Chapter 2: The Vanishing Broken Glass

With an unconscious reflex, Siron narrowed his body to the side, dodging the impact and the shattered glass that should have scattered. His breath hitched, his heart pounding hard enough to ache. But the sound he heard wasn't shattering glass; it was the quiet gurgle of the shower, which was still running.

He opened his eyes, which he had squeezed shut.

There was no broken glass.

No claw.

The shower glass was still intact, smooth, and misted with warm vapor. Only steam and silence filled the room. It was as if the event of a moment ago had been nothing more than an incredibly vivid hallucination.

"Oh, God..." Siron hissed, his hand trembling as he pressed against his still-thumping chest. "I'm... I'm severely stressed."

He forced himself to take the shower, the warm water washing over his cold body. Every hair on his skin was still standing on end. He kept glancing at the glass, half-hoping and half-fearing something would appear again. But no. Everything was normal. Too normal.

When he finished and wiped the misted glass, his chest tightened. There was no "SIAN" writing or any scratches. Just clear glass reflecting his own pale, tired face.

"Delusions," he whispered to his own reflection in the mirror. "This is because of the pressure from my parents and college. It must be."

He hurried out of the bathroom, feeling better. His mind had found a logical explanation. It was just his imagination running wild due to the conversation with his parents and exhaustion.

The next day, Siron tried to forget the events of the previous night. He focused on college preparations until the phone from his mother rang again.

"Ron, your father and I have spoken. You must come to the temple this week. No exceptions," his mother's voice was firm, leaving no room for compromise.

"Mom, I'm fine. Nothing happened," Siron argued, trying to sound convincing while his eyes subconsciously glanced toward the bathroom door.

"I had a terrible nightmare last night, Ron. A dream about Morat. It's a sign! He's close!" his mother's voice was shaking, almost hysterical.

"It was just a dream, Mom! Not reality. I'm here alone, and nothing is happening," Siron snapped, slightly annoyed. He was reminded again of his embarrassing hallucination from last night.

"I don't want to lose you like" His mother began to sob.

"Siron, listen to your father." His father's voice took over the phone, heavy and full of authority. "This is not a request. It is an obligation. You are the last heir. If you don't come willingly, your father will come and take you by force."

Siron felt trapped. Anger and frustration heated up in his chest. They didn't understand. They lived in fear of an old fairy tale.

"Dad, I'm not a child anymore! I won't"

He didn't manage to finish his sentence.

From behind the closed bathroom door, a soft, rhythmic knocking sounded.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Like someone casually knocking on a door.

Siron froze. The phone was still pressed to his ear. "Siron? What is it?" his father asked on the other end.

He turned around, staring at the ordinary-looking bathroom door. The knocking stopped.

"N-nothing," Siron mumbled, his voice hoarse. "I'll... I'll call you back later."

He hung up hastily, his eyes still fixed on the door. His heart was pounding fiercely. What was that sound? Water pipes? It must be the water pipes.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He couldn't let irrational fear take hold of him. He had to prove to himself that there was nothing there.

With cautious steps, he approached the bathroom door. His hands were sweating. He reached out, his fingertips nearly touching the cold doorknob.

Quickly, he twisted the handle and pushed the door open.

The room was empty. Wet. Steamy. Everything was normal.

Siron let out the sigh of relief he had been holding. He really was just stressed. He looked at the smooth shower glass, trying to laugh at his own fear.

But then, his eyes caught something that made his blood run cold.

On the surface of the slightly misted glass, exactly at his eye level, two distinct handprints were clearly visible.

Not human handprints.

They were larger, with long, pointed traces at the fingertips, like claws.

And before his brain could react, over his shoulder, in the washbasin mirror hanging on the wall, a faint black shadow quickly darted across, its reflection clearly caught.

Siron whirled around, but there was nothing.

He looked back at the washbasin mirror, his face white as a sheet. His breath came in gasps.

He could no longer deny it. This was not a delusion.

He slowly approached the washbasin mirror, his fingers trembling as they touched the cold glass surface. He stared at his own fear-filled eyes in the reflection.

And then, a cold whisper, as if coming from inside his own head, was heard clearly, chilling him to the bone:

"Little... Sian..."