Twenty-six. The blood-colored tentacle that sank into the forehead

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Dawn was breaking.

Morning light spilled through the cracks in the overcast sky, illuminating a rundown and dim room. On a dust-covered cabinet by the bed, an oil lamp cast a dim yellow glow.

The beam only lasted for a few seconds before the light again hid behind the dark clouds.

The brightness was fleeting, and the room returned to darkness, but it was enough to awaken the sleeping figure.

A shape on the bed began to stir.

The body lying on its side stretched out, and as the eyes opened, a pair of scattered black pupils slowly focused.

The black eyes, dark as the deep sea, gently shifted, sweeping over the cobweb-covered ceiling.

The figure sat up, a black tie slid from his shoulder, resting against the glaring white of his shirt.

A pair of eyes swept over the seemingly long-abandoned bedroom and paused slightly when they reached the wardrobe in the corner of the wall.

The distant sound of fishing boat horns drifted in from the far-off harbor outside the window.