The man emerged from the shadows, and Damon's blood turned to ice. His heels clicked against the floor—tap, tap, tap—each step sending tremors through Damon's bones. Frozen in place, Damon could only watch as the figure circled him: sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, torn flannel fluttering in a wind that shouldn't exist inside the school.
"I know what you saw too," the man purred. "You're not crazy. At least, not yet."
It was him. The same man from Damon's nightmares—the one in the rocking chair. But now he was here, solid and real, his breath smelling faintly of old pennies.
"Oh, come on," the man teased, tilting his head. "Talk to me. You can't be that afraid."
Damon's instincts screamed RUN. He lunged for the classroom door—
The man flicked a finger. The door slammed shut.
Damon grabbed the knob, yanking with all his strength. "Fucking let me out! Please—"
A shadow streaked across the floor. Suddenly, the man stood before him, blocking the exit. Damon stumbled back, hitting the ground hard.
"Alright, alright!" Damon panted, scrambling backward. "Just—wait. Why are you doing this? I'm nobody. Just some fuck-up teenager. There's nothing special about me!"
The man's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I didn't do this. You did." He crouched, voice dropping to a whisper. "Everything happening? Your decisions. Your choices. Your verdict. I'm just… doing my due diligence."
Damon's throat tightened. "Then who the actual fuck are you?"
The man chuckled—a sound like gravel in a tin can—before his voice deepened, warping into something other. "You know exactly who I am. The question is… when will you admit it to yourself?"
Damon shook his head. "That's not possible."
The man stood, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve. "Believe what you want."
Damon pushed himself up from the floor, wincing as pain shot through his injured shoulder. "Okay, wait—what do you mean this is my fault?"
The man didn't turn around. His voice carried through the empty classroom like smoke. "Not exactly your fault. More like... all of you. But you were the first to fall." A pause. "The others will follow soon enough. Love and life come at a heavy price."
Damon's hands trembled as he raked them through his sweat-drenched hair. "What the hell did we do?"
The man tilted his head just enough for Damon to catch his profile—the sharp angle of a jaw, the cruel curve of a smile. "You'll know soon enough." He continued walking toward the door, his polished shoes clicking against the linoleum.
"Wait!" Damon lurched forward, his voice cracking. "Please—just explain!"
But the man was already dissolving, his form unraveling into the shadows near the doorframe. One final whisper curled through the air: "Tick-tock, Damon."
Then silence.
Damon's legs gave out. He collapsed onto the cold floor, his back against a desk. The pain in his shoulder flared—a sharp reminder of the night's horrors. And then it hit him: Isabella. He'd completely forgotten about her in the chaos.
"Fuck," he breathed, pressing his palms against his eyes. Not now. Not like this.
Damon hauled himself up, his body protesting with every movement. Isabella. He had to find her—had to explain, or apologize, or... something. But when he stumbled back to the field, it was deserted. Just a janitor pushing a broom through popcorn bags and soda bottles, the metallic clang of trash cans echoing in the empty stadium.
His phone screen glared in the dark: 12:30 AM. The game had ended hours ago. Caleb and Patrick were probably already home, maybe even wondering if he really did leave the game. Not that it mattered now.
His bike was still in the shop. The bus, then.
Every step sent fire up his twisted ankle, but the pain barely registered anymore. He was numb—mind blank, hope drained, moving on autopilot. The fluorescent light at the bus stop flickered like a dying heartbeat, casting jagged shadows across his battered hands.
The bus arrived with a wheezing sigh. Damon slumped into a seat, staring at his reflection in the dark window—pale, bruised, hollow-eyed. The ride passed in a blur of streetlights and silence.
His apartment door creaked open. He didn't bother with lights, or food, or even peeling off his bloodstained clothes. Just collapsed onto the mattress, and let the blackness swallow him whole.
The afterparty at Patrick's house was supposed to be low-key. Just the team. Maybe some pizza.
Instead, it looked like a frat house had exploded.
Patrick's "mini-mansion"—all glass walls and spotless marble—was now littered with red Solo cups and the kind of chaos only drunk high schoolers could create. The pool was a beer-soaked warzone. Someone had turned the living room into a mosh pit. And the music... Christ, the music. It had just appeared, blasting through hidden speakers like the house itself had decided to throw the party.
Patrick wove through the crowd, shoving guys off his mom's white leather couch. "Get your fucking shoes off the—no, don't open that—"
Caleb. This was his fault.
Patrick found him at the beer pong table, laughing like this was all some big joke. He grabbed his boyfriend's arm and yanked him into the nearest bedroom.
"What the hell, Caleb? This was supposed to be a get-together!"
Caleb blinked, swaying slightly. "Chill, it's a party. You won! Everyone saw—"
"I didn't invite everyone!" Patrick hissed. "My mom's gonna kill me—"
"Oh please," Caleb snorted. "Like she even cares anymore. Or like she's coming back."
Silence.
Caleb's grin faltered. "Shit. Patrick, I didn't—"
"Get out."
"You're seriously kicking me out? At midnight?"
"Honestly? Yes."
Caleb stormed into the cold, jacket barely zipped. The street was quiet. Too quiet. His breath fogged in the air, each exhale sharper than the last.
Then—snow.
A single flake landed on his nose. Then another. Within seconds, the world blurred into a whiteout, weird because they were in the middle of March. Caleb squinted, tucking his hands deep into his pockets.
That's when he saw it.
A figure. Frozen. Statue-still.
Then—movement.
Ice cracked like gunshots as the thing unfolded, limbs jerking like a marionette learning to dance. Its right hand clenched—and a battle axe sprang from its grip, jagged and glowing.
Caleb's lungs burned. The cold wasn't just cold anymore. It was alive.
Then the thing opened its eyes.
Glowing radiant blue.
And screamed.