Savior in Shadow Slave

Eventually, after what felt like a long, dreamlike bath in cold, silver water(?), Murphy stepped barefoot through the silent corridor. Her wet hair clung to his cheeks, droplets pattering on the stone floor. Each step echoed like a child's skipping — light, rhythmic and like... wood striking wood.

She laughed softly to himself, but the sound was hollow — as if it belonged to someone else.

The bedroom door was open.

The room inside glowed faintly with warm, golden light. The walls were the colour of dusk. The bed — large, inviting — was made perfectly, not a single crease out of place.

It was perfect. Too perfect.

She jumped into it, the mattress oddly warm beneath him, and soft — so soft. He curled into the blankets without thinking, her smile automatic, like a mask she'd forgotten to remove.

Behind her, the sound of approaching footsteps.

Deliberate. Careful. Familiar.

"Murph," a voice called softly — not cruel, not even angry. Just… sweet.

"Don't fall asleep with your hair wet."

But Murphy barely heard it. The room seemed to breathe — inhale, exhale — as if the walls had lungs.

His eyes fluttered shut.

The sound of a lullaby resounded.

The bed sighed beneath her.

And in that final moment of awareness, something in his chest screamed.

'This isn't real!!!'

But it was too late. The calmness wrapped around him like a cocoon.

And he drifted off, smiling softly — as if sinking back into a dream she had once tried to escape.

***

And she was startled awake.

Gasping.

Her chest rose and fell in short, shallow breaths.

It took her a moment to realize she was no longer in bed — not nestled beneath soft blankets, not held in the warmth of dreamlike slumber. No… she was sitting upright.

At the dining table.

Laid out before her: steak, spaghetti, rye bread. Steam rising. Fork and knife perfectly aligned. Candlelight flickering gently from a single wax pillar at the center.

Her hand gripped the fork.

Her napkin was tucked neatly into her collar.

The food was warm.

Across from her, a shape leaned in from the kitchen, apron still tied, sleeves rolled up. The voice that came was gentle — too gentle. Just a bit concerned.

"You shouldn't sleep on the table like this, Murph."

Murphy turned her head slowly.

The voice was loving.

The tone was calm.

But something behind the eyes... wasn't right.

"Mother, I don't feel like bathing today(?). I will go to sleep after eating this."

Hearing this, her mother turned toward her — brows gently furrowed, lips parting in quiet concern. Her expression was tender, too tender. Unnaturally so.

"Why, sweetheart… are you not feeling well?"

Her voice was soft and warm, but something inside it rang hollow — like a lullaby sung by someone who had forgotten what sleep truly meant.

Murphy nodded weakly.

"Yeah."

And she began to eat.

Her tongue tasted of salt and metal. Her stomach churned. The steak had gone down too easily. The spaghetti had no flavour. The bread had crumbled like ash in her mouth. She had eaten fast — too fast — trying to push past the rising discomfort in her chest, the sense that nothing was right.

Without waiting for her mother to finish clearing the table, Murphy slipped from the chair and walked stiffly toward her room, legs moving like they belonged to a puppet.

She climbed into the bed and pulled the covers over her head with her wooden hands.

Darkness. Silence.

Safety?

But even as she closed her eyes, she could still feel the candlelight flickering behind her lids…

Murphy curled tighter beneath the blanket.

And fell asleep.

Or at least… she thought she did.

***

And she was startled awake.

The first thing she noticed was the soft humming.

Not loud — not scary—just a subtle, tender sound, like a mother humming a tune while preparing food for her children.

"Hush now, little wanderer…

Lay down bones so tired and thin…"

Murphy opened her eyes.

The ceiling above her was familiar — the same pattern of faint cracks she remembered in dining room.

Her bed was gone.

No — not gone, just she was not in her bedroom.

Her eyes drifted to it.

It was the dinner plate.

Filled with food.

And beside it, placed carefully where her cushion should have been, was a glass of white, translucent liquid — half full, half forgotten.

Murphy sat up slowly not caring to eat or drink.

The hallway beyond pulsed slightly, as if breathing. The wallpaper seemed… softer, as if it were made of flesh stretched too tight.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to will the world back into shape.

But when she looked at her hands —

They were wooden. Crafted. Her nails perfectly trimmed.

And painted. Pink.

'No…'

She jumped up — or tried to. Her legs bent strangely, like she hadn't used them in days. They creaked.

"Hush now, little wanderer…

Lay down bones so tired and thin…"

It was louder now.

She glanced at the corner of the room.

Her mother was standing there.

Smiling. Not moving. Just standing.

And above her head, where the shadow of the ceiling should have been… something shifted.

Murphy opened her mouth to speak — to scream — but her voice cracked into a giggle.

"Mom…?"

Her mother's lips moved, but the words didn't match the movement.

The voice still came.

"Sweetheart… don't you feel better now? Everything is fine. You're safe here. If you don't want to eat, it's fine. Just go back to bed and have a nice rest. You said you were not feeling well earlier."

And Murphy crawled towards her bed and went to sleep.

With her last thought being:

'But... wait, when did I say it? Wasn't that a... dream?'

***

Murphy blinked.

The candle flickered — once, twice — and suddenly she was waking up. Again.

Gasping. Chest rising, falling.

The food was warm.

The fork was in her hand.

The napkin tucked just so.

Steak. Spaghetti. Rye bread. Steam curling upward like lazy fingers.

Across the table, the woman stepped out from the kitchen again, apron tied, sleeves rolled. Same faint smile, same tilt of the head, same gentle voice:

"You shouldn't sleep on the table like this, Murph."

Murphy's heart thudded.

'No, this just happened. I woke up. I'm already awake.'

She turned her head again.

Same smile. Same eyes — too glassy, too still. The warmth of the kitchen was identical down to the dancing shadow in the corner of the ceiling.

She blinked.

And again — the room reset.

The food fresh. The fork in her hand.

The napkin tucked.

The candle flickered.

"You shouldn't sleep on the table like this, Murph."

She began to shake.

She tried to stand, but her legs didn't respond. Tried to scream, but the sound came out muffled — like someone else was wearing her voice.

The woman smiled, still waiting.

Still watching.

Murphy blinked—

And it began again.

***

Murphy woke up. Again.

Murphy sat there — small, smiling, still. Her fork traced meaningless patterns in the sauce on her plate.

"You shouldn't sleep on the table like this, Murph."

Her mother hummed sweetly in the background. Every note seemed stitched into her mind like thread through soft flesh.

"Eat, sweetheart," she cooed. "You will love this."

Murphy's lips parted automatically.

She chewed.

She swallowed.

It tasted like ashes soaked in syrup.

Something writhed in her gut — something that remembered another name, another face, another purpose.

But it was fading. Fading fast.

'You're not Murphy. You're just a good girl. Just a good girl. Just a...'

A sound shattered the rhythm.

Crack.

A fracture split down the porcelain skin of her hand. Then another, racing up her forearm like lightning through old glass.

'No. No no no.'

She turned her head mechanically — heard the subtle grind of wooden tendons — and saw her reflection in the spoon.

Black, empty eyes. A perfect wooden doll's face. Painted blush. Smile carved too wide.

She screamed.

Nothing came out.

The room around her sagged. Not collapsed — melted. The table slumped like wax. Her chair pulsed beneath her like rotting muscle. The walls folded inward, each surface covered in handwritten lullabies, repeated endlessly in bleeding ink.

And still, the woman stood at the stove, humming. Smiling.

Only now her apron was soaked red, and something writhed beneath the skin of her face, stretching it with each word.

"You promised me forever."

Murphy tried to stand, but her legs snapped. Hollow. Fake. Useless.

So she crawled.

Dragging her cracked body across the floor, leaving behind streaks of red and porcelain dust, sobbing like a dying child.

Her hand found the mirror — that cursed silver thing inlaid in her room.

And for just a moment — she saw himself.

Not the doll. Not the girl.

Murphy.

Bloodied. Scarred. Broken.

But real.

"Wake up," he rasped from the mirror.

"Or die here."

Murphy opened her mouth — and this time, she screamed.

The sound cracked the mirror.

The ground vanished.

And she fell—

***

He jolted awake — vomiting, drenched in sweat, lungs heaving like bellows. His skin burned. His heart thundered.

He looked at his hands. Real. Flesh. Shaking.

And he sobbed.

"I was gone. I was really… gone…"

There were still flesh walls and floor, furniture made from bones, bathtub filled with questionable liquid and a dining table filled with sculpted food within the cave, the metallic taste of blood and skin on his tongue, and the oppressive silence pressing against his skull.

That means he was still in that house.

But he was free. For now.

And for the first time, he feared sleep more than death.

A voice resounded from behind him — still tender, still warm… but steeped in a quiet, heart-wounding disappointment.

The kind of disappointment that lingers in lullabies and broken toys.

The kind only a mother could fake to perfection.

"You really are a bad child, Murphy."

Murphy clenched his jaw.

"Fuck your good child, bad child—!"

His voice cracked.

The pressure behind his eyes was building again, the guilt pushing down on his chest like a child who made his mother sad. Her footsteps were slow. Rhythmic. Heavy with love… and threat.

"Sigh… I should punish you for speaking like this, sweetheart."

And as her voice soaked into his skin — sweet as milk, rotten underneath — Murphy felt it again.

That urge to submit. To apologize.

To collapse into her arms and whisper:

"I'm sorry, Mom…"

But this time—

He was ready.

Eyes wide, hands trembling, he forced the words through the fear:

"SACRIFICE!!!"

Murphy activated his ability that he had gained from druid in full force, without caring about the cost.

And a pure and warm, a Sacred light filled the cave. Healing his wounds and purifying everything.

The cave screamed.

And so did the world inside it.

Flesh-walls curled. Stone melted. Reality bled.

A chorus of cryptic, melodic tones followed — like stained glass shattering in reverse:

[You have slain a Dormant Beast: Hungry Table.]

[You have slain a Dormant Beast: Droopy Bed.]

[You have slain a Dormant Beast: Ecstasy Tap.]

[You have slain a Dormant Beast: Wailing Mirror.]

[You have slain a Dormant Beast: Crimson Towel.]

[You have…]

[You have…]

[You…]

[…]

Every fabricated comfort, every charming illusion, burned away.

The cave was never a home — it was a graveyard of twisted intentions. A playground made of bone and memory.

Instead only True Darkness remained.

But then… the presence behind him moved.

And Murphy turned slowly, panting, drained — expecting a shriek, a curse, a monstrous form lashing out in fury.

Instead—

She smiled.

Wide.

Bright.

Almost innocent.

And for the first time, Murphy saw her eyes clearly — two orbs like polished onyx filled with tears of joy.

"You really are my child," she whispered.

"And look how much you've grown… helping your mother like this."