HELLavator

Chapter One

When you’re lost, you run.

When nights grow heavy, you cry in silence.

When life doesn’t go well, dark thoughts whisper their way in.

You ask yourself questions every day: eight kids lost, finding ways to survive in the hellhound called Reality.

Damian’s POV

Darkness swallows me whole. My feet pound against the ground, but the tunnel stretches on forever. The air is thick, damp, pressing against my chest like it wants me to suffocate. The walls close in tighter with every step, and no matter how fast I run, there is no end.

Sweat runs down my face, stinging my eyes. My lungs burn, each breath shallow and ragged. My heart hammers so violently it feels like it might rip out of my chest. I want to scream, but in this place, my voice doesn’t matter.

Then I see it—

A figure at the end of the tunnel.

He looks like me. Same frame, same face, but his body drips with blood that never seems to dry. His eyes glint with something cruel, and his lips curl into a smile that isn’t mine.

“Who are you?” I demand, though my voice cracks, barely more than a whisper.

The figure smirks, his teeth glinting red. His voice cuts through the darkness like broken glass.

“I’m you. But I have nothing. Look around—darkness surrounds us. Scream, and no one will hear you… except this elevator.”

My gaze flickers to the elevator in the distance, standing where no elevator should ever be. Its doors are sealed, glowing faintly as if waiting.

“Then why don’t you enter it?” I ask, trying to sound braver than I feel.

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“How can I? It’s locked. I have nothing.”

The sound of his voice echoes inside me, crawling under my skin until I feel sick. Before I can answer, the world shatters.

I jolt awake, drenched in sweat, my chest rising and falling like I’ve run a marathon. My skin burns hot, my sheets clinging to me as though they’re trying to choke me.

The phone screen glows on the nightstand: 3:00 a.m. The numbers mock me, always the same time. Always when the nightmare comes.

Across the room, my computer is still on, screen filled with open files and unfinished work. Deadlines, demands, expectations. I drag myself up, legs heavy, and stumble to the kitchen, desperate for anything to clear my head.

The coffee pot gurgles as it fills, the smell sharp and bitter. My hands tremble as I grip the counter. My thoughts come like knives.

What does the other me want? Why doesn’t he run? Why do these dreams keep coming back?

The pot overflows. I don’t even notice until boiling liquid splashes against my skin. Pain rips through my hand, and the cup crashes to the floor.

Coffee spreads across the tiles, steaming, hissing like the anger I can’t let out. The smell fills the air, bitter, suffocating. I sink against the counter, clutching my burned hand, feeling the weight of the nightmare pressing on me even here. Even awake.

⸻

Coffee hissed across the floor, steam rising like smoke from a burning world.

Somewhere else, at the very same hour, another kind of hell was unfolding.

⸻

Kai’s POV

People on the street whisper when I pass. Their eyes never leave me, like I’m some stain they can’t wash out. Their voices slither behind me, words sharp enough to cut.

“Hey, isn’t that Kai? Heard his mother’s a prostitute, and his father’s a drunk.”

“That’s the whore’s kid.”

“Look, it’s the drunk’s son.”

I pull my hood lower, clutching the grocery bags tighter. The plastic handles dig into my fingers, leaving red lines, but I don’t let go. The weight of the food is nothing compared to the weight of their words.

Every step feels like walking through mud, heavy and slow. The street is alive with neon lights and the smell of cheap cigarettes, but to me it’s just a stage where I’m the punchline to their cruel jokes. I tell myself not to listen, not to care—but their voices always find the cracks.

By the time I reach home, my shoulders ache, my head pounding. I step inside, and the first thing I see is my little brother’s wide, tear-filled eyes. He runs to me, clutching my leg like I’m the only safe thing left in the world.

My chest tightens. He’s only five. He should be laughing at cartoons, not crying because of our parents. I set the groceries down and scoop him up, his tiny arms wrapping around my neck. His body trembles against mine.

“Shhh… it’s okay,” I whisper, though the lie tastes bitter. I carry him to our room and lock the door, shutting out the storm raging beyond it.

But the shouting doesn’t stop. My father’s drunken slurs slam against the walls. My mother’s voice rises, breaking with every word. The sound of glass shattering follows, sharp and violent.

I pull out a small snack from the grocery bag and place it in my brother’s hands. He eats slowly, eyes still wet, his lips trembling. I watch him chew, trying to pretend that this little moment is normal. Trying to pretend that we’re just two brothers having a quiet night.

Then—footsteps. Heavy, uneven. The kind that makes the floorboards cry out. My stomach knots.

My father’s voice roars through the door, shaking it in its frame.

“Open the fucking door, Jeongin! If you don’t, it’ll hurt worse than last time!”

My brother freezes, clutching the snack like it’s a shield. He looks up at me, eyes wide. I press a finger to my lips, pulling him close. My heartbeat is so loud I’m afraid my father will hear it.

Then my mother’s voice cuts through, raw and desperate.

“Leave my son alone! It’s me, not him—it’s me!”

The sounds that follow are worse than the words. A thud. Fists meeting flesh. My mother’s cry echoing like a broken instrument.

Then a slap. Loud, sharp, final.

“Fucking prostitute!” my father bellows. “Go whore yourself to another man!”

I can’t take it anymore. Rage surges through me, hotter than fear. My fists clench until my nails dig into my palms. The next thing I know, I’m ripping the door open and lunging at him.

My fist connects with his mouth.

“You fucking monster—you don’t deserve to be here!”

Blood spills down his chin, but he only grins, eyes burning with fury. His hand twists in my hair, yanking me off my feet. My skull slams against the wall. Stars explode in my vision.

“You dare punch me, you little shit?” he spits, his words slurred with rage. His fist drives into my stomach. Pain bursts through me, white-hot, and I double over, vomiting blood onto the floor.

My mother screams, rushing forward. She claws at him, beats her fists against his back. But he shoves her like she’s nothing. She hits the wall, sliding down in silence.

The next two hours are a blur of fists, kicks, and screams swallowed by these rotten walls. My body bends and breaks under him, but still I don’t give him the satisfaction of crying out. Only when the front door slams and the stink of alcohol fades do I realize he’s gone—off for more beer.

Silence. Thick, suffocating silence.

I collapse onto the floor, chest heaving, vision hazy. My blood stains the wood, soaking into the cracks. My body is broken, but the emptiness inside hurts worse.

My mother crawls to me, her face a mess of bruises and tears. She gathers me into her arms, her voice a shattered whisper.

“I’m so sorry you had to live this way. It’s all my fault… all mother’s fault.”

I don’t answer. My tongue feels heavy, my throat raw. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how much more of this life I can endure.

My little brother peeks out from the closet, his eyes red from crying, clutching his toy car like it could protect him. His innocence twists the knife deeper—I want to shield him, but I can’t even protect myself.

The room smells of spilled alcohol and iron. My mother’s tears drip onto my shirt, mixing with the blood. The silence is so deep it rings in my ears.

And then—breaking through it, faint and cold—

the metallic grind of an elevator door opening.