Damon woke to the sound of his ceiling fan groaning overhead. A weak breeze brushed his face, stirring the stale air of his apartment.
For a moment, he didn't move. His body felt heavy, like someone had replaced his blood with lead. His throat burned raw, and every breath scraped like broken glass.
It took only one glance downward for panic to jolt through him.
Bandages.
His shirt was gone, replaced by rough strips of cloth wound tightly across his chest. Another circled his head, stiff and uncomfortable.
Damon sat up too quickly. Pain lanced through his ribs, forcing him to clutch his side. The memory struck in pieces—
The alley.
That thing.
Its teeth. Its hand on his throat.
And the light. The way its body had shattered like glass.
"No," he whispered hoarsely. "No, no, that wasn't real."
But the bandages said otherwise.
He staggered out of bed, nearly tripping over the edge of his rug, and stumbled into the bathroom. The harsh fluorescent light flicked on, flooding the cramped space with sterile white.
The mirror reflected a stranger. His face was pale, sweat-slick, eyes sunken with dark circles. The bandage around his head made him look like someone who had lost a fight—and he had. If not for… whatever that explosion was, he wouldn't be here at all.
He braced his palms against the sink, breathing hard. "It wasn't real. Just a dream. I hit my head, that's all."
He slapped his cheek once. Hard. The sting grounded him for a second, then faded, leaving the same terrified face staring back.
Another slap. Louder. His reflection didn't change.
His throat tightened. He leaned over the sink, knuckles whitening against the cold surface.
The memory of the creature's grin crawled back through his skull. That sound—like laughter dragged over stone—still echoed in his ears.
Damon spun the faucet and splashed cold water on his face, forcing his thoughts to scatter. He couldn't do this. Couldn't fall apart. Not now.
He had work.
By midmorning, he was back in uniform, the collar of his jacket pulled tight to hide the bandages. The familiar rhythm of the city swallowed him as he trudged toward the subway.
Normal. He needed normal.
People jostled past him on the crowded platform, muttering into phones, sipping coffee, staring blankly at the tracks. Ordinary life unfolded like nothing had changed. Like he hadn't seen a monster devour a man's soul in the dark.
Damon clung to that illusion as hard as he could.
The train screeched into the station. He shoved inside, found a seat near the back, and stared at the scratched metal floor until his stop.
At work, the same fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the same machines hummed, the same stale coffee brewed in the corner. His boss barked the same complaints, coworkers joked about the same nonsense.
But everything felt wrong.
The clang of metal tools sounded too sharp, too sudden. Every laugh from the break room twisted into that low, broken rattle he'd heard in the alley. When someone dropped a cup, Damon flinched so hard his coworker gave him a strange look.
He forced a laugh, pretending it didn't bother him, but his hands shook as he bent back to his task.
It was fine. He could do this. He could pretend.
Hours dragged like weeks.
By the time the shift ended, his nerves felt raw, like he'd been sanded down from the inside.
Evening fell as he stepped out into the street, the city glowing under neon signs and the low hum of traffic.
Damon pulled his jacket tighter, head down. He told himself he was being paranoid. That's all.
And yet—
He felt it.
Eyes.
Watching.
His pulse stuttered. He glanced over his shoulder.
Two figures stood across the street. Too far to make out clearly, but something about them froze his blood. One tall, poised. The other, broad-shouldered, hair catching faint glints of gold under the streetlights.
Damon blinked. A car passed.
They were gone.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
You're imagining things. Just nerves. That's all.
He hurried home, each block stretching longer than it should. Shadows seemed deeper, footsteps too loud. When he finally reached his apartment building, his hands shook as he shoved the key into the lock.
Inside, he collapsed against the door, chest heaving. The silence pressed in.
Safe. Finally safe.
He kicked off his shoes, tossed his jacket over the couch, and rubbed his temples. His head pounded like a drum. He just needed sleep. Just a few hours. Tomorrow would be better.
He stumbled toward the kitchen for water—
And froze.
There was someone in his chair.
A man, lounging like he owned the place, one leg crossed over the other. Hair pale as gold, eyes sharp and unblinking, glinting like shards of ice in the dim light.
Damon's breath caught in his throat.
Before he could speak, another voice drifted from the window.
"You really should lock these better," a woman said softly. Tall, dark-haired with brown skin, her coat brushing the floor as she turned to face him. Her gaze pinned him where he stood—calm, measured, heavy.
Damon's mouth went dry.
He leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on his knee. A faint smile curved his lips, but it wasn't warm. It was curiosity, sharp and clinical.
"So," he said smoothly, "you survived."