Hex: Crimson Curse

The morning passed quietly, filled only with the soft clatter of plates and the sound of wind brushing against the windows. Heroca sat at the table with his grandmother, forcing down the last bite of breakfast. He nodded politely at her worried glances but said nothing. Something inside him still felt… off. The taste of food lingered strangely in his mouth — like ash after a fire.

After breakfast, he stepped outside. The sun was warm, the sky a calm, cloudless blue. For a moment, it felt like a normal day. Like the weight of the last few nights hadn't followed him outside. But of course, it had.

"Heroca!" a familiar voice called out.

He turned to see Chiko, his childhood friend, waving from across the street. She wore that same wide smile — bright, casual, like everything in the world was still okay. Heroca couldn't help but smile back, even if it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Hey," he greeted.

They walked together through the village streets. Chiko chatted about school, about how the village hadn't changed much, and how weird it was to see him again after all this time. Heroca listened, grateful for the distraction. He thought, for a moment, about telling her what had happened — the jungle, the envelope, the hand, the eye. But he stopped himself.

No… I can't drag her into this. She doesn't deserve it.

As they passed by the corner shop, Chiko pointed at the ice cream stand with a grin. "C'mon. It's your homecoming. I'm treating you."

Before he could argue, she'd already ordered two cones. They sat near the edge of the square, licking slowly at the melting treat. For the first time in what felt like days, Heroca felt almost normal. The sunlight on his skin, the laughter echoing from nearby stalls, the sweetness of the ice cream — it was like a piece of the old world had slipped back in.

But peace never lasts long.

As Chiko was talking about a festival happening next week, Heroca froze. His eyes widened. A flicker of motion caught his attention.

There. On the street.

The hand was back.

Floating. Twisting slowly in the air like it was swimming through fog. Skinless. Red. The ring finger bare this time.

Heroca's blood ran cold.

Chiko paused mid-sentence, frowning. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"You don't see anything?" he asked, his voice suddenly dry.

She followed his gaze down the street, but there was nothing there — not for her.

"No… just people. Heroca, what's wrong?"

He shook his head quickly. "It's nothing. Just… dizzy for a second."

Her eyes searched his face, unconvinced. "If something's bugging you, just say it. I'm your friend, remember?"

"I know," he said with a weak smile. "I'm okay. Really."

She looked at him for a long moment, then sighed. "Alright. But if you need to talk, don't shut me out. Promise?"

"I promise."

Chiko stood. "I should head home. When are you coming back?"

"In a bit," he said.

As she walked away, Heroca's stomach twisted violently. The ice cream and breakfast churned like acid. He waited until she turned the corner, then staggered toward the nearest trash bin and vomited everything he had eaten.

Bent over, panting, Heroca wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. Then it came again — the voice. That cold whisper sliding through the edges of his mind.

"You can never eat again."

He stiffened. Who are you? he thought desperately. What do you want from me? But there was no response.

Shaken, Heroca headed home. His grandmother had laid out dinner already, but when he entered the kitchen, he barely glanced at it.

"I'm not hungry," he said quietly.

"You barely touched lunch," she replied gently. "Are you feeling sick?"

He nodded quickly. "Just tired."

She didn't push. He went straight to his room.

And there, waiting on his desk, was a box.

Small. Black. Green. It looked hand-carved, with sharp ridges forming the shape of a dragon swallowing fire. Heroca stopped cold, eyes locked on it. He slowly closed his bedroom door.

Then the voice returned. Calm. Firm.

"Open the box."

He narrowed his eyes, breathing slowly. "Who are you?" he whispered aloud. Still, no answer.

He sat down and lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled on black velvet, was the red ring — the same one the hand had worn before. Except this time… it wasn't glowing. It was still. Silent. A strange, living red like dried blood, with swirling markings etched around it.

The hand didn't have this when it appeared today, Heroca thought.

He picked up the ring slowly.

Nothing happened.

No scream. No vision. No voice. Just the faint hum he always felt behind his left eye.

He stared at the ring for a long moment before placing it gently on the table. The box vanished the moment he let go. It didn't fade. It didn't melt. It was just gone, like it had never existed.

Uneasy, Heroca stripped off his shirt and headed for a shower. Warm water poured over him, but his mind never stopped. Should he destroy the ring? Hide it? Toss it into the sea?

But then again… If I destroy it, how will I ever understand what's happening to me?

He dried off, returned to his room, and locked the door. He glanced at the ring again, then pulled the sheets over himself. Sleep came quickly.

And nothing came for him that night.

For the first time in days, the dark stayed quiet.

—

Morning sunlight spilled into the room. Heroca sat up, rubbing his eyes. His head felt clearer. For a moment, he thought maybe — just maybe — things were settling.

Then he looked at the desk.

The ring was gone.

He frowned, searching the table, the floor, even under the bed.

Then he walked into the bathroom. As he turned on the faucet, the water splashing cold over his hands, he glanced down.

And froze.

The ring was on his finger.

It hadn't been there a moment ago.

He yanked at it in panic — once, twice — but it didn't move. It was like his flesh had sealed over it. Breathing faster now, he ran to the table drawer, pulled out a small kitchen knife.

I'll cut it off, he thought. Even if I lose the finger—

But before he could press the blade to his skin, a sharp pain exploded through his hand. His whole arm locked up. His muscles seized violently. He dropped the knife and collapsed to the floor, writhing.

His vision blurred. His mouth opened in a scream, but no sound came out.

His body went numb.

Then — blackness.