Evan stared at his fingers.
Red.
"…Okay," he muttered. "That's… definitely not in the handbook."
His brain, which normally needed at least an hour to solve a basic algebra problem, now decided to overclock itself.
Dreams don't leave blood. Unless this is one of those hyper-realistic nightmares. Or I'm dead. Am I dead? Nope. Dead people don't have alarm clocks screaming at 7:42 AM.
Evan groaned and flopped back onto the bed.
"Of course," he muttered. "Of course, the world almost ends, and I'm still late for school."
He wiped his hands against the bedsheet. Nothing.The room looked normal, but it didn't feel earned.For a brief, unsettling moment, he had the sense that something had followed him back.
Sunlight leaked through the curtains. The faint smell of detergent filled the room. No fire. No screaming sky. No armored giant telling him to go back to sleep.
Which, honestly, felt rude.
---
Evan's room was small, messy in a way that someone had tried to organize their thoughts and given up halfway. Posters of constellations, quantum formulas scribbled on sticky notes, stacks of manga and notebooks piled like small towers. His personal diary lay open on the desk—half-written sketches of fantastical worlds he had dreamed of.
He shuffled over, fingers brushing the diary.
Good. At least something in my life is still normal.
Swinging his legs off the bed, the floor cold under his bare feet. Reality sharp.
"Reality check," he whispered. "I am not dead. I am not in hell. And if I am… hell has terrible interior design."
The mirror caught his eye.
For half a second, the reflection didn't move.
Stomach dropped.
Then it blinked. Scratched its head. Looked just as tired, awkward, and apologetic for existing as he felt.
"…Don't do that," he muttered.
Cold water. Chipped sink corner. Normal.
Yet a tug in his chest, like a thread connecting two worlds. He ignored it. He was good at ignoring things.
---
The bus ride was chaotic. Noise. People. Confident, existing humans everywhere.
Evan sat by the window, headphones in without music, shielded in his little bubble of isolation.
At the front, popular kids laughed, girls leaned close, boys cracked jokes Evan didn't understand. His eyes flicked to his reflection in the glass.
How do they do that? Talk without rehearsing? Breathe without apologizing for taking up space?
Messy hair. Permanent dark circles. Slight slouch. The universal look of "I'm sorry I exist." He muttered, "Figures."
Stomach twisted—not fear. Not nerves. Anticipation without context. Worse.
---
School hit like a tidal wave. Lockers slammed. Voices overlapped. Teachers barked instructions. Time crawled.
Until—
"Move."
Shoulder slammed into his back. Stumble. Pain.
"Watch where you're going, weirdo." Laughter.
Say something. Just once. Be brave.
Mouth opened. Nothing.
Then—
"That's enough."
Calm. Firm. Sharp. Like she cut through the tension itself.
The bully muttered something and left. Evan looked up.
She stood there. Arms crossed, eyes sharp, calculating. Lyra. Not just pretty—smart, perceptive, confident. Someone who noticed things others didn't.
"You okay?" she asked.
He nodded too fast. "Yeah. Totally. I mean—no. I mean—thanks."
Smooth, his brain said helpfully. Very smooth.
Her smile was small. Warm. Real.
---
Lunch. They sat together.
She glanced at his diary on the table, notebook pages filled with sketches of imaginary worlds, formulas, and little notes scribbled in chaos.
"That's… impressive," she said. "You think of all this yourself?"
Evan swallowed. "Uh… yeah. I mean, mostly. Sometimes it's just… stuff that pops into my head."
She laughed, not in a mocking way, but genuinely. "You have a weird brain. I like it."
Chest lighter. Warmer.
He actually laughed. The sound startled him. Was this allowed?
"Maybe the dream thing…" he thought. "…wasn't just a nightmare. Maybe it was practice."
---
After school, walking with Lyra to the street where they split:
"See you tomorrow," she said.
"Yeah," Evan replied, smiling like a fool. "Tomorrow."
She left. He froze.
"…My notebook."
My diary. The one place my brain behaves… sometimes.
He dashed back inside the school, heartbeat loud. Everything felt different. Quiet. Too quiet.
Lights flickered.
Old wiring, he muttered. Definitely not a sign of doom.
Flicker again.
And then—people nearby vanished. Just… poof. Thin air. No scream. No stumble. Gone.
Evan froze. Heart thudding.
Nope.
Darkness enveloped him.
"Okay," he whispered. "Horror movie officially starts now."
Silence pressed in.
Then—whistling. Soft. Wrong. Circling.
Spine cold.
Absolutely not.
Then, like a knife, sharp pain stabbed across his back.
The world lurched. Lungs emptied. Legs gave way.
He fell.
And in that instant, one thought blazed through his mind:
"This was no longer a dream—it was the beginning of everything."