- CHAPTER 1: THE LAST COFFEE OF IGNORANCE
The world did not end in the crash of bombs, but in the sweetness of a sigh.
One hundred years ago, a disease called **The Mouning** descended to Earth. It was not an army, but an atmosphere. An invisible fog that saturates the lungs and weighs down the eyelids. Since that day, humanity has lived with a sword of Damocles above each cradle: the certainty that one day, sleep will no longer be a rest, but a court.
In the streets of the **poor neighborhood** of the homeless, walked a young man with pale, cadaveric skin. His black eyes looked like a bottomless abyss, and his hair, absolutely black, seemed to absorb all the surrounding lights. Thin and small for his age, he was 19 years old. He was neither handsome nor ugly; he was ordinary. It Was **Without Name**. He had nothing. Neither family, nor friends, nor house, nor home.
He walked with his head down, calculating his own value according to the metaphysical standards of the world. The average of a young man was **63 UEG**; for him, he estimated his existence at **61 UEG**. He sighed, feeling every muscle, every limit of his fragile flesh.
It had been seven days since fatigue had begun to eat away at his bones. A fatigue that neither the will nor anything else could repel. That was the sign. He had become a **Sleeper**.
Around him, the people of the city looked at him differently. They were all bigger than him. Sans Nom thought inwardly: *"It shouldn't be convenient to see a poor man here, hahaha. "* In their eyes, he read a mixture of pity, contempt and indifference. He knew he was condemned. For him, being infected with **L'Émontation** was a certain death. He was neither prepared, nor physically strong, nor intelligent. He had nothing else to do but wait for death.
For others, being infected is a chance, because after their first **Eclipse**, they would become Awakened. But for Sans Nom, it was the end. So, he sold everything he had to please himself one last time. He had waited to see the rich drinking something called "coffee". He spent his last money on a steaming cup. He took a sip and grimaced. It was bitter, horribly bitter.
"If I had known," he whispered, "I would have bought real food."
He looked at the coffee and started laughing. *"Hahaha. "* All his life had been like this, an absurd failure until the end. Maybe death was a liberation.
Before dying, he tried to do something good. He went to the **Local Police Station**. Because he knew that if a Sleeper dies in his dream, it is a monster that awakens in his place. If he were to die, he hoped to at least make it easier for the officers by surrendering.
The building was immersed in a pale light, that of tired neon lights that sizzled on the ceiling. Sans Nom let out a laugh. *"Hehe. "* Whether you are in the poor neighborhood or in the rich city, the **Local Police** always had the same smell of dust and weariness. He advanced towards the counter, his shoulders arched. The guard officer tosose him with an undisguised disdain.
- Goy, are you lost?
Sans Nom answered in a dragging voice, almost absent:
- I am infected with **L'Émondation**.
The officer froze. The paperwork he was holding escaped from his hands, scattered on the ground like dead leaves. A deathly silence settled in the hall. The man grabs his radio, his fingers trembling.
— Unit K87, we have an infected! I repeat, an infected at the counter!
A few minutes later, Sans Nom no longer smelled the ground. Dragged with a brutality born of panic, he found himself chained on a metal chair sealed to the floor. The ties were so tight that he struggled to swell his chest. But he was not struggling. He just wanted to close his eyes.
The door creaked. An agent in a dark uniform, looking at ice, settled in front of him.
— How long can you stay awake?
— Not much...
- So we'll have to hurry. Your name?
— Without Name.
The agent raised an eyebrow.
— It's a funny name.
- Where I come from, there are people who don't even have a name.
- Someone to warn? A family?
- No. Nobody.
The agent leaned forward, his expression suddenly becoming serious.
— Listen to me carefully. Your absolute priority in **The Eclipse** is your **Evidence**. If it's an **Evidence** of *Combat*, you're in luck. If it's a *Tool*, you'll have to be smart to use it. There is no unnecessary **Evidence**... at least, I hope so for you.
The agent's voice now seemed to come from far away, as if Sans Nom was under water.
— **The Pruning** is not an execution. These are trials. In the **Eclipse**, you will play a person who resembles you physically and by his situation, but who is not a copy identical to you. These are past or future events from other worlds that have been absorbed by the Kingdom of Dreams!
Without Name stuttered:
- How... do you know that?
But before he had an answer, his chin fell heavily on his chest. The sound of the neon lights was erased, replaced by a whistle. A voice, neither feminine nor masculine, but melodious, resounded in the void of his mind:
> **"Welcome to the first Eclipse, Sleeping Without a Name. "**
>
- H