The next morning began with silence.
No alarm. No voices. No birds chirping by the window.
Only the faint hum of electricity in the walls and the cold touch of reality tightening its grip around his chest.
He sat up in bed slowly, drenched in sweat. The sheets twisted around his legs like vines, damp and clinging. His breathing was shallow. There was a buzzing under his skin, like a swarm of bees waiting to erupt.
It's still in me.
The mirror across the room caught his reflection, and for a brief second—just one—he swore he saw something behind his eyes. A shimmer. A twitch. A smile that didn't belong to him.
He looked away quickly.
Downstairs, the house was quiet.
His mother stood by the kitchen sink, motionless, hands buried in soapy water though the tap wasn't running. She didn't look up as he entered. The television murmured low in the background—some morning show with bright music and forced smiles—but the sound barely touched the room.
He opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and took a seat at the table.
His little sister entered next, already dressed in her uniform, a nervous look on her face.
"Mom?" she said softly.
His mother blinked, snapping out of her trance. She turned, forced a smile. "Eat something before you leave."
"I'm not hungry," she mumbled.
Neither was he. But he opened the bottle and took a long drink, forcing himself to look normal.
Human.
Not the thing from his dreams.
Not the monster from the mirror.
At school, things hadn't changed. Not on the surface.
But he could feel it.
People glanced at him differently now. The teachers avoided locking eyes. His classmates whispered just out of earshot, some leaning away slightly when he walked past. Rumors had started again. They always did.
That something was off about him.
That he was dangerous.
He didn't bother denying it anymore.
Because deep down, he was starting to believe it too.
It happened during P.E.
They were playing basketball, the kind of free-form chaos the coach liked to call "character building." He was standing at the edge of the court, trying not to be noticed, when one of the boys from Class 3—Daiki, the loud one—shoved past him.
"Move, psycho," the boy muttered.
He felt the shove. Didn't react.
Another boy laughed. "Scared he'll bite you, Daiki?"
That one stung more than it should have.
He tightened his grip on the ball in his hands. The rubber squeaked faintly.
Ignore it. You're fine. They're just words.
But that itch—deep under his ribs—was back.
The same one that made his fingers curl and his jaw clench.
The hunger.
He stepped forward, meaning to pass the ball.
But Daiki snatched it from his hands with a smirk. "You gonna cry about it?"
It was instant.
His hand moved on its own, grabbing Daiki by the collar and slamming him into the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. A gasp rippled through the gym. Everyone froze.
For a moment, there was silence.
And in that silence, he realized something horrifying.
He hadn't been angry.
He had enjoyed it.
The sound of Daiki choking on the floor. The fear in his eyes.
It made the thing inside him smile.
He didn't wait for detention. Or the principal's office.
He ran.
Through the halls, past classrooms, out the side door, down streets that blurred into smears of color. His breath was ragged, lungs burning, but he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
The world was too bright, too loud, the voices in his head overlapping like static.
By the time he stopped, he didn't even know where he was.
A park, maybe. One of the older ones with rusting benches and cracked pavement. Empty. Silent.
He collapsed onto the grass and stared up at the sky.
Gray clouds. Motionless trees. A single crow circling overhead.
You're sick.
That wasn't a new thought.
But this time, he wasn't sure if he meant it as a condemnation… or a realization.
The old man appeared again.
No footsteps. No warning. Just there, leaning against a lamppost like he'd always belonged.
"You felt it again, didn't you?" he rasped.
He didn't answer.
"Feels good, doesn't it? The power. The release. Like scratching a wound you didn't know you had."
He sat up slowly, jaw tight. "I hurt someone."
"You've hurt a lot of people."
"I don't want to."
"That doesn't matter anymore."
The old man stepped closer, his cane tapping the sidewalk.
"Tell me," he said. "What do you see when you dream?"
He hesitated.
"A cathedral," he muttered. "Broken. And a mirror. My reflection talks."
The man's eyes gleamed. "That's not your reflection. That's your core."
"My… what?"
"Your soul's truth. Everything you've locked away. Every instinct you buried under guilt and shame. The glutton you're so afraid of? It's not separate from you. It is you. The real you."
"No," he whispered. "That's not me."
"It is," the old man said softly. "But that doesn't mean you have to give in."
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
"There's a balance. You can fight it. But first, you have to understand it. Accept that it's part of you. That it always was. Only then can you control it."
He stared down at his hands.
They weren't shaking anymore.
And that scared him.
That night, he returned home late.
No one said anything. Not his mother, who sat quietly on the couch watching a cooking show she clearly wasn't paying attention to. Not his sister, who passed him in the hallway with her eyes down.
They were scared.
He could feel it radiating off them like heat.
And yet…
He still loved them.
That was the worst part.
The part that hurt.
He went to bed without eating. Without speaking.
The dream came again.
Same cathedral. Same mirror.
But this time, the figure didn't greet him with a smile.
It looked… disappointed.
"Why are you running?" it asked.
"Because I'm not like you."
"You are me."
He shook his head.
"I won't kill again."
"Then you'll die."
The figure stepped out of the mirror again, and this time, it wore a different face—his face, but older. Sharper. Wiser. A crown of black horns curled around his head, and a crimson cloak dragged behind him.
"I'm the Demon King," it whispered.
"No," he said, stepping back.
"You will be."
He turned to run.
But the cathedral doors slammed shut.
And suddenly, the world shook.
The walls cracked. Fire erupted from the stained glass, and a voice boomed from all directions.
"YOU CANNOT ESCAPE YOUR NATURE."
He screamed.
When he woke up, he wasn't in his bed.
He was standing in the middle of his room, barefoot, fingers covered in blood. The mirror across the room was shattered, shards scattered across the floor like teeth.
He didn't remember breaking it.
Didn't remember moving.
Something laughed in the back of his head.
And this time, he didn't argue with it.