Sunny opened his eyes and pushed himself into a sitting position, running a hand through his tangled hair as the last remnants of sleep dissolved into dull irritation. His gaze swept across the room, taking in its familiar contours.
The chamber was spacious—far larger than anything he had ever owned before—and undeniably beautiful. Smooth stone walls rose high above him, engraved with intricate, flowing patterns that hinted at ritual, reverence, and a craftsmanship long lost to time. There was a quiet dignity to the place, an air of sanctity that clashed sharply with Sunny's usual cynicism.
Most of the furniture was crafted from pale, polished wood, elegant in form if not entirely consistent in style. A few pieces clearly didn't belong—chairs of mismatched design, a low table with a chipped leg, a narrow cabinet that had once held something far more important than Sunny's meager possessions. He had scavenged those himself, dragging them back from abandoned corridors and half-collapsed halls, claiming them one by one like trophies.
There were no windows.
Instead, narrow light wells were cleverly hidden throughout the chamber, channels designed to guide sunlight deep underground using an elaborate system of mirrors and reflective stone. Or at least, that was how it had worked once. Now, the mirrors lay shattered or missing entirely, their absence condemning the room to perpetual gloom. Darkness pooled in the corners, thick and unmoving, as though it had long since claimed the space as its own.
Yet despite all that, one thing drew Sunny's attention every time.
In the far corner of the room hung a heavy curtain, stretching from ceiling to floor. Its fabric was old and threadbare, but still carefully maintained. Behind it lay an ancient mural—cracked, faded, and unsettlingly familiar.
It was eerily similar to the murals he had discovered in the catacombs long ago.
This one, however, was different.
Where the others had been crowded with figures and chaotic motion, this mural depicted only a single being: a male form composed entirely of golden light, walking alone beneath a vast, star-filled sky. Above him, countless eyes stared down—some wide with hatred, others distorted by madness, all unmistakably hostile.
Behind the figure stretched a long, unnatural shadow. It was segmented into twelve distinct rings, each one subtly warped, and within several of them lurked half-hidden eyes, barely discernible but undeniably present.
The composition was simpler than the catacomb murals, almost stark in comparison—but no less heavy with meaning.
Sunny wasn't an art expert. He didn't need to be. Even at a glance, the message was obvious enough: some god-like entity, striding forward in defiance, opposed by horrors from beyond the stars. A lone light against an uncaring, malignant cosmos.
The shadow, though… that part troubled him.
The twelve segments reminded him uncomfortably of a clock.
Time.
But why would time be associated with darkness?
An omen? A warning? An allusion to an approaching end?
Sunny didn't know. And, truthfully, he didn't care enough to dwell on it. The world was already full of unanswered questions, and most of them were better left that way.
Still, sometimes—when boredom crept in or sleep refused to come—he would pull the curtain aside and study the mural, searching for hidden details, secret meanings, anything he might have missed.
It never changed.
No concealed symbols. No revelations lurking in the corners.
Just the same silent figure, walking forward beneath hateful stars, trailed eternally by a shadow even longer than he was.
Sunny moved his hand, fingers flexing almost lazily, and pulled on the invisible string that connected his wrist to the ring-shaped pommel of the kunai. The connection responded instantly. The throwing dagger trembled where it lay on the stone floor, then leapt into the air as if yanked by an unseen force, spinning once before landing neatly in his open palm.
He caught it without looking.
The maneuver had taken him a long time to master. In the beginning, the blade had been far less obedient—erratic, overly eager, and utterly unconcerned with Sunny's personal safety. More than once, the kunai had snapped back too fast or at the wrong angle, grazing skin or nicking bone. He had nearly lost a couple of fingers before finally learning how to moderate the pull, how to guide rather than command.
Pain was a good teacher. Survival was a better one.
Rolling his wrist, Sunny dismissed the Memory's weight for a moment, then stood and walked over to a section of wall that was conspicuously bare. Unlike the rest of the chamber, its stone surface was untouched by engravings or ornamental carvings—plain, dull, and scarred.
Using the kunai's tip, he scratched a short, shallow line into the stone.
It joined dozens upon dozens of similar marks.
The scratches were arranged with deliberate care, grouped neatly into sets of five. Four vertical lines, then one diagonal slash cutting across them. Over and over again, spreading outward like a silent infestation. The wall had become a ledger of time, etched patiently day by day.
Sunny stared at the newest mark for a moment.
Four months.
It had already been four months since he had come to this loathsome, godforsaken city.
The realization settled heavily in his chest—not sharp enough to hurt, but dense enough to weigh him down. Time passed strangely in the Dark City. Days blurred together, indistinguishable from one another, measured not by sunlight or routine but by hunger, danger, and the slow erosion of one's nerves.
And yet… four months was undeniable proof that he was still alive.
Many things had happened during that time.
After fleeing in the dead of night—no, not fleeing. Sunny scowled faintly at the thought. It had not been a retreat born of fear, but a rational decision. A calculated preservation of life and freedom. There was a difference, and he stubbornly clung to it—Sunny had wandered the Dark City for several days.
Those days had been tense, exhausting, and painfully quiet.
He had moved cautiously through collapsed streets and hollow plazas, sticking to shadows, avoiding open ground whenever possible. The city felt wrong. Its towering structures loomed like watching giants, and every sound echoed too far, lingered too long. Monsters roamed freely, their presence announced by distorted silhouettes and unsettling noises that scraped at the edge of his senses.
Eventually, he had found the cathedral.
It rose from the surrounding ruins like a stubborn remnant of defiance, its massive stone structure largely intact despite the passage of untold years. Unlike most places in the city, the area around it was eerily calm. Other monsters did not approach it—not openly, at least.
Sunny had been suspicious, of course.
He had circled the cathedral several times, scouting cautiously, testing boundaries, probing for traps or hidden threats. He found none. No lingering malice. No obvious guardians. Inside, the vast interior was empty save for dust, silence, and a single statue.
The statue depicted a female figure.