Chapter 1: Waking in Blood

A splitting headache—pain like my skull is about to crack open. I taste copper, hear distant church bells, and for a second I’m not sure if I’m dead or just wishing I was.

The pain is so sharp it feels like someone’s driving railroad spikes through my temples. I can’t even remember my own name at first—just sweat, pressure, and the stink of old blood and antiseptic, thick as the back room of a butcher shop.

I force my eyes open. Three strangers, each reeking of blood, crowd in close—way too close, pressing in like nosy neighbors at a block party. The metallic tang in the air grows stronger. I spot a battered folding table shoved in the corner and, thumbtacked to the wall, a faded American flag—this place has the half-abandoned feel of a church basement after the last AA meeting. My gut twists at the sight of dark stains on the linoleum, praying they’re just chili spills from last Sunday’s potluck.

A wild-haired guy with a mischievous glint, a heavyset man with a piggish nose, and a bearded monk—and I’m wearing a priest’s robe. Somehow, I’ve landed inside The American Odyssey.

Wild Hair looks like he just finished jamming in a garage band—ripped jeans, a faded Springsteen tee, knuckles scabbed. Heavyset is sweating through a windbreaker two sizes too small, eyes darting like he’s casing a Waffle House at 2 a.m. The monk’s beard is patchy, full like he’s prepping for a Civil War reenactment. The robe on me itches, cheap polyester—party supply store quality.

"Hey, you finally up, Father?" The bearded monk is first to break the silence, his voice low and earnest, tinged with a lazy southern drawl that stretches the word ‘Father’ a second too long. He leans in, eyes wide, concern or something darker flickering there.

…I want to answer, but the fourth rule flashes in my mind. A sick tension curls in my gut. The rule blares in my brain, red alert, like an Amber Alert buzzing my phone. I fake a cough, clamping my mouth shut instead of replying.

【Do not have any communication with Sam.】

I ignore him and turn to Wild Hair, the one with the big grin: "Caleb, what happened to your priest?"

My voice is rough, like I haven’t talked in days. I try to sound casual, but my heart’s pounding so hard it’s a wonder they can’t hear. The air crackles with the kind of tension you feel when a stranger barges into a family argument.

He blinks at me, surprised. "Father, who’s Caleb?" His grin flickers, and for a split second, something cold flashes in his eyes—a warning, or maybe he just enjoys the confusion.

Pete grumbles, "Big Brother, I told you the Father got his head smashed by that fake wild guy, but you wouldn’t believe it."

Pete’s voice is thick and lazy, the kind of slur you only hear after two too many beers at a backyard barbecue. He barely glances at me, gnawing the inside of his cheek, eyeing Wild Hair like he expects a fight to break out any second.

I add quickly, "Yeah, my head hurts like it’s splitting, my mind’s all muddled."

I reach up and feel sticky, half-dried blood in my hair. My fingers come away red. I try not to think too hard about how it got there.

I push myself up—and only then realize I’m lying in a pile of bloody meat and shattered bones. I think of the last church potluck—potato salad, not this. My stomach flips. I want to scream, but I’m too afraid to make a sound.

A wave of nausea floods me as I take in the mess—beef, maybe, or something worse. The coppery stink makes my eyes water. Bits of gristle cling to the robe’s hem. I want to rip it off, but I force myself to stay still, playing along.

Blood stains the corners of my companions’ mouths. Pete looks at me like I’m a steak dinner. A chill races down my back. Pete licks his lips—so animal it makes my skin crawl. He keeps glancing at my neck, as if weighing whether to ask for a taste.

Wild Hair speaks slow: "I’m just called Big Brother, but if Father wants, you can call me Caleb from now on."

His tone is smooth, almost playful, like a small-town hustler selling knockoff Rolexes at the flea market. He straightens, lips twitching. The others shift too, as if his answer just moved the ground under us.

"Alright, alright, Caleb." I don’t dare refuse, faking a half-smile, hands up in mock surrender—like we’re just old friends bantering before a football game. My heart’s racing, every nerve screaming danger.

After Pete’s explanation, I piece the story together. Pete fiddles with his windbreaker zipper, words tumbling out like he’s pitching me a used car. Something about a fake wild guy, a fight, ‘Caleb’ saving the day—his hands twitching as he mimes the blows. The others nod along, too practiced.

A fake wild guy knocked me out. After a brutal fight, "Caleb"—with a touch of divine help—took down the fake, who was then beaten to death.

I nod, trying to look impressed, but all I feel is the warmth from that meat pile beneath me. ‘Divine help’ lingers, hollow as a hymn sung off-key in an empty church.

This has to be the ‘True and False Caleb’ chapter from the story. A shiver runs down my spine. In the original tale, this is where reality splits from illusion, where identities blur. The edges of the world feel thin—fragile.

Thinking of the pile of flesh and blood under me, I shudder. I bite my lip, taste copper. My stomach churns, bile rising. I force a neutral face, hiding how close I am to losing it.

Was it really the fake who knocked me out? The question circles in my head. The others share glances, some secret I’m not in on.

Was the original Father Thomas already devoured by them? Cold sweat beads down my spine. Did I take over someone else’s story mid-sentence—or is this just the start of mine?

The second rule says Big Brother will protect me, so it couldn’t have been him who killed me. I cling to that thought, repeating it like a prayer in this blood-soaked hellscape.

But in the rules, Pete and Sam are named, while only “Big Brother” is used for the wild-haired man. That oddity gnaws at me. In every American story, names matter—nicknames, last names, the whole nine yards. The missing name is a puzzle piece gone missing.

Could it be that, in this world, there is no Caleb at all? I glance at ‘Caleb’ again, but he’s already looking away, whistling what sounds like an old gospel tune. The notes bounce off the stained glass, hollow and eerie.