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Harley swallowed hard. She raised the mop high, ready to strike—
But then his body moved.
A low groan escaped his lips, soft but deep enough to send chills down her spine.
She screamed and bolted from the kitchen, dropping the mop and running straight into the living room. "Oh my God! Oh. My. God!" she shouted, pacing in panic. "First the blackout, then my fridge, and now a freaking stranger in my kitchen?! This night is cursed!"
She grabbed her phone, debating whether to call the cops—or maybe Maya—but her hands were shaking too much to dial. "No… no, calm down," she whispered, pressing her palm against her chest. "You can't freak out in your own house. You're Harley freaking Davidson, queen of bad luck but not of fear."
After a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. "Fine. I'll check again. He probably broke in or something, and I'll… I'll just scare him off."
She picked up her sweeping brush this time—because clearly, a mop wasn't brave enough—and crept back to the kitchen.
The stranger hadn't moved much. His chest rose and fell slowly, a faint sign of life. The air smelled faintly of rain and burnt metal.
"Who… who are you?" Harley asked, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound brave. "How did you even get in here?"
No response.
She took another step forward, brush trembling in her grip. "Look, I'm serious. You better start talking before I call the cops!"
Still nothing—just the faint sound of rain tapping against the window and her own rapid breathing.
She crouched slightly, shining the flashlight directly on him. That's when she noticed something odd—a small, metallic pendant around his neck, glowing faintly blue, like it had absorbed the lightning itself.
"What the hell…" she whispered, leaning closer.
And then—his eyes opened.
Electric blue. Piercing. Unhuman.
Harley gasped, stumbling backward, the brush falling from her hand with a clatter. Those eyes locked onto hers—cold, glowing, and intense, like lightning trapped behind glass.
Before she could react, his lips parted.
"I… didn't mean to…" he rasped, his voice low, ragged. "…end up here."
Her mouth fell open. "What… what are you talking about?"
The man blinked slowly, confusion flickering across his face. "Where… am I?"
"You're in my kitchen!" Harley snapped, panic making her voice rise. "Who are you? What do you want from me?"
He didn't answer. Instead, his gaze flicked toward the storm outside, then back to her. "You… shouldn't have found me," he muttered before his head fell to the side, unconscious again.
Harley stood frozen, her mind spinning.
What just happened?
Who was this man?
And why did she feel like the storm had just delivered him straight to her?
Her fingers trembled as she pulled out her phone, staring at the stranger lying in her kitchen—mysterious, beautiful, and terrifyingly out of place.
Little did she know, that night—the night she cursed lightning—was the night her life would change forever.
"How— how did you get in here?" she asked, her voice trembling.
No response.
Her wide brown eyes darted around the kitchen, scanning every corner — the windows were locked, the back door bolted, the roof perfectly intact. So how the heck did he get inside?
She swallowed hard. "O-okay, Harley," she whispered to herself, "don't freak out. He's either a thief… or an extremely lost tourist."
Taking one cautious step closer, she finally realized — he wasn't just anyone. His clothes were strange, elegant, and… ancient-looking.
He wore a Chinese cultural wedding costume — the kind she'd only seen in dramas or museums. A rich red silk robe embroidered with gold dragons, his hair tied back into a sleek ponytail with a golden crown perched perfectly on top.
And his face—
Oh, heavens. His face was straight out of a fantasy novel. Sharp jawline, full brows, high cheekbones, and lips that were too perfect to be real — except they were pale, cracked, and slightly stained with what looked like blood.
Her chest tightened. He doesn't look fine at all.
She noticed the tremor in his hands, the way his chest rose and fell unevenly. "Sir? Are you… are you okay?"
Still no answer.
Her nerves tingled. The stick in her hand trembled as she used it to poke his arm. "Hey, can you hear me?"
Nothing.
"Seriously?" she muttered. "If you're some kind of spirit, please pick another house. I haven't paid my light bill yet — I can't afford hauntings right now."
She jabbed him a little harder. This time, he groaned faintly, his body shifting ever so slightly. Harley nearly jumped out of her skin.
"Oh my God! You are alive!" she gasped, dropping the stick. Then she fumbled for her phone and dialed 911.
"
"Uh, yeah, hi— I think there's a guy in my kitchen, and he's—"
A sudden, guttural sound echoed from behind her. Harley froze mid-sentence. Slowly, she turned around — and her eyes widened in pure horror.
He was vomiting.
But it wasn't blood. It wasn't bile.
It was black. Thick, oily, and glistening under the light — like liquid shadows pouring from his mouth, nose, and ears.
Her phone slipped from her fingers.
"Oh my God," she whispered, stepping back. "Oh my GOD."