The alarm on Lina's phone shrieked through the half-light of morning. She groaned, smacked the screen until it went silent, and lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
The night had been restless again. She couldn't remember the dreams clearly—just flashes of red light, heat on her skin, and a voice murmuring her name like a secret. Her bedsheets were twisted around her legs, damp with sweat. The air smelled faintly of smoke.
"Great," she muttered, sitting up. "Now even my dreams need therapy."
By the time she got to the café, the morning rush was already in full swing. She tied her apron, pushed a smile onto her face, and joined the line of baristas shouting out orders. The hiss of the espresso machine and the scent of roasted beans helped ground her. Normal. Ordinary. Safe.
"Rough night again?" her coworker Jess asked, sliding a cup toward her.
"You could say that."
Jess gave her a sympathetic look. "You need to stop closing every night and opening every morning. You'll burn out."
"Can't afford to," Lina said with a shrug, focusing on the milk frother instead of the truth.
The rest of the shift passed in a blur of noise and caffeine. For a while, the rhythm helped her forget the unease that had followed her from home. But when the lunch crowd thinned and she finally took a break, she noticed something strange.
Outside the window, across the street, stood a man in a long dark coat. He wasn't moving—just watching. The glare on the glass blurred his features, but something about the stillness of him made her stomach twist.
"Everything okay?" Jess asked.
Lina blinked, looked again. The sidewalk was empty. "Yeah," she said quickly. "Just thought I saw someone I knew."
She tried to shake it off, but the image clung to her—tall, motionless, watching.
That evening, as she walked home, the rain returned. She pulled her hood up and kept her eyes on the ground. The streets glistened like black glass, streetlamps smearing light across the wet pavement. Every step echoed too loudly.
At the corner by the bridge, a busker played a violin, the haunting notes bending in the mist. Lina slowed, drawn by the sound, then stopped.
For a heartbeat, the air shimmered
again—like heat rippling over asphalt. The violin faltered. The musician frowned, rubbing his hands as if suddenly chilled.
And Lina felt it. The same heavy gaze from before, pressing against her back.
She turned sharply. Nothing. Only shadows, and the faint orange glow of the streetlights.
But when she started walking again, the violinist was staring at her—not playing, not moving, just staring. His eyes, wide and terrified, weren't focused on her exactly, but behind her.
Lina's throat tightened. She didn't dare look back.
She hurried across the bridge, heart pounding, the soft sound of the violin starting again behind her—now slow, discordant, almost mournful.
By the time she reached her building, she was shaking. She told herself it was exhaustion. Stress. Hallucination, maybe. Anything but the truth she didn't want to name.
Her roommate, Tessa, was out for the night, leaving the apartment quiet. Too quiet. Lina poured herself a glass of water and stood by the window, staring at the city below.
The rain had stopped, but the air was thick, heavy. She could feel the hum of something deep, like distant thunder beneath her skin.
Her eyes drifted to the mirror again—the one by the entryway. It looked normal now. Harmless.
She forced herself to look straight into it. "You're fine," she whispered. "It's just in your head."
But then the lights flickered.
The reflection behind her darkened. The room seemed to stretch—walls pulling farther away, shadows growing deeper.
A sound rose from nowhere, low and resonant, almost like a growl wrapped in words she couldn't understand. Her glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the floor.
The lights steadied. The sound vanished.
Lina stumbled back, heart hammering. Her breathing came fast, uneven. She looked around the small apartment—everything was normal again. Perfectly normal.
Except for one thing.
On the wall above her bed, burned into the paint, was a faint black mark. A sigil—sharp, curved lines that pulsed once, then faded into nothing.
Lina pressed a shaking hand over her mouth.
She didn't know that somewhere, far below, the mark had appeared too—etched in fire across the walls of a palace made of bone.
And the demon king who had carved it smiled.