The pull of the human world was immediate and disorienting. One moment, Jamie had been hovering effortlessly above the polished stone of the Mirror World, golden-green moonlight bathing his borrowed Nyx-form; the next, he landed with a quiet thud on solid wooden flooring. The sensation was almost painful in its unfamiliarity—the weight of the floor beneath his bare feet felt alive, pressing into his body in a way no magical stone ever had. His eyes, still those piercing blues of Nyx, scanned the room. The walls were plain, unadorned, worn with age, faint stains marring the plaster, scratches cutting through the years of forgotten life. There were no glowing runes, no veins of green fire; only the quiet, humble simplicity of a house built for humans.
Jamie—or rather, Nyx's body—moved slowly, deliberately, opening drawers and unfolding human clothes. The fabrics were dull, coarse, mundane, but each piece carried an unmistakable trace of Nyx: the faint scent of iron, of pine, of the boy who had walked in these rooms before. As he dressed, buttoning the shirt slowly, studying the mirror again and again, Jamie couldn't suppress a small smirk. This was the cage Nyx loved, the fragile human world he had fought to protect. And yet, in the body he had taken, it already felt different. He could sense the subtle rhythms of life here—the heartbeat of walls, the almost inaudible shifts in air as sunlight seeped through curtains.
Faint voices floated up from below, hushed, careful, the cadence of authority and concern. Nyx's father and great-grandfather had returned, speaking softly of mundane town matters, unaware that this house held not just humans but a predator disguised among them. Jamie allowed himself a small smile. "So this is the human world," he murmured, tilting his head. "Let's see why Nyx was so protective of it."
Outside, the world was muted in comparison to the harsh brilliance of the Mirror World. The sky stretched pale and gray, cloaked in mist, rooftops bleeding into the haze. Children ran along the paths in uniforms, laughter sharp and brittle in the air. Jamie's senses, honed for centuries in lands of shadow and blood, recorded everything—the scuff of shoes against stone, the rustle of newspapers fluttering in the wind, the quickened heartbeat of a stray dog at a gate. Every sight, every sound, was cataloged, stored, measured, yet he moved with calculated ease, careful not to appear out of place, though his posture was subtly different, softer than Nyx would have carried it.
The schoolyard greeted him with whispers. Jamie's gaze caught Joey first, whose eyes sharpened at the sight of Nyx—or the boy pretending to be Nyx. Ralph… Ralph is mad. His father is dead. The words echoed like some dark prayer, repeating in an endless loop. Jamie's lips curved into a casual, detached smile. Leaning toward Joey, he asked, voice low, "What happened to Ralph?" Joey's frown deepened, suspicion flaring. "You don't know? He's gone mad since his father died. He doesn't act like himself anymore."
Jamie nodded slowly, eyes calculating. "Oh. I see. Let's go to class." His tone was flat, careful not to give away the fact that he knew far more than he let on. But Joey wasn't finished.
"You're not going to ask about Stacy?" His voice was insistent, eyes searching Jamie's for any crack in the mask. Jamie froze for a heartbeat before memory caught up—Stacy, the girl Nyx had cared for, fragile and human in ways he himself had never been. "Oh yes… Stacy," he said, slow, deliberate. "I know about her. She hasn't eaten flesh for days, has she?"
Joey blinked, disbelief twisting his face. "Flesh? What are you talking about? She's human, Nyx. Human!"
The voice of Bob, another friend, caught on the exchange. "If you've really talked to Stacy," he pressed, "then why don't you know what happened to Ralph?"
Jamie's lips parted, but no answer came. He had studied scrolls, mastered every nuance of the Mirror World, yet here, the simplest human lies were treacherous, fragile as glass. He exhaled, flicked his eyes skyward, whispered a tiny incantation under his breath, and the bell rang sharply, cutting the conversation short. "Oh look, class is starting," he said lightly, stepping ahead with a fluidity that made curiosity and suspicion alike hesitate.
Inside, tension thickened like smoke curling through the classroom. Miss Anora entered, black gown brushing the floor, her gaze sharp and unyielding. A hush fell immediately; even the boldest whisperers fell silent. She raised her hand, solemn as a judge. "Before we begin, let us stand in silence for the late father of Ralph and Stacy. A man of great honor, whose death we mourn."
The room shifted in unison. Jamie bowed his head, mind not on mourning, but on observation. Faces twisted in grief, hands trembling, eyes vacant. The hollow ache he felt wasn't hunger—it was something far deeper. Is this grief? he wondered, fascinated. It was foreign, yet he cataloged it, measured it, analyzed it.
Miss Anora moved among the desks as the lesson began, human knowledge spilling forth—numbers, theory, the rigid cadence of logic. Jamie's abilities adapted, but the human constraints were unfamiliar. When new problems appeared on the board, his instincts betrayed him; he could not compute what he had not learned. He leaned toward Joey's desk, brushed over the page, and with a flick of his subtle power, answers slid effortlessly onto his own sheet while Joey's turned blank. Laughter erupted. Joey protested, face red, indignation sharp. "I wrote it! It was here!" Miss Anora's glare cut the air. "Stop making excuses, Joey. Detention!" Joey sank, humiliated, and Jamie remained still, predator and student merged in careful calm.
Joey's eyes, however, never left him. Behind forced laughter, suspicion brewed. "It's him. Something's wrong with Nyx," Joey hissed to Bob. "My copy didn't just vanish. He did something." Bob shrugged, dismissive at first. "You're sore about getting punished. Don't blame Nyx." Joey's fists clenched. "Think! This morning… he said Stacy hasn't eaten flesh. He didn't even know Ralph went mad. Nyx always knows. Something's off."
Jamie's breath remained controlled, but tension pulsed beneath his skin. One misstep and the fragile illusion would crumble. Stay calm. Let them watch, let them doubt. Not yet.
After class, Jamie sought Stacy. The house was colder than the streets, shadows stretching along the walls, heavy with grief. She lay slumped on the sofa, pale, empty-eyed, her form fragile as porcelain. He watched for a long moment, studying her with curiosity and… something he hadn't anticipated: empathy. Sorrow was different here, heavier, slower, pressing into the chest like a living thing.
Moving closer, he lowered his voice. "I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me."
Her eyes, hollow and distant, flickered. Slowly, she reached for him, gripping his hands as if for life, leading him to Ralph's room. Her brother was worse: wild-eyed, hair in disarray, movements jerky and unnatural. Ralph lunged at Jamie, teeth bared in a blind, animalistic frenzy. Jamie recoiled just enough, then whispered into his mind, bending the boy into immediate sleep. Stacy gasped, staring in disbelief at her suddenly calm brother. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and Jamie placed a hand on her shoulder. "You'll be okay," he murmured. And somewhere, in the fragile human air, he meant it. Compassion—foreign, unexpected—stirred within him.
Night fell with suspicion and tenderness entwined. Joey and Bob lingered, watching, whispering, tension coiling like a serpent. Stacy, meanwhile, found solace in his presence, warmth returning to her grief-worn face. Jamie, seeing her fragile smile, felt an unfamiliar flicker in his chest, a strange curiosity about this world he had entered. Snow began to fall, soft and silent, blanketing the streets in pure white. The flakes brushed his skin lightly, alien and delicate. Joey and Bob called, laughing; he hesitated, then joined them. He let the snow melt on his cheeks, laughed with an odd, human cadence.
Yet in the shadowed corners of observation, suspicion tightened its grip.