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Night settles gently over the apartment.
Too gently.
Mira sleeps on your bed, curled on her side, breathing slow and even. Her face looks peaceful in sleep, almost younger—untouched by the fractures creeping through her waking hours.
You sit on the floor beside the bed, back against it, knees drawn up. The lamp is on low, casting long shadows that stretch and soften the room.
He sits across from you.
Not looming.
Not guarding.
Just… present.
Human-shaped, relaxed, one arm draped over the chair like he belongs there. He looks almost ordinary like this—dangerously so.
"You used to talk more," he says quietly.
You glance at him. "You used to hide more."
A faint smile curves his mouth. "Fair."
Silence settles between you, not uncomfortable. Almost companionable. You hate that you've learned the difference.
"What were you," you ask suddenly, "before me?"
He considers the question, gaze drifting to Mira's sleeping form.
"A watcher," he says. "A keeper of thresholds. I was not meant to interfere."
"But you did."
"Yes."
"Why?"
His jaw tightens slightly. "Because non-interference is a luxury afforded only to those untouched by consequence."
You don't fully understand, but the weight of it settles in your chest anyway.
"You never told me what he is," you say.
His eyes darken.
"I hoped you would never need to know."
The air changes.
It's subtle—no dramatic shift, no sudden cold. Just the sense of attention snapping into focus, like a predator lifting its head.
He feels it too.
His posture straightens instantly, every trace of ease vanishing.
"Wake her," you whisper.
"No," he says sharply. "If she wakes now, it will have leverage."
The lamp flickers.
Once.
Twice.
Then the shadows detach from the walls.
Not moving—unfolding.
The temperature drops, not cold but hollow, like warmth being removed rather than replaced. Your breath fogs faintly.
A voice slides through the room, amused and intimate.
"You make it look so cozy."
Mira stirs.
You freeze.
"Don't," you whisper desperately.
Her breathing evens out again.
The shadows pool near the ceiling, stretching downward like fingers learning how to bend.
"I wondered when you'd stop hiding behind walls," the voice continues. "Domestic life suits you. Almost makes me nostalgic."
He stands.
Slowly.
Deliberately placing himself between the bed and the darkness.
"You are not welcome here," he says.
The shadows laugh.
"You don't own this place," it replies. "You never owned anything. You borrowed. You pretended."
The darkness condenses.
A shape emerges—not fully visible, but more defined than before. Tall. Thinner than human. Its edges blur like it can't decide which outline to keep.
Two eyes open within it.
Too bright.
Too aware.
"I see you've taken a pet," it says lightly. "And a vessel. Efficient."
Your guardian doesn't move.
"She is asleep," he says. "You will not touch her."
"Oh, I already have," the thing replies cheerfully. "You left such convenient gaps."
The room shudders.
You feel pressure slam into your chest as the air warps violently, like two immense forces colliding without sound.
Books fly from shelves.
The lamp explodes.
Darkness crashes in.
Then—
Light.
Not bright.
Dense.
Your guardian moves.
Not stepping—not running.
Rewriting the space between where he is and where the thing stands.
The impact hits like a thunderclap.
The walls crack.
The floor buckles.
You scream his name—stop yourself just in time.
They collide again.
This time, the thing shrieks—not in pain, but rage.
"Still pretending to be noble!" it snarls. "Still playing protector!"
"And you are still feeding," he snarls back, no longer restrained. "Still hollowing yourself out to avoid being ordinary."
The thing lashes out.
The air tears open like fabric.
Your guardian is thrown back—into the wall.
The apartment groans.
You scramble to your feet, heart racing, terror clawing at your throat.
"Mira—" you gasp.
"She sleeps," he says quickly, pushing himself upright. Blood—dark and wrong—trickles from the corner of his mouth. "I will not let it wake her."
The thing laughs, delighted.
"You hear that?" it says mockingly. "He bleeds now. How human."
Something snaps in him.
The air burns.
Symbols blaze across his skin, ancient and furious, no longer restrained. The room warps under the weight of his presence.
He looks at the thing—
And his voice cracks the night open.
"You were the firstborn," he roars.
"You were always treated right."
The thing recoils—not from power, but recognition.
"I was adopted," he continues, fury pouring out of him like a storm finally unleashed.
"And still you envied me."
The shadows writhe violently.
"You had everything," he shouts. "Guidance. Choice. A life that could have been simple."
The thing screams back, "You were favored!"
"I was chosen because I cared!" he bellows.
The walls shake.
"Your jealousy rotted you from the inside," he continues, voice raw.
"You no longer have problems with me—but with innocent humans."
The thing lunges again.
This time, he catches it.
Not physically.
Existentially.
The space around the thing locks, freezing it mid-motion like an insect trapped in amber.
"Why do you choose killing instead of protecting?" he demands.
"Instead of living your normal life?!"
The thing thrashes, its form glitching violently.
"Because normal was never enough!" it shrieks. "Because watching them live while we were reduced was unbearable!"
"You reduced yourself!" he roars. "You chose enmity over good!"
The truth ripples through the room.
Images flood your mind—unwanted, overwhelming.
Two beings standing at the threshold of humanity.
One stepping forward, choosing limitation, consequence, care.
The other turning away, choosing hunger, resentment, erasure.
Brothers.
Not by blood.
By choice.
The thing screams again, voice breaking into something almost… human.
"They worshipped you," it snarls. "They feared me."
"They worshipped safety," he snarls back. "And you made yourself a monster so they would fear something!"
The thing convulses violently, cracks racing through its shadowy form like shattered glass.
"You could have lived," he says, voice shaking now. "You could have stopped."
For a heartbeat—
The thing hesitates.
And then it laughs.
Low. Broken.
"I still can," it whispers.
Mira gasps.
Her body arches sharply on the bed, eyes snapping open.
"No!" you scream.
The thing rips itself free and lunges—
Straight for her.
Your guardian moves faster than thought.
He places himself over her, arms spread—
And takes the blow.
The impact hurls him across the room.
He hits the far wall hard enough to crater it.
Mira screams.
You run to her, clutching her shaking form, tears streaming down your face.
"It's okay," you sob. "It's okay—it's just a nightmare—"
The thing looms over you both, dripping shadow.
"So devoted," it croons. "You taught me that too."
A hand—wrong, elongated—reaches toward Mira—
And stops.
Your guardian rises.
Slowly.
Blood streaks his chest.
His eyes burn with something beyond rage.
"No," he says quietly.
The word lands like a verdict.
The space around the thing collapses inward violently, crushing, folding, rejecting its existence. It screams—not mockery now, but terror—as it is forced backward, dragged toward something unseen.
"This is not over!" it shrieks. "She is still open!"
"Then I will close the door," he snarls.
With a final wrench of power, the thing is torn away, its scream echoing until it snaps into silence.
The apartment collapses into stillness.
Dust settles.
Mira sobs into your shoulder, shaking violently.
You hold her, heart breaking.
He staggers toward you, power bleeding off him in waves.
"It will come back," he says hoarsely. "But not soon."
You look up at him, tears streaking your face.
"You were brothers," you whisper.
He nods once.
"Once."
He sinks to his knees in front of you, exhausted beyond words.
"I chose to stay," he says quietly. "To care. To protect."
"And he chose hunger," you whisper.
"Yes."
Mira clutches your shirt weakly. "Please," she cries. "Don't let it take me."
You look at him.
And for the first time—
You don't accuse.
You beg.
"Save her."
He closes his eyes.
And when he opens them—
You know the cost will be unbearable.
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