บททั้งหมดของ HE'S NOT REAL, BUT HE'S MINE: บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 5

The ceiling was pristine white, and unmarked by water stains, cracks or the fingerprints of time. Marcus stared at it, his breath shallow, pulse ticking at his throat like something trapped beneath skin. The air smelled wrong and sterile, with lavender and lemon polish masking something medicinal underneath. His tongue felt thick, his mouth dry as old paper.Where the hell was he?He tried to sit up. His body protested, muscles stiff and uncooperative, as if he'd been lying still for days. Weeks even. The room came into focus in fragments: pale gray walls, a sleek leather chair in the corner, floor-to-ceiling windows framing a view of redwoods and fog. It looked expensive, minimalist. The kind of place that whispered luxury while making you feel like an intruder in your own skin.A hotel? No. Hotels had souls, even the soulless ones. This place felt scrubbed clean of personality, like someone had taken an eraser to the air itself.Marcus swung his legs over the side of the bed. His fe

The lights came back on.Marcus stood frozen in the center of the room, pulse hammering against his throat. Silas remained exactly where he'd been, cross-legged on his bed, book open in his lap. His silver eyes tracked Marcus with the patience of someone who had all the time in the world. "What did you just call me?" Marcus's voice came out strangled."I didn't call you anything." Silas turned a page without looking down at it. "The power surged. This is an old building. It happens all the time.""You said Michael.""Did I?" Silas tilted his head, his expression infuriatingly neutral. "I don't recall."Marcus wanted to cross the room and shake him. He wanted to grab those slim shoulders and demand answers until Silas's calm exterior fractured and the truth spilled out. Instead, he dug his nails into his palms, feeling the sharp bite of pain ground him."You're lying.""Maybe." Silas closed the book, setting it aside with deliberate care. "Or maybe you heard what you needed to hear."

Marcus spent the rest of the afternoon in his room, staring at the photograph until the faces blurred into abstraction. Silas hadn't returned. The bed across from his remained perfectly made, untouched, as if no one had slept there in years. Maybe no one had. Maybe ghosts didn't disturb sheets or leave impressions in pillows. Or just maybe they just existed in the spaces between things, half-there and half-gone, waiting for someone to remember them back into solidity.His hands wouldn't stop shaking.By the time dusk bled through the windows, turning the fog outside into something bruised and purple, Marcus couldn't stand the silence anymore. He needed people. Real people. Living, breathing humans who existed in mirrors and had pulses and didn't speak in riddles about integration, authenticity and remembering who you really are.The common room on the second floor was larger than the dining hall, with overstuffed couches arranged around a stone fireplace and bookshelves lining the wal