Days passed.
He didn't return to school.
No calls came, no knocks at the door. It was like the world agreed to pretend he didn't exist.
He stayed mostly in his room, curtains drawn, light off. The only sound was the occasional creak of the house, the distant hum of traffic, and the soft clatter of his sister preparing for school in the morning.
His mother barely spoke.
She had started locking her bedroom door at night.
He didn't blame her.
Not after what she saw.
Not after what he did.
There was a new presence inside him now. Not just a whisper in the dark, but a constant pressure. Like something ancient stirring in his blood. Sometimes, he felt like he wasn't walking alone in his skin anymore—like there were two sets of footsteps echoing behind his every move.
And sometimes, he caught his own reflection doing things he hadn't done.
Grinning.
Staring.
Watching him.
It was a Saturday when they came.
Two men in black coats. Clean-shaven. Expressionless. They arrived in an unmarked car, parked across the street, then walked up the driveway like they owned the pavement. No hesitation. No hesitation at all.
He watched them through the slit in his curtains.
Government? Police? Therapists?
No. Something about them didn't feel human.
He didn't come down.
But they didn't ring the bell either. They just stood outside the door, waiting.
And after a long, tense pause…
They left.
Just like that.
No card. No message.
Just a silent warning.
That night, he dreamed again.
But this time, he wasn't alone.
The cathedral was darker than usual. Cold winds swept through broken arches. There were whispers, soft and urgent, crawling along the walls. And the mirror wasn't cracked anymore.
He stood before it.
His reflection smirked.
"Still pretending?" it asked.
He said nothing.
The reflection stepped forward, out of the mirror like it had every right to be there, boots clicking on marble. Its eyes were sharper now, glowing faintly red. There was something regal about the way it moved—like a lion pacing a cage far too small for it.
"You feel it, don't you? The walls thinning. The soul tearing."
He clenched his fists.
"I'm not you."
"You always say that. But you're waking up, little by little."
He turned away, but the reflection circled him, steps smooth as oil.
"You can't stop what's coming. You were never meant to stay here. This world… this boring, broken little plane? It was just the opening act. You're meant for more."
"I didn't ask for this!"
"No," it agreed, voice like honey and ash. "You wanted it."
Silence followed.
Then, suddenly, he was back in his room.
Awake.
Sweating.
Heart pounding.
There was a knock on the window.
It wasn't possible.
His room was on the second floor.
But when he pulled back the curtain, someone stood there, balanced effortlessly on the narrow ledge like gravity didn't apply.
A man in ragged black robes. Face hidden beneath a hood. And in his hand—
A staff, wrapped in what looked like black leather and bone.
Their eyes met.
He didn't move. Neither did the man.
And then, the intruder raised his other hand and tapped the glass lightly.
Once.
Twice.
The meaning was clear.
Come out.
He didn't know why he obeyed.
Maybe it was curiosity.
Maybe it was fear.
Or maybe, just maybe, the voice inside had already made the choice for him.
He slipped out the back door and climbed the old drainpipe, hands cold and slick with sweat. By the time he reached the ledge, the robed figure was already waiting atop the roof, staring out at the city lights.
"You're late," the man said.
His voice was rough. Like stones grinding together.
"Late for what?"
The figure turned, and for the first time, he saw his face.
It was old. Ageless. Eyes like black coals. A faint scar running from temple to jaw.
"You've been marked," the man said. "Your soul's been awakened. It can no longer sleep."
He narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
"I came to warn you. And to offer you something your kind rarely gets."
He laughed bitterly. "And what kind is that?"
The man tilted his head. "Cursed."
There was silence for a moment. The wind picked up, fluttering the man's cloak.
"You have a demon inside you," he said softly. "Not a metaphor. Not some psychological quirk. A real, ancient soul of gluttony. It was sealed once. But it's feeding again. Every violent thought. Every dark impulse. Every broken line of morality—it grows stronger."
His heart thudded.
"What… do you want from me?"
"I want nothing," the man said. "But the realms will. Eventually. Others will come. Some to kill you. Some to recruit you. And some… to awaken you fully."
His mouth felt dry. "Why tell me all this?"
"Because you still have time."
"To do what?"
"To choose."
The man stepped forward, and for a moment, something like energy flared from his staff—sharp, humming, ancient.
"You were never supposed to stay here. This world is too soft for what you are. But the gates are thinning. The other side is calling."
"You mean hell?" he asked, voice barely a whisper.
The man chuckled. "Hell is a human word. This place you'll go—was once ruled by you."
He stiffened. "That's a lie."
"Ask your reflection."
And with that, the man stepped back—
—and vanished.
He didn't sleep again that night.
Didn't even try.
Instead, he sat by the mirror, staring into it.
Waiting.
And sure enough… after an hour… the reflection blinked.
Then grinned.
"You're starting to remember."
Morning came with dread.
His mother's eyes were bloodshot. She didn't speak to him at all.
He heard her whispering in the hallway later.
"I don't think we can keep him here anymore."
It hurt more than he expected.
Even though he already knew it was coming.
Later that afternoon, he took a walk—no destination in mind. Just needed air. Space. Silence.
He ended up by the old train station, long shut down and crumbling. Rusted tracks disappeared into weeds. Graffiti stained every wall. But it was quiet. Peaceful, even.
He sat on a bench, closed his eyes…
And that's when he felt it.
A ripple.
Not wind. Not vibration.
A pull.
Somewhere deep under his feet.
Another world…
He stood.
The air changed. A subtle distortion, like heatwaves rising from concrete.
He walked toward it.
Toward the shimmer no one else could see.
And with each step, the thing inside him grew louder.
Hungry.
Excited.
Awake.