The room was unsettling. Too quiet. Too still. My eyes scanned the space—bed, nightstand, shelves of books, and little else. No posters. No clutter. No signs of life.
"Dull and boring," I murmured.
I wandered to the bookshelf.—psychology, anatomy, human behavior. All dense, academic titles.
"This is what he reads? Planning a career change or a personality transplant?" I joked aloud, tracing my fingers across the spines.
One title caught my eye—Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind. I pulled it free and flipped through the pages.
I feel the air shifted.
A sudden chill swept through me, sharp and unnatural, raising goosebumps across my skin. The air thickened. I felt it before I saw it—a shadow stretching across the wall, towering behind me.
I turned, but it was too late.
A stabbing pain pierced the base of my neck, like a needle dipped in fire. My breath hitched. Heat surged through my body, spreading fast—too fast. My fingers went numb. The book slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a dull thud.
"Haa..." I gasped, the warmth turning into a feverish blaze.
I tried to move, but my limbs refused. My knees buckled, and I collapsed, the floor rushing up to meet me.
THUD
What's happening to me? The thought echoed in my mind, distorted and distant.
My head pounded. The room spun. I clutched my arms around myself, trying to anchor my senses. My breath came in shallow pants, each one hotter than the last. The heat wasn't natural—it felt invasive, like something crawling beneath my skin.
Then I saw it.
Ring, ring, ring!
The alarm jolted me from sleep, dragging me out of a dream I couldn't quite grasp. I blinked rapidly, still dazed, my limbs heavy and uncooperative. A strange heat pulsed low in my abdomen—tingling, uncomfortable.
I lay still for a moment, trying to piece together the fragments.
A chill crept down my spine, sharp and sudden.
I saw what? I thought, reaching for the dream that was already slipping away.
I rubbed my shoulder for warmth, then cocooned myself in the blanket and headed downstairs, hoping breakfast might anchor me to something real.
The dreams had stretched longer. More vivid. More persistent. Like a thread unraveling slowly, night after night. But I was still at the edge—just the tip. Not quite inside. Yet I could feel it: the eeriness, peeking through the cracks. Like it was waiting to consume me the moment everything resurfaced.
I tried to erase the thought.
Sleep stopped feeling like rest. I even turned to sleeping pills, desperate for relief—but they did nothing. The fragments kept coming. Sharper. Louder. Repeating every time I closed my eyes. Every time I slipped under.
The dreams circled back, creeping closer, each fragment stitching itself into something clearer. Something whole.
All except the silhouette.
That part stayed wrong. Blurred. Like a smudge on glass I couldn't wipe away—no matter how hard I tried.
It's been two weeks. And somehow, everything feels different.
I stepped into the kitchen, reached for a packet of Shin noodles from the top cupboard, and filled a pot halfway with water. The stove clicked on, and I stood there, eyes half-lidded, watching the water begin to stir—slowly, lazily, like it was waking up with me.
Those couple of weeks had been strange.
Axton finally made peace with us, and Mikee accepted his apology after consistent days of courting and being around. We started hanging out again, and for a while, it felt like old times. I'd missed our group—the laughter, the rhythm, the familiarity. Wilde was still abroad, the only piece missing from the puzzle.
But something had shifted.
One afternoon, I asked Axton about that night—the one I still couldn't fully remember.
He said he'd seen me helping someone into a taxi. He'd tried to ask me about it before, but never got the chance to finish. Just as the door was closing, he said, the person suddenly pulled me inside. And before he could reach us, the cab sped off. He was left standing there, worried and confused, unsure what had happened or whether I was okay.
I told him I was fine. Safe and sound after helping a stranger. But even as I said it, the words felt hollow. I asked if he'd seen who it was—if he could describe them. I admitted my memory was fractured. Just fragments. Blurred edges. A silhouette that refused to come into focus.
He looked at me then—really looked. Concern flickered across his face. I brushed it off with a weak smile, told him it was nothing. Just a weird night. Nothing to worry about.
But it lingered.
I was fine the next day. Physically, at least.
Still... something felt wrong.
And then there was Nate.
He'd started showing up more often. Not with us—never directly—but always nearby. I'd catch glimpses of him across the street, hovering at the edge of a crowd, or standing just outside wherever we happened to be. He never approached. Never spoke. But he was there.
It was subtle. But persistent.
And deeply unsettling.
Lately, I'd felt watched. A gaze I couldn't trace. Every time I turned to look, there was no one. Just empty space. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation—two weeks of restless nights, vivid dreams, and a mind that refused to quiet. I told myself I was being paranoid. Oversensitive.
But the feeling wouldn't go away.
A sharp hiss snapped me out of my thoughts—the water had begun to boil.
I opened the packet, added the condiments first, then dropped in the noodles a minute later. When it was done, I poured it into a bowl and sat down.
But before I could take more than a few bites, my stomach twisted violently.
I bolted to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before everything came up. Again and again. My body slumped against the cool porcelain, too weak to move.
Eventually, I forced myself upright, stumbling as I made my way back to the kitchen. One glance at the bowl of noodles was enough—my stomach lurched again, and I ran back to the bathroom.
Did I catch the flu or something? I wondered, wiping the corners of my mouth with trembling fingers.
I sat up slowly, gripping the sink for support. The mirror didn't lie—bloodshot eyes, pale skin, a face that looked like it hadn't slept in days.
I look awful, I thought, grimacing.
Still, I forced myself to get ready for school—there was a presentation today, and I couldn't afford to miss it. I layered up, grabbing whatever clothes were closest in my cabinet. I didn't care how I looked—I just needed to stay warm. I pulled on a mask, not just to hide my face, but to keep whatever this was from spreading.
The drive to the uni was a blur. I barely registered the passing streets, lost in a fog until Mikee reached out and startled me back to reality.
"Hey, you okay?" she asked, concern etched across her face.
"I don't know. I just feel awful. Puked my guts out this morning," I replied, trying to sound lighthearted, but my voice was drained.
"Why'd you still come to school if you're sick?"
"Presentation," I said, brushing it off.
"You could've called or talked to Mr. Anderson. Why don't I walk you there and explain your condition?"
She reached out to touch my forehead, then recoiled instantly.
"What the heck, Mille?! You're burning up. You might need a hospital, not just a nap."
"No, I'll just go home. Take some meds, sleep it off. Can you take notes for me so I don't miss anything?"
"Yeah—yes, of course. But first, I'm walking you to Mr. Anderson's office," she said, gripping my hand and helping me up.
"I'm okay, really. Just stay here and write my notes. I can walk. I feel terrible, but not hospital-level terrible," I insisted, clearly not thinking straight.
"No! I'm walking you, then I'll take your notes. You're shaking."
I hadn't even noticed. My body was trembling uncontrollably.
"Okay," I muttered, letting her steady me as I leaned into her arm.
We reached the office. I barely registered the walk. My head throbbed, heat radiating off me, yet I still felt cold. Mikee spoke to Mr. Anderson on my behalf, but her words blurred into static. I couldn't make sense of anything.
"Mi—, I'll —ke you to — he in— ma— y," I heard her say, but it sounded like a foreign language, distant and warped.
When I opened my eyes again, I was staring at a ceiling. The sterile white tiles told me I was in the infirmary. No one else was there—just me. I sat up slowly, my head pounding, my body burning from the inside out. I was in no condition to drive. I fumbled for my phone and called for a proxy driver, though I barely remembered what I said.
After the call, I pushed myself off the bed and left the infirmary. I didn't call Mikee—she'd only worry, and I couldn't handle her nagging right now. I leaned against the walls for support, trailing my fingers along the cool surface, trying to stay upright. My vision wavered, but I kept moving, step by step, until I reached the parking lot.
I dug out my car key and clicked the lock button repeatedly, hoping the flashing lights would guide me. After a few tries, I spotted it. I staggered over, unlocked the door, and collapsed into the back seat, slamming the door shut behind me. I covered my eyes with my arm, panting, the burning sensation in my body intensifying.
Then it hit.
A sharp, searing pain bloomed in my lower abdomen, making me double over with a groan.
"Ahhh..." I moaned, clutching my stomach, curling into myself on the seat.
Sweat trickled down my temple. The pain was unbearable.
"Aghh..." I gasped, the sound barely escaping my throat.
I held myself tightly, trying to ease the agony, but nothing worked. My body trembled, locked in a storm I couldn't escape.
I heard the backseat door creak open, followed by the sensation of someone pulling me upright. I was already crying, the pain overwhelming, too weak to process what was happening around me.
Strong arms lifted me out of my car. I felt myself being carried, my head lolling with each step, bouncing gently against a shoulder. My hand instinctively clutched my burning abdomen, the pain sharp and unrelenting.
"Ahh..." I whimpered, the sound barely escaping as I sobbed.
A door opened. Then I was lowered onto a surface—soft, but unfamiliar. I slid down, curling into myself, clutching my stomach as quiet tears streamed down my face. The door slammed shut. Another opened, then slammed again. Moments later, the engine roared to life.
Even through the haze of pain, I realized I was no longer in my car. Someone had moved me—taken me—and now we were driving somewhere.
I didn't know who they were, or where we were going. All I could do was pray that nothing worse would happen.
The pain swallowed me whole, dragging me under like a riptide. I didn't feel the car moving anymore. I didn't feel anything.
Then came the quiet.
Not peace—just absence. A numb, floating silence where time unraveled and thought scattered like ash in the wind.
And in that silence, something stirred.
A flicker. A sound. A shadow.
I was dreaming—but it wasn't just a dream. It was memory clawing its way back, broken and out of order. I couldn't tell what was real or imagined. All I knew was that I was there again. That night.
I saw it.
A shadow loomed overhead, bending closer with deliberate weight. My gaze crawled upward, slow and trembling, as if dragged by invisible strings.
The figure was warped—distorted at the edges, like a smudge on reality. I knew this place. I knew this moment. But my body moved without consent, limbs sluggish and foreign. This had to be a dream. It had to be.
He knelt behind me.
His eyes were wide, too wide—but wrong. The whites had vanished, swallowed by pitch black voids. His irises glowed a deep, unnatural red, pulsing faintly like embers clinging to life in a dying fire
I stared into them and felt a pull, like gravity in reverse. My instincts screamed. I turned away, trembling.
What's wrong with him? I thought, panic rising like bile.
With effort, I twisted my body to face him fully. My arms shook as I crawled backward, desperate to put distance between us. He reached out, and I flinched, turning my head as his fingers brushed my cheek.
His touch was ice and fire—soft, but charged. He traced down to the spot on my neck where the pain had struck, gently brushing my hair aside.
A shiver ran through me, involuntary and deep.
"Ah!" I gasped, startled by the intensity.
My body felt hypersensitive, like every nerve had been rewired. I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to pass out. My vision blurred, but I refused to close my eyes.
Then, without a word, he scooped me into his arms. I opened my eyes just enough to see his face—calm, unreadable—as he carried me to the bed and laid me down with eerie gentleness.
I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I just lay there, trembling, as he hovered over me, his arms planted on either side of my head.
His eyes locked onto mine, glowing like rubies in the dark—deep, hypnotic, and impossible to look away from. As I stared, a strange calm washed over me, like being pulled into a dream I couldn't wake from. My thoughts blurred. My body slackened. The world around me faded into silence.
But beneath the calm, something stirred. A pressure. A presence.
He leaned closer.
"AHH!" I screamed myself awake.
I was back. But not safe. My eyes were open, yet all I saw was darkness. Something pressed against my face—a blindfold. Panic surged. I felt fingers tracing the marks etched into my abdomen. The sensation burned.
"AH! Ahh..." I thrashed, but something held me down—tight, unyielding.
Terror clawed at me. I was in pain, trapped in the dark, and someone—someone I didn't know—was here. And they weren't letting me go.
I sensed a presence leaning in. Then a hand gripped my chin, forcing my mouth open. A familiar sensation flooded in—hot and cold at once, like liquid fire and ice. Just like in the dream.
I choked as it slid down my throat, filling my stomach. The pain in my abdomen began to fade, slowly replaced by a strange relief. My body eased, even as I gasped for air, coughing violently. The touch withdrew. I felt my shirt being pulled down, covering the marks. The force pinning me vanished.
Desperate to see who had done this, I ripped off the blindfold.
No one.
I was alone. In my room. Dark. Silent.
What is happening to me?
This can't be real...
I clutched my chest, trembling.
I feel like I'm losing my mind.
The night dragged on, sleepless and heavy. I sat curled up, hugging my knees to my chest, my mind spinning with everything that had happened. My body felt fine now—eerily fine. But the pain I'd endured earlier was unbearable. That figure... whoever he was... held me down, forced something into me—and then, somehow, I felt better.
But better didn't mean safe.
Who was he?
What did he do to me?
What's happening to me?
The more I searched for answers, the more questions piled up, each one louder than the last. My head throbbed.
Then it hit me—he knows where I live.
I'm not safe here.
I scrambled to my bed, searching for my phone. My fingers trembled as I found Mikee's number and hit call.
Ring. Ring.
"Hello? Mille, how are you feeling? Are you okay now?" Her voice was soft, concerned.
Just hearing her made my chest tighten. I swallowed a sob.
"Mikee..." I whispered, barely holding it together.
"Mille, what's wrong?"
"Can I sleep over at your place? I'm coming over now," I said, already grabbing my bag, tears threatening to spill.
"Of course. What happened? Are you okay?"
"I'll tell you when I get there."
I rushed to the door, then paused—my car was still at school. I groaned, frustrated, and opened the ride app. A cab would be here in fifteen minutes.
The cold night air bit at my skin as I stepped outside. I shivered, glancing around the dark street.
It's too quiet.
Fear crept back in. I turned and hurried back inside, locking the door behind me. I switched on every light in the apartment and stood by the window, watching for the cab.
Nothing happened. Just silence.
When the cab finally arrived, I rushed to turn off the lights, slammed the door shut behind me, and ran to the car.
The ride was quiet. Peaceful, even. But my mind wasn't. It kept drifting back to what happened. I shook my head, trying to push the memories away.
I arrived at Mikee's house—or rather, her mansion. The cab pulled away as I stood at the gate, dwarfed by the towering facade. I pressed the doorbell.
Ding-dong.
The chime echoed through the quiet night, amplifying my anxiety. I shut my eyes tight, biting my lip, trying to hold myself together.
Please hurry, I thought, heart pounding.
Moments later, Mikee appeared at the gate. As soon as it opened, I rushed into her arms.
"Hey, hey. It's okay. You're okay," she whispered, wrapping me in a hug.
My tears spilled freely.
She guided me inside, up the grand staircase and into her room. The door clicked shut behind us, sealing the world out. She led me to her bed.
"You can sit here," she said gently, motioning to the edge.
I sank down, the tension in my body slowly unraveling. I wiped at my face, the dried tears rough against my skin. I watched as she crossed the room to her mini fridge, pulled out a cold can of Coke, and handed it to me.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, her eyes full of concern.
I shook my head.
"I know I promised to tell you everything once I got here," I murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "But... would it be okay if I just rested for now? Maybe we can talk tomorrow."
"That's totally fine. You don't have to say anything until you're ready," she said, giving my shoulder a reassuring pat.
"Yeah... thank you," I whispered, offering a weak smile.
My eyelids grew heavy, the weight of exhaustion pulling them shut no matter how hard I tried to fight it. Mikee noticed and quietly stood to turn off the overhead light.
"Mikee... can we leave the lamp on?" I whispered, my voice trembling. The dark made everything come rushing back.
"Of course," she said softly, switching on the bedside lamp. Its warm glow cast gentle shadows across the room.
She climbed into bed beside me. I clutched the bedsheet tightly, curling toward her. We lay there in silence, facing each other. Her eyes held mine—steady, calm, present. I let that comfort wrap around me like a blanket.
Eventually, exhaustion won. My body sank into the mattress, heavy and hollow. The room dimmed, the edges of reality softening like wet paint.
I felt myself slipping—
not falling,
but being pulled.
And then—
He leaned closer.
He leaned in, inch by inch, until his lips hovered just above mine. His hand rose to my chin, tilting it gently. My mouth parted instinctively.
Then—his lips crashed into mine.
My eyes flew open as something surged from his mouth into mine—hot and cold at once, like liquid fire and ice. It felt like he was pouring something ancient into me—something that didn't belong in a human body.
I choked, unable to breathe. The trance shattered. Panic flooded my chest.
I tried to push him away, but my arms wouldn't move. It felt like invisible weights held them down. All I could do was clutch the bedsheets beneath me, my fingers digging in as the strange substance kept pouring into me.
The heat traveled down my throat, settling in my stomach like molten lead. Pain bloomed instantly—sharp, unbearable. I wanted to scream, but his mouth sealed mine, trapping the sound inside me.
I whimpered. After what felt like an eternity, he finally pulled away. I gasped, coughing violently, desperate for air. My cheeks were soaked—I hadn't even realized I'd been crying.
I looked up at him, and his lips curled into a sinister smile. My heart dropped.
Energy flickered back into my limbs, just enough for me to twist away. I turned my back to him, clawing at the sheets, trying to escape from beneath him.
But he grabbed my leg, dragging me back. Then he flipped me over, pressing his hand against my stomach.
A wave of heat exploded through my body, draining me instantly.
Then—nothing.
Just black.
Until I sat upright, drenched in sweat. My breath came in shallow bursts, chest heaving as I stared at the ceiling, disoriented. The silence was deafening. Light spilled through the window—soft, golden, indifferent.
Morning.
I wiped the sweat from my temple, but the chill in my spine remained. The dream clung to me like smoke, refusing to clear.
Mikee lay beside me, still asleep—her breathing slow, steady, untouched by the storm in my head. I moved carefully, not wanting to wake her. My feet carried me to the mirror, almost on instinct.
I lifted my shirt. Tugged down the waistband of my pants.
There it was.
The mark.
I stared at it, the edges of my reflection blurring as my mind slipped back into the dream.
What happened to me that night?
The questions came fast—relentless, unanswered.
Who was he?
What did he do to me?
Did he leave this mark?
It looked like a tattoo, but it didn't feel like one. It felt older. Intentional. Like a symbol etched with purpose. A warning. Or maybe... a claim.
Why me?
My thoughts spiraled, a storm with no center. Frustration clawed at my chest. Anxiety pressed in, tight and unyielding. The questions echoed in silence, unresolved.
For now.
—
Hey again, Mobsters!
Did you survive this chapter? Because Mille barely did. I tried to keep the mystery thick and the tension thicker—like molasses in a freezer. Hopefully it's working and not just confusing everyone 😅
Now, while I'm writing, I can see everything playing out like a drama series in my head. And poor Mille... she's basically starring in a psychological horror with no paycheck. I feel bad for her, truly. She might end up sleep-deprived, emotionally unstable, or just straight-up feral. But we need her to stay sane enough to finish the story, so I'm doing my part:
Mobpsych: "Hang in there, Mille!" (holds up two fists like a motivational gym bro)
Mille (rolling her eyes): "Oh sure. Or—and hear me out—you could rewrite the plot so I don't have to suffer like a cursed Victorian orphan?"
Mobpsych (nervous laugh): "Haha... yeah, no. It's only chapter two. We can't lose readers before the trauma really kicks in!" (side-eyes Mikee)
Mikee: "Don't look at me. I'm just here for the snacks and emotional damage." (raises hands in surrender)
Mobpsych: "Anyway..." (hands Mille some sleeping pills like a shady pharmacist) "Hope this helps."
Mille (snatches them): "Thanks. I guess. Now go away before I add you to the plot."
Mobpsych: "Understood. Retreating with dignity." (walks off dramatically, lips pursed like a rejected reality show contestant)
I gave her the pills. It's the least I could do. Literally. I considered giving her a hug, but she threatened to bite.
Mille (yelling from the void): "How about you give me my memories back and skip the trauma? That sounds way better!"
Mobpsych: "Hahaha... oh sweetie, no. If I did that, the story would be about you baking muffins and petting cats. We need drama. We need chaos. We need readers to scream 'WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!' every five minutes."
Mille (groans, flips the ring finger)
Mobpsych: "Wow. My own character just emotionally assassinated me. I'm filing a complaint." (shakes head in disbelief)
So yeah, I feel bad for Mille. But not bad enough to stop torturing her. You guys deserve the juicy plot twists, and she's just gonna have to cry through it.
Catch you in the next chapter, Mobsters! Bring popcorn. And maybe a therapist.
— mobpsych37