Oh, now it stops
---
The first sign is silence.
Not the comfortable kind. Not the sleepy kind.
The kind that feels like a held breath.
You notice it when you step out of the apartment the morning after the battle. The street is busy—cars passing, people walking, birds perched on power lines—but something is wrong.
Nothing sounds wrong.
Everything just feels… muted.
Like the world is wrapped in cotton.
Mira stands beside you, hoodie pulled up, eyes darting. Since the classroom, she flinches at shadows, at reflections, at anything that moves too smoothly.
"Do you feel that?" she whispers.
"Yes," you reply.
He stands just behind you, invisible to everyone else, posture rigid.
"They're coordinating," he says.
Your stomach twists. "Who?"
"The things like him," he answers. "Those who chose hunger instead of form. Those who refused humanity."
Mira swallows. "There's more than one?"
"There were always more than one," he replies grimly. "He was simply the first to stop pretending."
That night, the dreams start.
Not yours.
The city's.
You feel it when you walk through campus: people rubbing their temples, blinking too much, staring into nothing for half a second too long. Conversations trail off. Laughter dies without reason.
Something is whispering to them.
Not words.
Invitations.
Mira wakes up screaming at 3 a.m.
"They're calling," she sobs, clutching her head. "I can hear them like… like static behind my thoughts."
He's at her side instantly.
"They're testing how far your door opens," he says. "And how wide yours does."
You feel a faint pressure in your chest, like a bruise being gently pressed.
"Can they reach me too?" you ask.
He hesitates.
"Yes."
Two nights later, the sky over your neighborhood changes.
No clouds.
No storm.
Just a subtle darkening, like someone dimmed reality by one degree.
Streetlights flicker. Dogs whine. A siren wails somewhere far away, then cuts off abruptly.
"They're here," Mira whispers.
You feel it too now—a convergence of attention, heavy and layered. Not one presence.
Many.
He steps in front of you both, power already flaring.
"They won't attack outright," he says. "Not yet. They're learning."
"Learning what?" you whisper.
"How to break us," he answers.
The air splits.
Not violently.
Politely.
Like a door opening.
One by one, shapes emerge from nothingness around the street. Not physical—not fully—but visible enough to make your eyes ache.
Tall ones.
Thin ones.
Some wearing almost-human faces that slip if you stare too long.
Others made of shadow and broken light.
And at the center—
Him.
Reformed.
Sharper.
Smiling.
"You look tired," he says pleasantly. "Did you miss me?"
Mira backs into you, shaking violently.
"You brought friends," she whispers.
"Family," he corrects. "We all made the same choice."
Your guardian's voice is a low snarl. "You made a choice to kill."
"We made a choice to matter," the thing replies calmly. "To not be forgotten when humans die."
The others ripple in agreement, a wave of hungry resonance.
"You don't get to rewrite what you are," your guardian snaps.
"Oh, but you did," it says, glancing at you. "Look at them. A door and a lock. So… innovative."
Your chest burns.
"Leave them out of this," he growls.
"But they are this," it says softly. "They are the battlefield."
The air tightens.
The allies move subtly—positioning. Encircling.
"They're going to split us," Mira whispers. "I can feel it."
"They won't touch you," he promises. "Not while I exist."
The thing tilts its head.
"Then let's test how long that will be."
The sky cracks.
Not with lightning—
With absence.
Reality tears open above you, and a dozen dark shapes descend like falling stars.
"Run!" he shouts.
You grab Mira's hand as the first of them strikes.
The street explodes into chaos.
Shadow-creatures slam into the ground, tearing holes in the pavement. Energy blasts rip through the air. Windows shatter. The world screams.
He launches forward, colliding with two of them in a burst of blinding light.
The thing watches, amused.
"Oh," it murmurs. "This is going to be fun."
You and Mira run, dodging debris as spiritual fire and darkness collide behind you.
"They're too many!" Mira cries.
"I know!" you shout.
Something hits you in the back—
Not physical.
Your legs buckle.
A whisper coils through your mind.
Open.
You scream and push back with everything you have, forcing the presence out.
The thing laughs.
"You're learning."
Mira stumbles, falling to her knees, clutching her head.
"They're pulling me—!"
You drop beside her, holding her tight.
"Don't listen," you beg. "Don't listen!"
Your guardian turns just in time to see one of the others lung for you.
"No!" he roars.
But something else moves first.
Mira.
Her eyes flare faintly with that strange awareness as she throws out a hand—
And the shadow-creature is hurled back like it hit an invisible wall.
She stares at her hand, horrified.
"I—I did that—"
"Yes," he shouts, fighting his way back to you. "You did."
The thing's smile widens.
"See?" it purrs. "She's one of us now."
"No," you whisper. "She isn't."
"Not yet," it replies. "But she's closer than you think."
The allies regroup, circling again, more confident now.
He positions himself between you and them, breathing hard, eyes blazing.
"This is not over," the thing says pleasantly. "We'll come again. With more."
"And when we do," it adds softly, "we won't just try to take her."
It looks at you.
"We'll try to take everything."
The sky begins to close.
The shapes fade back into nothing.
The street repairs itself like it never broke.
People step out of doorways, confused.
Sirens wail.
You sink to the ground, shaking, Mira clutched against you.
"They're coming back," she whispers. "Aren't they?"
He nods grimly.
"Yes."
"And next time," he adds,
"they won't be testing."
They'll be invading.
---