Doom Verse

The hand was astonishing to Moros. It exuded an energy he couldn't fully comprehend, drawing him in with an almost magnetic force. His thoughts were clouded, consumed by a thick, black fog that seemed to invade his mind. The whispers were soft at first, faint murmurs that tickled the edges of his consciousness. But soon, they grew louder, clearer. Only he could hear them, only he could feel their pull. It was as though the hand was calling to him, beckoning him to embrace it.

His heart raced, his breath shallow, as he stood there in the dark. The fog seemed to shift around him, a living thing, and in the distance, he saw a faint glimmer of light—a sliver, barely noticeable, but unmistakable. Instinct took over. Something deep within him urged him to reach out, to touch it. The voice grew louder, more insistent, seductive in its tone.

"Touch it, we know you want to," it whispered, like the hiss of a snake coiling in the shadows.

Moros didn't know why, but he moved. His hand stretched out, trembling, as the fog wrapped around his body, guiding him toward the light. He was almost there, so close. The voice in his mind, sweet and convincing, urged him onward.

"Come on, touch it. You will understand everything," it coaxed, the darkness swirling with anticipation.

Just as his fingers were about to graze the surface of the hand, a sudden force yanked him back. Spinell's grip was firm around his arm, pulling him away from the light.

"I don't think you should touch it without protection," Spinell said, his voice sharp, and strict.

Moros snapped out of his trance-like state, the whispers fading away. The fog around him receded, leaving him disoriented. He looked at Spinell, who was still holding his arm with a vice-like grip. The weight of the moment hung between them, the atmosphere thick with unspoken words.

"Thank you for stopping me," Moros said, his voice a soft hiss. His eyes narrowed as he pulled his arm free from Spinell's grasp with a swift motion, his tone barely concealing the tension.

Spinell didn't flinch, though his expression softened, his eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and caution.

Meanwhile, Sandro stood off to the side, a sly smile playing on his lips. His gaze was steady, almost knowing, as if he had witnessed something Moros himself had yet to fully understand.

Misa's eyes fixed on the box, and her voice trembled as she spoke.

"Why did you bring it here?" she demanded, her words laced with disbelief. "I thought it was buried, sealed away for good!"

Sandro shrugged nonchalantly, unfazed by her reaction. "We can't refuse from it," he said coolly, his gaze flickering toward the mysterious object. "It holds knowledge—something deep, something far beyond us. Perhaps it even holds the answers to what happened in the ruins."

He slammed his fist down on the table, his eyes lighting up with a fierce determination. "We might finally understand what happened and how it happened. This is the key."

Misa's expression hardened, a flare of anger lighting her eyes. "I refuse to participate in this!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with frustration. Without another word, she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

"Leave her for now," Sandro said, his tone firm yet calm. "We have something far more important to focus on." He gestured toward Moros, his gaze unwavering. "Let's head to your laboratory."

Josh, who had been quietly observing, suddenly stood up and motioned toward Hanz and Spinell.

"We need to get moving," he said in a gruff voice, clearly eager to change the subject. "Hanz, Spinell, we're heading out. Let's give them some space to figure this out."

As they left the room, Moros, still holding the box containing the hand, exchanged a quick glance with Sandro. Without saying much, Moros nodded and led the way toward his laboratory.

In the kitchen, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the tense situation upstairs. Hanz was cooking, humming to himself as he worked. His pink apron flared out around him as he moved, and the scent of something rich and savory filled the air.

"Hey, Spinell, cut the skin off the potatoes and slice them into wedges," Hanz instructed, his voice surprisingly gentle as he worked with practiced hands.

Spinell gave a small, incredulous snort. "What are you making, Barbie Chef?" he teased, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Josh, who had just entered the kitchen, chuckled loudly. "Yeah, what's the plan, Hanz? A five-course meal?"

Hanz gave them both a death glare, his voice suddenly sharp. "Go cut the potatoes and the beets. Now."

"O-okay, okay, we're doing it!" Josh stammered, stepping back, his hands already reaching for the vegetables.

The sound of chopping filled the room as the two men quickly got to work, their playful banter fading into the background.

Meanwhile, in the laboratory, Moros and Sandro had arrived. The room was cluttered with papers, machines, and half-finished experiments, a chaotic yet familiar sight. The hum of energy-filled devices buzzed in the background, a contrast to the quiet tension between the two men.

Sandro walked over to the table and placed a hand on the box containing the mysterious object. "Sweet," he commented, his voice full of dark amusement as he looked around at the lab.

Moros set the box down carefully, his mind still racing from the moment he'd almost touched the hand. "So, what do we—" he began, but he was cut off when Sandro grabbed him by the shirt, yanking him toward the box with a grin that bordered on madness.

"I know what happened to you," Sandro said, his voice low and eager. "I know what you felt. How does it feel to hear your deepest desires, Moros?" He dragged Moros toward the box, his eyes wild with excitement. "I know you want to touch it. Then do it. Go ahead."

Moros didn't fight him. It was as if he were under a spell, his body moving on its own accord, pulled by forces he couldn't resist. His arm, slow at first, reached toward the box. The closer his hand came to the object, the louder the whispers in his mind became, a chorus of hissing voices that promised him everything he'd ever wanted.

The moment his fingers brushed against the hand, the world around him seemed to melt away. His mind was consumed by darkness, his body frozen in place.

In the blink of an eye, he found himself walking through a dark forest, guided by a snake-like fog. There were no sounds, no scents—just the constant, eerie hiss of the fog. It whispered to him, its voice soft and hypnotic.

"Come here," it urged. "We know you want your desires to come true."

The path stretched on, leading him to a vast field with countless columns standing like silent sentinels. The fog guided him to one of the columns, its surface black and smooth, reflecting his image. Standing beside it were figures, shadowy and faceless, pointing toward him.

"Touch it," they said, their voices merging into a single command. "Take faith in your hands. Become one of us. Become a god."

Moros stared into his own eyes, seeing a future where he ruled over all—a future where he was a god. It was within his reach. All he had to do was touch the column.

He raised his hand, but before he could make contact, a sharp pain surged through his body. He screamed, falling back as the vision shattered.

"What happened? Why did it kick me out?" Moros gasped, clutching his head.

Sandro stood over him, a frown on his face. "I think you're not ready yet," he said coldly. "Something is holding you back. You need to get rid of your weaknesses."

Moros struggled to his feet, but before he could speak, Misa's voice rang out from the door.

"Come down, dinner is ready," she called, her tone slightly irritated.

Downstairs, the mood was lighter. "What do we have for dinner?" Moros asked as he entered, his stomach growling. "I'm starving."

"Borscht," Hanz replied with a grin, placing a steaming bowl of the rich red soup in front of him. The smell was intoxicating, filling the room with its warmth.

"We helped him," Spinell said proudly, a gleam in his eyes.

"Yeah, we helped him," Josh echoed, his metallic arm turning into the knife, and waved it around.

Misa, her earlier anger softened, raised an eyebrow. "You're still wearing your pink apron?" she teased, a smile tugging at her lips. Everyone laughed at Hanz.

Hanz glared at them, holding a giant cooking knife threateningly. "What's wrong with my pink apron?" he demanded, his voice serious.

The group fell into a comfortable silence, quickly devouring their dinner. Despite the tension of the day, there was an air of normalcy—an illusion of peace as they ate the soup, unknowingly unaware of the dark forces at play.