Shen Ye had a left eye that was a little different. He couldn’t say what was wrong with it. His vision was normal, its color was normal, and he had been to the hospital three times over the years. Every examination had come back “normal.” But he knew for himself that the worlds seen through his right and left eyes were always separated by the slightest discrepancy. It was as if something stood between them, or as if something was missing. He couldn’t explain it, and eventually stopped trying. He kept this secret for twenty-four years. No one knew.
Until one early morning, a black rift the size of a person appeared in his darkroom and swallowed him whole.
When he woke, the sky was dark red. Five strangers lay beside him. Each had been alone when a rift swallowed them, then dropped them into these ruins. No one knew where they were, and no one could tell them how to get back.
But Shen Ye soon discovered something. The left eye that had been a little different since childhood was finally revealing just how different it truly was. He could see bloody words seeping out of the walls, outlines in the darkness that others couldn’t see, and the rules branded onto those terrifying entities. This information was an advantage: if he could see the rules, he would know how to avoid danger; if he could see what was hiding in the dark, he would know where not to go. In a place where death could come at any moment, this information was his bargaining chip for survival.
But Shen Ye didn’t say a word.
Because he had figured something out: the “things” in this place made the rules. If they knew he could see them, what would they do? Change the rules? Deal with him first? Or
