Some people don't just dream—they relive. Night after night, their minds drag them into terrifying worlds where they're hunted, trapped, helpless. These dreams aren't hazy memories—they stay with them. Clear. Sharp. Unshakable.
Their bodies respond like they're truly there—sweating, gasping, hearts pounding like war drums. And sometimes, the fear spills into the real world. They might talk, cry out, or flinch as if the nightmare never ended.
Worse under stress. Worse when sleep is broken. And cruelest of all—
Even in rest, there's no peace. Only a new kind of suffering.
INT- ERION'S ROOM
Erion's eyes were still shut, the screams had ceased—but his body trembled, as if on the verge of giving up from the relentless pulling against the restraints. The chains groaned with every twitch, and the sound of his labored breathing filled the room like a slow, suffocating storm.
"But the worst time," Silas said quietly, "was when he managed to hurt himself."
Evah's heart sank again, deeper than before.
She always thought Erion was lucky—powerful, privileged, untouchable. I thought his life was easy…
"That happened when he was twenty-two, just before he moved out. Since then… we tie him down before he sleeps." Silas exhaled as if the memory physically weighed on him.
That's… too much.
"Didn't you consult a doctor?" she asked, her voice cracking. "There has to be a cure—something…"
"We did everything we could," he replied. "But the only 'cure' is to keep him away from violence."
So that's why his mother keeps trying to make him quit.
"But that's the one thing he'll never do," Silas added, eyes shadowed with resignation.
"The only way he can rest is by staying awake until his body collapses. He can't even use alcohol to fall asleep—if he does, the same thing happens."
That's why Silas's face looked so panicked that day, when he found him sleeping on her lap.
Her mind flashed back to the day she asked if he'd been drinking. The way he deflected. The tension. Every fragmented puzzle piece suddenly clicked into place—without her even needing to move them.
Tears welled in her eyes. She tried to blink them away.
"Except for Master Riko, no one ever really tried to help him," Silas said, stepping back. "He might hate me for telling you this, but… thank you for caring, Miss Arsenault."
He bowed low. "Please… take care of Lord Erion."
And with that, he walked away, leaving her alone.
Another scream tore through the air. This time, Erion thrashed violently, frantically covering his ears.
Evah moved forward slowly. The rain outside kept pouring—like the storm now raging inside her chest. Her steps felt heavy, every stride pounding against the soft carpet like an anchor. She stopped at the edge of the bed.
His face, drenched in sweat, was twisted in torment.
How can you sacrifice yourself like this? Why?
Is saving others really worth destroying yourself?
She recalled all their nights together. He'd always urged her to rest—but he never once slept.
How could I not see it?
A fragment from one of her classes echoed in her mind: Never wake someone trapped in a nightmare. It could be dangerous.
Another cry split the silence, making her flinch. When she opened her eyes, Erion had curled into a fetal position, still clutching his head.
Don't be startled. Don't be scared, she chanted inwardly, fighting back panic.
He looked terrified. Raw and vulnerable. Not the ruthless Erion she thought she knew—but a boy begging for someone, anyone, to save him.
That was the face that turned in her direction—his eyes still closed, completely unaware of her presence—yet it felt like she'd been thrust into the front row of a tragic play she never wanted to witness.
Slowly, without any shield to guard her emotions, without any wall to stop her from feeling too much, she reached for his hand.
The moment her fingers made contact with his skin, Erion screamed—raw, visceral—pulling his hand away in a sharp, instinctive motion.
It was a reflex, like an animal reacting to sudden danger.
A defense mechanism.
His face was distressed, his pretty face that she hated.