4.6 | Dark Ages ✓

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A MAN WAKES up alone.

The scent of roses lingers in the still air. He inhales, deeply, then looks around. The sight of a threadbare room, old furniture and a worn rug greets him. Overhead, the blades of the ceiling fan move in slow circles and the lights are switched off, casting long shadows as sunlight streams in through the gap in the curtains.

For a few minutes, he lies quietly, soaking in the warmth and willing his erection away. The remnants of his dream clings to him—a girl with sad eyes but a smile that feels like sunshine on snow. He can still picture her behind shut eyelids and if he opens his mouth, he swears he can taste her skin on the tip of his tongue.

But the last vestiges soon fade and, as he comes to, he suddenly realizes that he's missing...something. Something. Everything. He bolts up as sudden panic claws at him and he fists the blanket tight within his fingers.

Who am I? he wonders, twisting his head around. Where am I?

Cold dread sweeps through him and the silence is so stifling that he can hear himself breathe. He pushes the blanket off himself, then yanks away when he brushes against something cold. His gaze snaps down, only to see three things lying next to him.

A bag, a gun and a watch.

He stares at them for a moment, fear warring with curiosity. The latter eventually wins out and, with shaking hands, he snatches at the bag and rummages through it. The fabric is worn at the edges, threads fraying here and there and the bag has clearly seen some better days. But it holds fine, and it holds more than he ever imagined. Food, clothes, first-aid and other paraphernalia are arranged neatly within the bag, along with notes. Dozens of notes. Scribblings, equations and other strange figures that make no sense whatsoever, written in an unfamiliar, near illegible hand.

Whose is this? He shakes his head, frustrated by his find. How are these supposed to help me when I can't even make head or tail of them?

He shoves the bag away and places the watch on top of it. The gun he doesn't touch at all—he hasn't any idea how to use it, and he fears he may blow his own head off if he attempted it. His mind throbs with the beginnings of a headache and he pushes himself up.

As he stands, a piece of paper flutters to the floor. Desperate for a revelation, or clue—something, anything, he snatches it up and flips it over.

This is the new Dark Ages.

Here's your bag, your gun and your watch. Do whatever it takes to survive.

I'll be with you to the very end.