Tyler dreamed of fire.
It spread across the walls of his bedroom in a soundless wave, consuming the curtains, the bed, the pictures on the wall. Yet he couldn't move. His chest heaved, but his body was pinned by invisible hands pressing into his shoulders.
When he opened his eyes, sweat had drenched the sheets. His body trembled with fever, heat radiating from his skin as though the fire had followed him into waking. His limbs ached. His mouth was dry.
The apartment was too quiet. Jackson hadn't stirred yet.
Tyler forced himself into the bathroom, gripping the sink to steady himself. His reflection wavered in the mirror, pale and thin. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. But when he raised his hand, the image didn't follow. It only stared, lips twitching.
"You're wasting away," it whispered.
The voice was his, but distorted, roughened like broken glass.
Tyler's stomach lurched. "No. No, you're not real."
The reflection leaned forward even though he hadn't moved. Its grin widened, sharp and knowing.
"You keep saying that" it hissed. "And yet here I am."
With a choked sound, Tyler slammed the light switch and fled, leaving the mirror in darkness.
That night, the fever drove him into half-dreams. He woke—or thought he woke—to the weight of someone sitting on his bed. Turning, he saw a figure in the dark. Not Jackson.
Himself.
And a crescent shape creeped through the dark, into a crooked and jagged smile.