Ever since that night—the night—I haven’t had peace in my dreams. Not even the soft illusion of it. It’s like the moment I close my eyes, he's already there. Watching. Waiting. Smiling with something inhuman curled behind his teeth.

Every time I sleep, it’s him.

I never see him arrive. I never remember falling into the dream. I’m just… there—inside some place that feels like my apartment, but not. The walls pulse like they’re breathing. The air is thick like fog and honey. And he's always in the corner, lounging like sin in a suit, his eyes black but glinting red when the light catches them just wrong.

He touches me. In ways that make my skin try to crawl off my bones.

Soft at first. Fingers like velvet dragging down my spine. Then rougher—hands locked around my wrists, my throat, my thighs. Kisses that burn and steal. Sometimes he pins me against nothing, and it still holds. Sometimes he watches while I twist and beg, his mouth wet with laughter, his voice thick with the promise of something worse.

I wake up soaked. Sweating through my sheets, trembling like I’ve just come out of a fever. Tears on my cheeks, thighs clenched, breath caught halfway between a scream and a moan. It’s disgusting. I feel… used. Violated. Aroused. All of it at once. Every time. Every night.

Dennis noticed.

Of course he did. He’s always nosing in, always asking questions with those soft eyes like he actually gives a damn. "You look tired," he said yesterday, handing me my coffee with two sugars, no milk, just like always. "Did you sleep?"

"No," I lied. I don’t even bother trying anymore. There’s no sleeping—not really.

And it’s getting worse. Last night… he said my name.

The devil. In the dream. He moaned it. Lena. Like he owned it. Like it tasted good in his mouth.

And I don’t know if I dreamed this part or not—but when I went to the bathroom this morning, there were bruises on my hips. Fingertip-shaped bruises.

They weren’t there before.Jesus!—I cried out, like His name could drown out the other thing whispering in my ribs.

But this began long before the dreams. Before Dennis. Before I even knew what real fear felt like slicking my skin from the inside out.

It started on Red’s Day.

That damned holiday—roses and promises and every couple clinging to each other like they weren’t just waiting to shatter. That was the day I got dumped. By a boy who said I was “too much.” Said I “made him feel things he couldn’t handle.” What the hell does that even mean?

So I walked.

I didn’t even realize I left the apartment barefoot, keys still dangling in the door, my phone thrown onto the kitchen tiles. The rain fell like needles. Not romantic, not gentle—angry, like it hated me too. And I didn’t care. Let it soak me. Let it drown me. My mascara bled like my heart, thick black streaks down both cheeks, my breath puffing fog like a dying engine. I was shivering. Trembling. Lost in the city like it had chewed me up and was deciding whether to spit me out or just finish the job.

And then I saw it.

The mansion.

It wasn’t just old. It was ancient. Gothic, crooked, windows like dark eyes staring down. It looked like the kind of place kids dare each other to knock on, the kind of place that makes even crows stay away. Iron spikes along the gate. The air around it didn’t feel like the rest of the storm—it was still. Dry. Waiting.

I should’ve kept walking. But I didn’t. My feet betrayed me, drawn like they knew something I didn’t.

I just wanted to get out of the rain.

I stood under the overhang, dripping like a drowned thing. My heart was hiccuping inside my chest. And then… the door creaked. Wide. On its own. No footsteps. No motion. Just a slow, wet groan of old wood splitting space.

I should’ve run.

But instead—I stepped inside.

The air was warm. Too warm. Like walking into a breath that had been held too long. The scent—oh God—the scent. Something between roses and rot. Like a funeral bouquet left too long on the altar.

I blinked water from my lashes. The hall stretched on forever—red carpet, polished obsidian floor, torches instead of bulbs flickering along the walls. Paintings lined either side. People in twisted expressions—ecstasy, agony—it was hard to tell which. I remember one: a woman with her mouth open in a scream, but her eyes rolled back like she was coming. My stomach clenched.

Then I heard it.

The voice.

Low. Velvet. A chuckle, like thunder that was trying to flirt.

“You poor little thing… all wet and shaking. You must be freezing.”

I turned. But there was no one behind me. No one anywhere. Just that voice echoing, curling around the columns like smoke, sliding down my spine.

“Come warm yourself.”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

“Don’t be afraid, Lena. You came to me.”

That’s when I realized something was wrong.

I never told him my name.

I’d never even said it aloud.

And yet, he knew.

The devil knew.

“Who are you?” I gasped, voice shaking, sounding smaller than I wanted it to. It echoed, embarrassingly, off the high vaulted ceilings.

Silence.

Then the soft crackle of the torches flaring a little brighter—as if the whole mansion had inhaled, holding its breath.

I turned, searching for him, for anything—but my eyes landed on a painting I swear hadn’t been there a second ago.

It hung by itself at the end of the hall, tall and regal in a twisted black frame, its surface glossy like oil still wet. And the figure within…

Oh God.

He wasn’t just beautiful. He was obscene.

A man, if you could call him that. Towering. Lean but cut, muscles shaped like they were carved in wicked indulgence. His suit was sharp, black with deep blood-red accents, open just enough to expose a chiseled chest that practically glowed against the darkness. But it was his face—his fucking face—that made my knees loosen.

He had the smirk of a man who knew exactly what your fantasies were and could twist them until you cried his name. Lips plush, cruel. Jawline like art. His hair tousled just enough to look accidental. And those eyes—burning embers, red with gold veins, staring straight into mine through the canvas.

I didn’t think.

I just walked forward. Hypnotized. My hand lifted on its own, fingers trembling as they traced the angle of his jaw, then lower, to his mouth.

I swear it twitched. Just a little. Like he felt it.

And then—slice.

"Ah!" I screeched, jerking back in pain.

Something had cut me. My finger bled, bright red against the black frame. It wasn’t a splinter. No—the canvas bit me. Like a lip catching flesh in a kiss that got too hungry. The wound was clean, deep. One perfect line of blood dripping down my knuckle, hitting the floor with a soft—

plip.

Then the painting began to change.

His smile widened. The canvas rippled—I swear it moved, like water being disturbed. His eyes glinted brighter. Hungrier. The mouth opened, just slightly, tongue running over his bottom lip like he was savoring something.

“Mmm… you taste like loss.”

The voice again. Not from around me—but from the painting.

I stumbled back. My heart pounded so loud it sounded like someone else was banging on the walls. The cut on my finger throbbed, like it pulsed in time with his voice.

“Don’t be afraid, Lena.”

“You’ve already given me your blood.”

“You’re halfway mine.”

I should’ve run.

But I didn’t.

Because part of me wanted to know what it meant to be his.

All the way.And that’s when I felt it.

A touch—light, deliberate, cold.

Fingers brushing my shoulder, but not like comfort. Like claiming.

I turned around so fast I nearly fell, my breath slicing out of me in a gasp—

—and there he was.

The man from the painting.

Except now he was real.

And God, he looked exactly the same.

Same suit, tailored like sin. Same eyes, glowing like there were infernos behind them, barely leashed. His hair tousled like he’d just risen from between someone's thighs. That smirk—it hadn’t softened. If anything, it was sharper now, carved with anticipation. More wicked. Alive.

The air around him bent. Thickened. It tasted like burning sugar and forbidden things.

He said something—I don’t know what. The words didn’t land right in my ears. Like they were spoken underwater or in a language older than the world, syllables bending around reality itself. It wasn’t English. It wasn’t human. But my body understood.

It reacted.

My knees buckled. My spine arched involuntarily. My mouth went dry.

Then he moved—so fast, so smooth, like a shadow skipping frames—and I jolted, suddenly flat on the floor, my back cold against the marble. He was above me. One knee between my legs. His hand at my throat, just barely pressing. Holding. Possessing.

“Shhh,” he murmured, low and velvety. “Let me in.”

And then—

Sharp.

A sudden sting—no, bite—on the curve of my neck.

“Ah—!” I screamed, or tried to. It came out broken. Wet.

Pain flared, but it wasn’t just pain. It was heat, too. Like something inside me split open, and all the ache I’d buried—every heartbreak, every night crying alone, every repressed scream—rushed up and out like steam from a cracked pipe.

My hands gripped his shoulders—solid, godlike. My hips lifted against my will. My blood roared louder than my thoughts.

His lips stayed on my neck, suckling the wound like it gave him life. His tongue—hot—traced the edge of it. I felt my pulse weaken, slow, surrender. His voice came again, whispered straight into the vein:

“I’ve waited a long time for you, Lena…”

“Now you’ll never dream alone again.”

And I blacked out.

But not before I came.

Lena! The voice cracked the air like a whip, yanking me from the velvet dark of memory.

I flinched—hard—gasped, hands scrabbling on the sink’s edge. My face was pale, wet with sweat, eyes wide as I stared at the girl in the mirror.

Me.

Skin flushed and gleaming. Neck bruised, smeared with faint red marks like a mouth had lingered there. My lips—swollen. Hair damp, stuck to my temples. I looked… used. Possessed.

Dennis was at the door. I could hear his footsteps now, urgent, worried.

"Lena? You in there? I’ve been knocking—are you okay? Why was the door unlocked?"

He jiggled the handle. "I'm coming in, alright?"

The lock clicked.

Dennis stepped in.

His eyes landed on me—and immediately went wide, flicking to my neck, to the way my shirt hung off one shoulder, to the blood under my fingernails. His mouth parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start.

“Jesus, Lena… what the hell happened to you?”

"I I..." I tried to utter something out, but I couldn't for I was too feeble and I knew this wasn't normal.Dennis froze, hands raised instinctively—like approaching a wild animal or someone on the edge of something dangerous.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” he said gently, eyes flicking to my bruises again. His voice dropped lower, soft but laced with panic. “Lena… what happened to you? Who did this?”

He took a cautious step forward, swallowing hard.

“Is someone here? Are you hurt?”

Tears obsequy filmed my eyes while I wobbly said I was fine, in a way that was ironic. His face cracked—open pain blooming in his features as he watched me crumble beneath those shaky words.

“No… no, you’re not fine,” he said, stepping closer but not touching me, not yet. His voice wavered. “Lena, you’re crying. You look like someone… hurt you. Who was it?”

Then lower, sharp—afraid of the answer:

“Was it someone you know?”

"I, I don't.....know " I stammered out with a cry covering myself with the quilt with shaky hands after realizing I was half nude and supporting my weak stature by siting on the floor.Dennis knelt beside the bed, one hand bracing against the floor like he couldn’t trust his legs. His breath caught—he hated seeing me like this. Raw. Bare. Trembling under the weight of something I couldn’t even name.

“Okay… okay, that’s alright,” he murmured, trying to steady his voice, but it cracked anyway. “You don’t have to explain it all right now. Just—just tell me anything.”

He looked at me, really looked—my red eyes, my quivering lip, the marks blooming across my skin like a secret someone had written with teeth and fire.

“Was it a dream?” he asked slowly. “Lena… is this all coming from your dreams again?”

I nodded my head obediently as he sank down fully onto the floor, his back against the edge of the bed, hands braced over his face like he was trying not to scream.

“Fuck,” he muttered into his palms.

A moment passed. Quiet. Just my breaths, heavy, uneven, mine and his. Then—

Softly, hesitantly:

“Lena… has he touched you?” His voice was barely above a whisper now, as if saying it too loud might make it worse. “Like—actually touched you? Not just in the dream… but here. In real life.”