Each day passes like a heavy shadow clinging to me, offering no escape. I drag myself to work in the morning and stagger home late at night, sinking into a pile of soulless tasks and endless meetings that drain me completely. The satisfaction I once felt in my job has long since become a luxury I can no longer afford. There was a time when I believed that becoming a production assistant for a major company would be a stepping stone to a fulfilling and meaningful life. But now, it all feels like a cruel joke. I've become nothing more than a tiny cog, trapped in a massive machine where money and power are worshiped above all else.

My job requires me to process bulk orders, ensuring that production and deliveries are made on time. But I'm well aware of what lies behind those contracts: shady deals my boss never mentions. Every day, I witness decisions made solely to cut costs, with no regard for quality or ethics. The illicit commissions from these corrupt deals flow steadily into my account, the numbers growing larger with each passing day. Yet, peace of mind eludes me; instead, I am plagued by endless torment.

To my colleagues, I am the one who never shies away from a challenge, who dares to walk through fire to achieve results. Yes, I once set goals for myself—climbing higher, achieving more. My boss appreciates this; he values those who can make cold, calculated decisions without hesitation. But I know that beneath this facade of "success" lies a series of murky compromises, steps down a path I'm no longer sure I want to follow. Ambition has lifted me high, but it is also slowly eroding pieces of my soul.

No matter how much money flows into my pockets, I can't seem to buy peace. When night falls, in a room where it's just me and four silent walls, I see clearly how empty I've become. I ask myself: What have I lost on this path? Have I left some part of myself behind? The exhaustion doesn't just come from the work; it comes from the long, sleepless nights when my mind churns with questions that have no answers. I know I can't go on like this forever, but do I have the courage to stop? Or have I gone too far to turn back?

That night, as I lay down, a familiar heaviness settled over me, pressing down on my chest. I closed my eyes, hoping that sleep would bring some peace, but instead, I found myself being pulled into a strange, dark, and frigid place...

I jolted awake, my breath coming in gasps as if I had just escaped a terrible nightmare. But as I opened my eyes, my awareness was still hazy, as if I hadn't fully woken up, and I plunged into a reality even more horrifying. My wrists burned from the rough ropes binding them, my body was strapped tightly to a rotting, cold, and moldy wooden chair. A damp, filthy rag, reeking of mildew and the metallic stench of blood, was stuffed into my mouth, the nauseating odor clawing at my nose, making my stomach twist.

Everything around me was pitch black, except for a tiny ceiling light, its dim glow flickering like a dying flame. In that weak light, small faces appeared, each child bound as I was, their wide eyes filled with terror. Their faces were soaked with tears, their lips quivering in hopeless sobs. A wave of indescribable pain seemed to radiate from those sobs, crashing against my soul in relentless waves.

I wanted to scream, to cry out, but an invisible force kept me silent. It was as if a part of me knew that any sound I made would only make the situation worse. I felt suffocated by fear, yet at the same time, a surge of fury rose within me. Why was I here? Why was I so helpless? Each breath, each tear from the children seemed to slowly erode my soul.

But it was the deadly silence that chilled me to the bone. In that dark space, only the heavy thud of approaching footsteps could be heard, echoing ominously. He emerged from the shadows, his large hand gripping a long knife, its sharp blade glinting under the light like the scythe of death, ready to claim a life. His eyes were empty, his gaze eerie and malevolent, as if he could see straight into the souls of the innocent children.

He muttered twisted, nonsensical words, like a madman lost in his own delirium. Then suddenly, he raised the knife, his movements swift and decisive. The blade plunged into the neck of one of the children. The sound of the knife slicing through flesh was sharp and cruel. Blood spurted out, splattering across the old wooden floor, then silently flowed into a pool. The child's gasping breaths slowly faded, leaving behind a terrifying silence.

My heart pounded in my chest, my mind spun, and my eyes were filled with such terror that I couldn't bear to look directly at the scene before me. Each time the knife descended, I could feel the excruciating pain as if I were the one standing before that deadly blade. Part of me wanted to close my eyes, to run from these horrific images, but I couldn't stop watching. I felt myself caught between fury and fear, torn apart by my own emotions.

I wanted to scream, to struggle free from the decaying wooden chair, from the tight ropes biting into my wrists. But all my efforts were in vain. One by one, the children fell before me, and all I could do was sit there, watching each drop of blood as it pooled on the wooden floor, in a silence filled with despair and horror.

Then, before I could realize it, the knife was in front of me, its sharp blade reflecting the dim ceiling light. At that moment, I caught a glimpse of a strange tattoo on the murderer's arm—a symbol that resembled a thorny lotus flower. The design seemed to glow for a brief second, then everything suddenly went black, and I was swallowed by an endless pit of darkness.

I woke up, my body drenched in cold sweat. But it wasn't just fear that I felt. It was sharp, like a blade that had embedded itself into my mind, impossible to remove. Those images clung to my thoughts, haunting me relentlessly, like a vivid nightmare without end. My hands trembled, and to my horror, I noticed faint marks on my wrists—bruises that looked like the remnants of the ropes I had seen in my dream. I lifted my hand to my nose, and the lingering scent of blood filled my nostrils. My heart pounded as doubt began to spread through me like a flood.

The next day, whether I wanted to or not, I couldn't stop thinking about the children's eyes, about every drop of blood that was spilled, about the fury of that cold, sharp blade. Part of me wanted to believe it was just a dream—a fleeting nightmare—but another part urged me to dig deeper. Something was wrong. A powerful instinct pushed me into a search.

I grabbed my phone and started scouring the internet for cases of missing children, for mysterious murders. As I read each word, each line, a terrifying truth slowly came to light—a strange disappearance of a group of children in a small village I had never heard of. But the setting, the faces, those eyes... everything was exactly as I had seen in my dream—detailed in an article about the missing children.

A chill ran down my spine. That village... The name sounded familiar yet foreign. I couldn't recall where I had heard it before, but it felt as if an invisible force was pulling me towards that place. Could it be that my dreams were more than just dreams... that they were a journey into the lives of the lost?