The unknown: orb world

Chapter 1: the coming of walpurgis

The apartment stank of rot, mold, and old regret. Rats scurried in the shadows, nibbling on long-forgotten takeout boxes. Trash covered the floor like dead leaves after a storm.

Bjorn sat in the middle of it all, eyes locked on a glowing screen. His body moved on instinct, his face blank — not out of pleasure, but desperation. He muttered under his breath.

"Ugh... I'm almost there…"

And then — click. Darkness.

The screen died, the light gone. The electricity had cut again.

Bjorn blinked, frozen mid-motion. "...Fuckin' electricity bill again."

No rage. No panic. Just exhaustion. He let out a slow breath and stood, stepping carefully between piles of trash and empty bottles toward the door. As he moved, a thought drifted through him like a ghost.

It's been a while since I've seen the sun.

He opened the door, and light flooded the room, piercing his eyes. It was too bright. Unnatural.

Creeeeeak.

Outside, the traffic screamed past. Engines, horns, curses — the world was loud, overwhelming, alive in a way Bjorn hadn't felt in months. He squinted and stepped closer to the crosswalk, waiting for the lights to change.

That's when he saw her.

Across the street, lost in the crowd, stood a woman dressed in old, tattered, almost witch-like clothing. A suitcase in one hand. Pale skin. Wrinkles that bent unnaturally. And a smile.

Bjorn blinked. Who the hell is that hag?

The light was still red. But the woman stepped forward anyway — right into traffic.

"What the hell?!" Bjorn shouted. "She's not waiting?!"

But no one screamed. No car hit her. She simply... passed through. Untouched.

And then she was gone from the other side. Instead, she was suddenly there. Right in front of him.

Bjorn staggered back. How—? When did she get this close?!

She leaned in, the scent of dried roses and something rotting clinging to her breath.

"You were never given a choice," she whispered, her voice curling into his ear like smoke. "Only the illusion of it. Destiny marked you. My will claimed you. You are mine—by right, by force, or by fate."

Bjorn's legs gave out. His vision spun. The street, the cars, her eyes — all of it blurred and broke apart.

"What the hell is this?!" he gasped, falling. "What did she do to me?!"

—

Clouds. Gray, endless, spinning. He awoke in a strange realm — no walls, no sky, just haze and whispers. People were around him. Dozens. Confused. Panicked. Ordinary people — students, workers, children. All lost.

"Where are we?" someone asked.

Bjorn looked around. "So… I'm not the only one she snatched."

Then a voice rang out — echoing through the clouds like thunder laced with laughter.

"I reckon you all are having a great day?!"

Bjorn's stomach turned. That voice...

A smile behind words. A hook beneath honey.

The old woman.

Her voice crackled like fire.

"This is the night of Walpurgis. A reckoning," she said. "Face your demons... or be devoured."

The clouds pulsed. The people started to panic.

"One wish," she continued, "for the last one standing. Twisted or true. Whatever your heart begs for most."

Silence.

Then her final words dropped like a curse:

"Make your sins... entertaining.”