The door swung open.
Noah jolted awake, his body snapping upright before his mind could catch up. He was in his bed. His real bed, with its scratchy wool blanket and the faint smell of firewood from the kitchen below. Dawn's gray light filtered through the single window, painting his small room in washed-out tones.
His eyes shot to the door. It was closed. Locked. The same as he'd left it.
A dream within a dream.
He threw off the covers and scrambled to the foot of the bed, hands patting the rough sheets frantically. They were dry. Clean. No blood, no sweat, no trace of the nightmare that had felt so real he could still taste iron in the back of his throat.
But his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He didn't sleep again. Couldn't. Every time his eyelids drooped, he saw that smile—that devilish, knowing slice of expression peeling back from the darkness. He spent the hours until sunrise sitting with his back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, jumping at every creak of the old house settling.
By the time he trudged downstairs, the hollows under his eyes had deepened into purple-black bruises.
His mother, Sophia, stood at the stove, stirring porridge. She turned, and the wooden spoon slipped from her fingers.
"Noah." She crossed the room in three strides, cupping his face. Her thumbs brushed beneath his eyes, gentle but insistent. "What happened? Did you sleep at all?"
He opened his mouth. The truth—I watched a man crush skulls with his mind, and now he's hunting me in my dreams—sounded insane even in his own head. "Bad dreams," he mumbled. "Just… bad dreams."
Sophia's frown deepened. The lines around her mouth, usually soft, pulled tight with worry. "You're not going to school today. I'll write a note—"
"No." The word came out sharper than he intended. Softer, he added, "I need to go. There's a test. I… I can't miss it."
It was a lie. There was no test. But the thought of staying in this house, with its creaking walls and shadowed corners, felt like volunteering for a cage match with his nightmares.
Sophia studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes searching his face as if she could read the truth etched there. Finally, she sighed, a sound of surrender. "At least eat something. You look like death."
He forced down a bowl of porridge, tasteless as ash. She watched him the entire time, her own breakfast forgotten on the table. When he stood to clear his bowl, she caught his wrist.
"Whatever it is," she said quietly, "you can tell me. No matter how—"
"I know." He pulled away gently. "I'm fine, Mom. Really."
He wasn't fine. He was falling apart.
Upstairs, he dressed mechanically. His school uniform felt like a costume from someone else's life. He could hear his mother pacing below, her footsteps a worried rhythm that matched his own racing heart.
When he finally descended, bag slung over his shoulder, she was waiting at the door. She drew him into a hug that smelled of lavender and flour, holding him a second too long.
"Be careful," she whispered against his hair.
"I always am."
He stepped out into the morning light, crisp and ordinary, and didn't look back. If he had, he might have seen the shadow that flickered across the kitchen window—tall, distorted, with eyes that glowed like trapped amethysts.
Sophia saw it.
Just for a blink, a silhouette where none should be, standing beside the stove. She spun, heart in her throat. Nothing. Empty space.
The air, however, carried the faintest scent of blood and something burning.
She told herself it was her imagination.
She was wrong.
-----
What do you think will happened next ?