Chapter 7: The Slippery Escape

The red eye stared at him unblinking, filled with an ancient intelligence and intent that made Siron's soul tremble. He shrieked in terror and stumbled backward from the door, his back hitting the opposite wall. His breath came in gasps, unable to fill his frightened lungs.

"Go away!" he screamed, his voice fractured and desperate.

A pitch-black shadow suddenly seeped from beneath the door, like a thick fog rapidly filling the corridor floor, blocking the path back to the living room. The smell of damp earth and rusted iron became overwhelmingly strong, making him dizzy.

The only way out was the bedroom. He turned and ran, fear lending him strength.

But as he crossed the kitchen doorway, his foot landed on something wet and slick. A puddle. The water from the glass he had dropped earlier.

His feet flew out from under him. His body was thrown backward. The world spun.

His back and head hit the wooden floor with a heavy thump. Stars flashed in his vision. A dull, piercing pain spread from his skull, leaving him momentarily disoriented.

He lay helplessly on the floor, looking at the blurry ceiling. His ears were ringing. He tried to get up, but his body wouldn't respond. The turmoil in his mind mixed with a feeling of nausea.

Then, the shadow loomed.

The figure of darkness did not walk. It seemed to crystallize from the cold air above him, becoming more solid, more real. A human silhouette with horrific horns, with two red eyes that now burned with an intensity Siron couldn't look away from.

The figure bent over him. The cold it emanated was bone-chilling. Siron shivered violently, trying to crawl backward, but his arms were too weak.

The shadow's face drew closer. There were no facial details, just darkness resonating with a venomous mix of hatred and curiosity. Siron could feel its breath, or the lack thereof, which was colder than death.

A "hand" made of shadow and freezing air lifted. Not to attack. But to touch.

The long, pointed fingers slowly reached for Siron’s face. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for pain.

The touch came. Cold. Extremely cold. But... gentle. The shadowy fingers lightly swept his tear-streaked cheek, as if wiping it clean. A gesture that was almost... intimate. Wrong. So wrong.

Then, the whisper returned, this time sounding closer, more personal, as if speaking directly into his soul.

"Fallen..." the voice hissed, like dry leaves rustling. "Little Sian... weak."

Siron opened his eyes, locked in the gaze of those two red embers. His fear still blazed, but something else began to surface, a feeling of shame. And, more strangely, a weird sense of satisfaction at being noticed.

The shadowy finger moved from his cheek to his neck, then to his chest, where Siron's heart hammered like a drum. The touch was light, almost a form of acknowledgment.

"His blood... beats... for me."

Siron bit his lip. This was insane. This was wrong. But he couldn't deny that the touch, though terrifying, was the only thing that made him feel seen, recognized in his isolation and terror.

Suddenly, loud, frantic knocking sounded from the front door. Hard. Urgent.

"Siron! Siron, open the door! It's me... Kit!"

His friend's voice was like a sudden burst of reality into his nightmare world.

The red eyes above him narrowed, emitting a sudden surge of anger. The shadow figure glanced toward the door, and for a moment, Siron could feel the pure hatred radiating from it.

Then, the figure hissed, a sound full of menace, before its shadow broke into fragments and vanished into the air, leaving Siron alone on the cold kitchen floor.

The coldness disappeared. The smell faded.

"Siron! I heard screaming! Open the door or I'm calling the police!"

Siron took a deep breath, his body still trembling. He forced himself to stand, his head still spinning. He leaned on the wall for support, then staggered toward the door.

He unlocked it and pulled it open.

Kit stood there, his face pale and full of worry, his phone already in hand. His gaze swept Siron from head to toe, then looked into the messy apartment.

"My God, Ron. What happened?" Kit stepped inside and steadied the shaky Siron. "Are you okay? Is that blood?" His eyes spotted the puddle of water and broken glass in the kitchen.

"I... I fell," Siron mumbled, his voice hoarse. He couldn't meet Kit's eyes.

Kit helped Siron to the sofa. "Is that all? You said something touched you."

Siron looked down. How could he explain it? How could he describe a touch that was both horrifying and... seductive?

"It was... I might have been dreaming," he lied, his voice barely audible. "I got scared, then ran, and slipped."

Kit hissed, looking around the room. "This place... feels weird, Ron. Cold."

Siron sighed. He had to tell part of the truth. "Kit... did you... did you see anything? Outside just now?"

Kit shook his head, his eyes still wary. "No. Just the corridor light flickering. Why?"

Siron closed his eyes. Relieved and horrified at the same time. It meant Morat was only manifesting for him.

But as he sat there, with Kit guarding him beside him, he couldn't stop thinking about the cold touch on his cheek and the whisper that echoed in his head.

And in the dark corner of the living room, out of Kit’s line of sight, a pair of red eyes glowed for a fraction of a second before disappearing, leaving Siron with a terrifying question…

Was he more afraid of Morat leaving... or of his return?