strange finality of its disappearance. We survived that. We moved past it. But now, something heavier settles inside me—something more urgent, more real.
I shift my attention to the only other door left in the mansion.
The Dream Room.
It’s different from the others. The wood is smooth, almost untouched, its deep mahogany surface unmarked by scratches or age. The gilded frame around it glows faintly, as if the door itself hums with quiet energy. And in the center, carved with intricate precision, is a single word.
Dreams.
I take a breath. There’s no hesitation. No second-guessing.
“Now,” I say, voice firm as my fingers tighten around Nichole’s, “we find my sister.”
We step forward together, side by side.
Nichole doesn’t ask if I’m sure. She doesn’t question what comes next.
She just follows my lead, because she already knows—there’s no turning back.
I reach out, fingers brushing against the surface and the door opens.
The moment we step through the door, a rush of air pulls us forward.
It isn’t violent, not like the force that dragged us into the Nightmare Room. It’s smoother, controlled—but no less consuming. My grip tightens around Nichole’s hand as the world around us shifts and suddenly, we’re somewhere else..
The suffocating darkness from before is gone.
I blink, my senses adjusting instantly, my body coiling with awareness as my boots hit solid ground. The air is thicker here, heavier, laced with something sharp and industrial.
The scent of oil. Gunpowder. Metal.
A warehouse.
The space around us is dimly lit, long shadows stretching across the cracked concrete floor. Metal rafters loom overhead, their skeletal frames rusted and worn. Stacks of shipping containers line the walls, some labeled with smuggling symbols I know all too well.
A deep, dreadful recognition sinks into my gut.
I know this place. I know who it belongs to.
And then I see them.
Alessandra.
She’s slumped in a chair at the center of the warehouse, her wrists bound tightly to the armrests, ankles tied to the legs of the chair. Her dark hair falls in front of her face, strands clinging to her skin, damp with sweat and—blood.
A bruise blooms along her jaw. A thin cut stretches across her cheekbone.
She’s barely conscious.
I don’t realize I’ve taken a step forward until Nichole grips my arm.
I grind my teeth, every muscle in my body locking up as I force myself to do the one thing that goes against everything inside me.
I watch.
Dante Beretti and his men stand around her, their conversation relaxed, casual. One of them gestures toward Alessandra with a smirk, a laugh—like she’s nothing more than a prop in their game.
They don’t see her as a person. They see her as leverage. A weapon to use against me.
My fists clench at my sides.
These men, these soulless bastards, are laughing, acting as if holding my sister hostage is just another night for them. As if her pain, her terror, means nothing.
A storm builds in my chest. A slow, seething rage that coils like a noose, suffocating, unrelenting. But I force myself to stay still. To breathe. Because this isn’t a memory.
It’s happening now.
Nichole’s grip on my arm tightens.
“Where is this?” she whispers, her voice steady, but I hear the urgency beneath it.
My mind is already working, already calculating.
The warehouse layout. The scent of the air. The markings on the shipping containers.
Then it clicks. Beretti’s dockyard.
“Pier 31,” I murmur, my chest tightening.
Nichole’s sharp inhale barely registers over the roaring in my ears.
I know this place. I’ve been here before. It’s one of the Beretti family’s primary holding sites—used for smuggling, trafficking, and anything that needs to disappear without a trace.
Alessandra is there. Right now. If I’m seeing this in the Dream Room, if the mansion is showing this to me now… she’s still alive.
Time moves differently here. Which means I haven’t lost her.
Not yet.
Nichole turns to me, her voice cutting through the chaos in my head, grounding me in a way I don’t expect.
“Then you know what to do.”
The words are simple. But they carry absolute certainty. She’s right. There’s no hesitation. No second-guessing. I have the location. I have the confirmation.
Now, I have to act.
The men around Alessandra waver, their laughter turning into disjointed echoes, their bodies distorting as the dream begins to break.
The Dream Room is letting go.
It’s forcing me back.
I grit my teeth, trying to hold onto the details, burning every last piece of this vision into my mind—the exact placement of the shipping containers, the way the light spills through the gaps in the metal rafters, the number of men standing guard.
I won’t forget any of it.
Nichole steps forward, placing a gentle but firm hand against my chest.
The warmth of her touch grounds me, pulling me from the unraveling vision.
Her gaze locks onto mine, steady and unwavering.
“Save her.”
The words aren’t loud, but they anchor themselves into my core.
A final command. A reminder of what I have to do.
Before I can respond the world shatters. Light explodes around us, swallowing the warehouse, the men, the chair, Alessandra. Everything disintegrates into pure, blinding white.