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Chapter 6 - A million thoughts

The stale beer scent of his apartment felt heavier than usual, thick with the memory of their visit. Damon paced, the frayed carpet a well-worn path beneath his feet.

They're insane. Or I am. Probably both. His own thoughts were a trapped,frantic thing, bouncing off the walls of his skull. Go with a man and a woman who could appear inside a locked room? Who could shatter glass with a gesture? The rational part of him, the part that balanced ledgers and showed up for shifts on time, screamed that this was how people ended up in ditches.

But then there was the chain. He hadn't touched it.The deadbolt had been thrown from the inside. Logic had left the building, and in its place was a cold, simple equation, written in the memory of jagged teeth and a low, rattling laugh.

If I stay, I die here.

The thought wasn't a scream; it was a quiet, chilling certainty. It settled in his bones. The thing in the alley knew him now. Its kind probably did, too. This apartment wasn't a sanctuary anymore; it was a cage with very flimsy bars.

"Screw it," he muttered to the silent, watching walls.

The decision, once made, was a release of pressure. He moved with a frantic energy, yanking a worn duffel bag from under his bed. He didn't plan, he grabbed. Jeans, t-shirts, the wad of cash from the coffee tin, his phone charger. The actions were mundane, absurdly normal against the surreal backdrop of his choice. He shoved the bandage from his head into the trash, a silent rejection of the old world.

A shower. The water was scalding, needling his skin, washing away the sweat of fear and the grime of the city. It was a ritual, an attempt to cleanse himself of the past twenty-four hours. It didn't work. The water ran brown then clear, but the feeling of those cold, clawed fingers on his ankle remained.

Then, the wait.

He sat on the floor, his back against the door, the duffel bag hugged to his chest like a shield. Every creak of the building's old bones was a footstep. Every distant siren was a herald. His knee bounced, a nervous tremor he couldn't still. What kind of life do you want to keep? The man's voice, cool and impersonal, echoed in the silence. A life where things like that existed? A life where he was prey? Or… something else?

A knock. Not loud, not impatient. A single, firm rap on the doorwood, precise and final.

Damon's heart hammered against his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then pushed himself up. His hand hovered over the doorknob. This was it. The last threshold of his old life.

He unlocked it and pulled the door open.

They stood there, just as they had before. The man with hair like pale gold and eyes that saw too much. The woman, a tall, silent shadow, her expression unreadable. They didn't look surprised to see him with a bag.

"I'm ready," Damon said, his voice tighter than he wanted it to be. He cleared his throat, forcing a steadiness he didn't feel. "I'm not sure what's going on. But I know if I don't go, I'll die here."

The man gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. No smile. No welcome. Just an acknowledgment of a fact stated. "This is Lily,"he said, his voice a low, calm baritone. He gestured with a slight tilt of his head to the woman, whose steel-shard eyes flickered toward Damon for a heartbeat before scanning the hallway behind him, ever vigilant. "My name is Arthur. Then let's not waste time."

Arthur didn't pull out a phone. He simply lifted a hand, two fingers raised, and a moment later, a black taxi rounded the corner as if summoned by the gesture. It rolled to a silent stop at the curb.

The city bled away outside the taxi window, the vibrant, chaotic life of the core dissolving into the repetitive, boxy architecture of the outskirts, and then into nothing but fields and skeletal trees under a vast, grey sky. No one spoke. The only sound was the hum of the tires on asphalt and the whistle of the wind.

They finally stopped on a dirt track that could barely be called a road. Before them stood a house. It wasn't just old; it was a monument to neglect. Two stories of peeling paint, sagging porch, and windows so grimy they looked like blind eyes. The roof dipped ominously in the middle.

Damon stared, his anxiety curdling into sheer disbelief. He hoisted his duffel bag higher on his shoulder.

"Is this thing even livable?" he asked, his voice flat.

He reached out and pushed the front door, half-expecting it to be locked.

It wasn't he pushed. It fell. With a groan of rusted hinges and rotten wood, the entire door listed forward and crashed onto the porch floorboards, kicking up a cloud of ancient dust.

Damon just stared at the hole where the door had been, then down at the wreckage at his feet. He made a face, a pure, unadulterated expression of annoyed exhaustion. This was it? This crumbling ruin was the answer to his existential terror?

Before he could voice the hundred questions burning his tongue, a sound cut through the cold country air.

Voices. Loud, approaching.

They were coming from the tree line, their figures just beginning to solidify out of the distance. Their tones were sharp, carrying—angry, or excited, or both.

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