All Chapters of The Third Room [MxM]: Chapter 1 - Chapter 5

Noah stepped off the train like a man being returned to a crime scene.The platform was half-swallowed by fog, the kind that made the city feel half-formed. Stone buildings jutted like ribs from the hillside above the tracks, and bells from the nearby cathedral rang a minute too late, like the town couldn't quite commit to time. His suitcase bumped behind him as he walked, wheels useless against the slick cobbles.The city hadn't changed — of course it hadn't — but it wore itself differently in the winter. Less color. Less sound. Just the whisper of wind between shuttered cafés and the odd dog barking from a balcony above. Noah passed a woman smoking under an archway, her coat fur-lined and expensive. She didn't look at him.That was the first mercy of returning: no one here knew what had happened. Not yet.His building stood on a narrow street behind a university bookstore, part of a row of ancient, leaning apartments that looked like they'd survived a siege or two. Three floors, sto

The classroom was too warm.Not comfortable — stifling. The radiators were old, temperamental things that hissed like animals in pain, and today they were overcompensating for the cold snap outside. The windows had fogged in uneven patches, and Noah kept his eyes on the one nearest him, watching a drop of condensation slide down the glass like it was trying to escape.Professor Marek was mid-lecture, reading from a battered edition of The Waves with that same dry theatricality that made every line sound like a prophecy. Noah wasn't sure if the heat or the lack of sleep was giving him a headache, but something was pulsing low behind his eye, steady and irritating."'Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy,'" Marek read, then glanced up. "Discuss."There was a shuffling of papers, the squeak of a chair adjusting. Somewhere behind him, a girl cleared her throat and launched into a soft-spoken interpretation about Woolf's metaphor of duality — the usual pe

Morning didn’t feel like morning.It felt like light forcing itself through a wound.Noah blinked awake slowly, one hand still curled in the sheets like he’d been gripping something all night. The room was cold. His body ached in strange places — not muscles, not bones. Just… him.For a moment he didn’t move.Just lay there, trying to remember if he’d dreamed.He couldn’t.But he felt the residue.Like something had pressed against his spine while he slept.He sat up too fast.The room tilted.His vision narrowed — then snapped back.He blinked until the walls stopped breathing.Then stood.Routine.That was the plan.He peeled off yesterday’s clothes and stepped into the shower. Let it run too hot. Let the steam scrape his skin. Closed his eyes until the water sounded like static.Got dressed in layers.Grey shirt. Black sweater. Denim over that.Protection.He made coffee.Didn’t drink it.Tied his boots.Untied them again just to feel his hands doing something.By the time he left