Aidan
Aidan jolted awake, heart pounding, his skin clammy with sweat. The suffocating weight of unseen eyes pressed down on him, a sensation that had never quite left since Mr. Albu's death. He lay still for a few moments, listening to the silence of the room, but his pulse refused to settle. The shadows in the corners of his room seemed darker, deeper, shifting just beyond his field of vision.
With a shaky breath, he threw off the covers and stumbled into the bathroom, gripping the edges of the sink to steady himself. Cold water splashed onto his face, the sharp chill grounding him back into reality. He forced himself to look up at the mirror. Bloodshot eyes stared back at him, the skin beneath them bruised and hollow from too many sleepless nights. He barely recognized himself anymore.
It had been six months. Six months since Mr. Albu's murder. Six months since Damon vanished. And yet, Aidan felt as if time had frozen, trapping him in a loop of paranoia and dread. He had told himself it would get better. That the nightmares would fade. That he would wake up one day and feel normal again. But the opposite had happened. His mental health had taken a nosedive, his anxiety worsening until even stepping outside left him shaking, his heart hammering at every unexpected sound. He had barely scraped through his second-semester exams, and once they were over, he had taken an entire week off from college, unable to face the outside world. The feeling of being watched was suffocating, an ever-present shadow lurking at the edges of his vision.
Even now, standing alone in the bathroom, the paranoia clung to him.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Aidan froze. His skin prickled with cold dread. His breath hitched, trapped in his throat.
Slowly—so slowly—he turned his head, his stomach twisting into knots. The bathroom was empty.
His muscles loosened slightly, and he let out a sharp breath, shaking his head at his own fear. "Fucking idiot," he muttered under his breath. He was losing it.
Trying to shake off the unease, he trudged back to bed, climbing under the covers. He shut his eyes and exhaled deeply, willing himself to relax. But just as sleep was beginning to reclaim him, a chill ran down his spine.
The mattress dipped behind him.
Aidan's breath caught in his throat. Every nerve in his body locked up, his skin crawling as he registered the weight pressing into the bed beside him.
Someone was there.
Aidan clenched his jaw, his body rigid with fear. He forced himself to move, just enough to turn his head, his heart slamming against his ribs.
His blood ran cold.
A dark figure lay beside him, barely an inch away. The shape of a body, resting atop the covers, eerily still. The air in the room turned thick, heavy, pressing down on him like an invisible force. Aidan's mind screamed at him to move, to run, but he was frozen in place, his limbs unresponsive.
Then, the figure shifted.
Aidan's breath caught in his throat as pale, rotten flesh came into view. The scent hit him next—a stomach-churning stench of decay. His throat tightened, bile rising in his mouth.
Mrs. Barik.
Her dead, milky-white eyes locked onto his. Her mouth stretched unnaturally wide in a grotesque, unmoving grin. The skin on her face sagged, gray and lifeless, like a corpse left too long in the open air.
Aidan lurched away, tumbling off the bed in his desperation to escape. His body hit the floor with a thud, but the pain barely registered. He scrambled backward, legs kicking against the wooden floor as he tried to put as much distance between himself and the nightmare before him.
His limbs refused to cooperate.
He tried to scream, to call for Jared—anyone—but no sound came out. His throat felt constricted, as if an invisible hand was tightening around his windpipe.
Mrs. Barik moved.
No, not moved—snapped.
Her head jerked toward him at a sickeningly sharp angle, her neck bending in a way that no human's should.
Then, she crawled.
The way she moved was all wrong—inhuman, unnatural. Her limbs twisted as she slithered off the bed, her body jerking forward in sharp, erratic movements. The air thickened with the stench of rot as she closed the distance between them, her grotesque grin never wavering.
Aidan's pulse thundered in his ears. He tried to crawl backward, but his arms shook so violently that they barely held him up. His body was betraying him.
Then, faster than his mind could process, she was on him.
Her cold, dead fingers wrapped around his throat in an iron grip, cutting off his air. Aidan choked, his vision swimming with black spots as he clawed at her wrists, but her strength was monstrous.
"Got ya."
The voice that came from her lips was not her own. It was deep, guttural, male.
Aidan's lungs burned. His chest heaved, his body convulsing as the edges of his vision blurred. His pulse roared in his ears, growing weaker and weaker. The last thing he saw was the hollow void of her rotting eyes as everything faded to black.
Aidan woke with a jolt, his breath catching in his throat. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting soft golden lines across his ceiling. For a moment, he lay still, his heart pounding, his mind foggy. Had it all been a dream?
Slowly, he sat up, his hands gripping the sheets. Everything in his room was exactly as it should be—his books stacked neatly on the desk, his chair pushed in, the door slightly ajar just as he had left it the previous night. It was as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't spent the night suffocating under the grip of something unnatural.
But the air still carried the putrid scent of decay.
Aidan's stomach twisted. His breath came shallow and uneven as he threw off the covers and stumbled toward the bathroom, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste. He flicked on the light, squinting against the harsh glare, and gripped the sink, bracing himself before meeting his reflection.
He gasped.
A faint but unmistakable imprint of fingers wrapped around his throat. The bruises weren't deep, but they were there, a sickening confirmation that last night had been real.
Aidan's heart sank into his stomach.
Trembling, he ran his fingers over the marks, his skin prickling at the memory of the ghostly grip. He had tried so hard to convince himself it had all been a hallucination—just another episode of his growing paranoia. But his body bore the evidence.
This was real.
Panic surged through him, thick and suffocating. What was he supposed to do? Who could he even tell? Jared and Lucas would think he was losing his mind. Hell, he was starting to believe that too.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he forced himself to breathe. He couldn't let this consume him. If he let the fear take hold, he would never claw his way back to sanity.
Still dazed, he drifted to the kitchen, making breakfast on autopilot. The sizzle of eggs, the clinking of plates—it was all mechanical. Jared and Lucas were already gone, their absence only making the house feel emptier, heavier. The walls seemed to press in around him, thick with unseen eyes. Every creak, every shift of the air made his skin crawl.
He couldn't stay here.
Even though the thought of stepping outside made his stomach churn, the idea of being alone in this house for another day was worse. He needed to move, to do something that resembled normalcy, even if it was just pretending.
By the time he stepped out the door, a queasy feeling clung to him, a nagging sensation of being watched. The walk to college did nothing to shake it. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision, paranoia digging its claws deeper into his already frayed nerves.
Aidan barely listened to the lecture, his heavy eyelids drooping from the exhaustion of too many restless nights. The new psychology professor was better than Mrs. Barik in one way—he didn't openly hate Aidan. But that was the only redeeming quality. The lecture was dull, and Aidan struggled to stay conscious, his notes dwindling into meaningless scribbles.
Then, a hushed whisper from the girls beside him caught his attention.
"Did you see the new transfer student?"
Aidan lazily followed their gaze, expecting nothing of interest. But as his eyes landed on the front rows, his entire body locked up.
For a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. That sleep deprivation had finally caused him to hallucinate. But no—he wasn't imagining this.
There, sitting casually in the front row, was Damon.
Aidan's breath stilled. The world around him seemed to blur, sounds becoming distant and warped. It was him. His sharp features, his familiar presence, but there was something so strange about seeing him here, in a normal classroom setting.
Gone were tail and otherworldly aura that Aidan was used to seeing him in. Instead, Damon was wearing a denim jacket, a crew-neck t-shirt, and faded jeans—clothes so utterly human that it felt wrong.
Damon raised his hand to ask the professor a question. His voice was steady, confident, blending seamlessly into the mundane chatter of the class. But to Aidan, it barely registered.
He could only stare, unable to process what was happening.
How?
How was this possible?
The class ended before Aidan could even begin to piece his thoughts together. The second the professor dismissed them, a girl named Molly let out an excited squeal.
Damon's dark grey eyes scanned the room and landed on her.
And then—he winked.
It was an effortless, playful gesture, filled with an ease that Damon had never shown before. With a confident stride, he walked toward Molly, the corners of his lips quirked in an easy smirk, exuding a charm so natural it felt like he had belonged in this world all along.
Aidan's breath hitched.
Damon.
But he wasn't the Damon Aidan remembered. His once ghostly pale skin had darkened to a smooth olive, healthier, sun-kissed. His long, unruly hair was gone, replaced with a stylish, effortlessly tousled cut that framed his sharp features. He looked like he had walked straight out of a college lifestyle magazine—one of those confident, effortlessly handsome athletes with a crooked smile and a knowing glint in his eye.
And the effect he had on the people around him? Immediate.
"Darian," Molly practically moaned, gripping his arm. "You have to give me private lessons. You're like, way better than the professor at this."
"Mr. Sanderson is so boring," another girl chimed in, dramatically rolling her eyes. "He makes me fall asleep."
"I miss Mrs. Barik," someone else mumbled absentmindedly.
Damon—Darian—grinned, running a casual hand through his hair. "I missed the first few days of the semester because of the move. You guys gotta help me catch up."
"We'll definitely help you," a girl hollered from across the group, making the others giggle.
Aidan's frown deepened at the name. Darian.
No. No way.
Either he was completely mistaken—which was highly unlikely, because men like Damon did not have doppelgängers—or Damon was hiding his true identity. And that made a whole lot more sense.
Aidan's grip on his bag strap tightened as he watched Molly practically drape herself over Damon, whispering something in his ear that made him chuckle, his voice rich like honey. He walked beside her, every movement smooth, confident, as if he had always belonged here—always been human.
Aidan had had enough.
He pushed through the throng of students and marched toward them, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Damon," he called out once.
Nothing.
"Damon," he tried again, stepping closer. He reached out and touched Damon's shoulder.
The reaction was instant.
"Hey, don't touch me." Damon recoiled as if Aidan had burned him, swatting his hand away with a sharp glare.
Aidan flinched. That voice—it was him.
"Damon, it's me," Aidan said, eyes searching his face desperately for recognition. For anything.
Damon tilted his head slightly, brows furrowing in confusion. "I'm sorry?" His voice was polite but edged with unmistakable irritation. "I think you have me confused with someone else. My name is Darian, not Damon."
Aidan's breath came short. Up close, it was even more obvious.
"Don't mess with me, Damon. Where the hell have you been?" Aidan's voice was tight, barely restrained.
Damon sighed through his nose, exasperated. "I have no idea who you are, dude," he said evenly, before turning away as if the conversation was already over.
Molly snorted. "Ignore him, he's a total weirdo." She tugged Damon's arm, pulling him closer, her fingers sliding against his forearm possessively.
Aidan clenched his jaw so hard he nearly heard a snap.
There hadn't been a single day—not one—where he hadn't thought about Damon. Worried about him. Wondered if he was safe. And now?
Here he was, laughing, flirting, acting like Aidan was nothing more than a stranger in the crowd.
A sharp, humiliating sting burned in Aidan's chest.
He turned on his heel and stormed out, walking so fast it felt like his back was on fire. He didn't stop until he reached the empty bleachers near the sports field, his legs trembling as he sat down.
His hands curled into fists. His breathing was uneven. His heart pounded in his ears.
Perhaps Damon was trying to moved on.
And Aidan was nothing more than an unwelcome shadow of a past Damon wanted to forget.
But that didn't mean Aidan could stop wondering—where had he been all these months?
The thought gnawed at him, a relentless whisper in the back of his mind. Damon had reappeared out of nowhere, seamlessly blending into college life as if he had always belonged. But Aidan knew better. He had vanished without a trace, and now he was back, wearing a new name, a new face, and acting like Aidan was a stranger.
The feeling of unease slithered through his chest, cold and unwelcome.
Then, from the corner of his eye, Aidan noticed movement across the football field. A lone figure stood just beyond the perimeter of the playground, where the grass turned untamed, blending into the thick trees beyond. Aidan's pulse spiked.
The midday sun was bright, casting sharp, unwavering shadows across the ground. There was nothing obstructing his view. Everything should be clear. And yet—
The figure stood motionless, draped in a soiled cardigan, the fabric hanging from its body like old, damp rags.
Aidan's breath caught in his throat. He couldn't see the face clearly, but the sheer emptiness in its posture made his stomach turn. The way it watched him—silent, lifeless—sent a wave of nausea curling in his gut.
And then—
That smell.
The same rotting stench from last night, thick and pungent, clinging to the inside of his nostrils like decay sinking into his skin.
Aidan shuddered. His limbs refused to move. He was rooted to the spot, his fingers digging into his thighs.
Blink. Just blink and it'll be gone.
But he couldn't.
A single drop of cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. The figure remained, standing there like a forgotten corpse.
Then—
"Hey."
A voice, sharp and real, too real, sliced through the suffocating moment. Aidan's body jolted back to the present.
His head snapped up.
Damon stood beside him, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, watching him with casual interest. The sun cast a golden glow against his olive skin, highlighting the sharp angles of his face.
Aidan's breath came out in a shaky exhale. The figure—
He turned back toward the field.
Gone.
Just like that.
As if it had never been there.
Aidan's pulse thrummed against his eardrums, his vision momentarily swimming. Had he imagined it? Was the lack of sleep finally catching up to him?
He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to meet Damon's gaze.
"I didn't mean to be rude back in there," Damon said smoothly, his voice carrying the same rich warmth it always had. "I think you mistook me for someone else. I'm Darian, by the way."
He extended his hand for a handshake, the gesture effortless, as if this was just some normal college introduction.
Aidan stared at the offered hand, hesitant. There was no one else around. No audience to keep up appearances for. Yet he still won't drop the act.
The confusion tangled with his frustration, but Aidan decided to play along.
He clasped Damon's hand briefly.
"Aidan," he finally said, his voice carefully neutral.
Damon sat beside him, close but not too close, and Aidan immediately noticed something else.
The smell.
Not the rancid, rotting stench from moments ago—but him.
A heady, intoxicating aroma radiated from Damon's skin, something dangerously potent. Something that coiled around Aidan's senses and sank deep into his bloodstream. It was rich, musky, masculine—a scent that whispered of heat, skin against skin, tangled limbs, deep sighs against the crook of a neck.
Aidan flushed, his fingers twitching against his jeans as his mind betrayed him, conjuring images that left his throat dry.
"Incubus powers," he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for himself to hear.
Yes. That was the only explanation.
The scent, his magnetic presence, the way he had the entire college wrapped around his little finger—it was supernatural.
"Did you say something?" Damon asked, his voice low and inquisitive.
Aidan snapped out of his daze.
"No," he said quickly, shaking his head.
Damon studied him for a beat longer than necessary, something flickering in his gaze, but he didn't press. Instead, he leaned back slightly, running a hand through his hair in a seemingly casual gesture.
"Alright. It was nice meeting you." There was a hesitation in his voice, the kind that didn't quite match the confidence he exuded before. "Uh... I just came here to say sorry."
Aidan felt his jaw tighten. If he didn't know better, he would have thought Damon was reluctant to leave.
But he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
"See you," Aidan said flatly, keeping his eyes forward. If Damon wanted to pretend he didn't know him—Aidan could play that game too.
Damon lingered for a fraction of a second before nodding.
"Yeah. Bye."
And then he was gone, striding away with the same effortless ease, the scent of him lingering in the air like an afterthought.
***
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