The room was shrouded in darkness, save for the faint glow of a single, dim lamp that cast a weak light over the cluttered floor. Posters of bands long forgotten by the world covered the walls, their colors faded from neglect. The air was heavy with the scent of stale cigarettes and something else—something darker, like despair, lingering in every corner.
Dorian Hale sat on the edge of his bed, staring at nothing in particular. His tan skin was the only warmth in the cold, shadowed room. At 5'9, with an average, buff build that spoke of someone who had once cared enough to try, Dorian was the picture of a boy who should have had it all together. But the muscles in his arms and the definition in his chest were nothing more than a remnant of a time when he thought physical strength could ward off the crushing weight of his own thoughts.
Now, that strength was nothing but a hollow shell, a facade that barely contained the storm raging inside him. His dark brown eyes, once full of life, now stared vacantly at the floor, their light extinguished. He ran a hand through his thick, unruly hair, which fell in messy waves around his face, the only thing about him that still seemed alive.
Another day had come and gone, another day of pretending to be someone he wasn't. Pretending to be straight, pretending to care, pretending to be okay. The mask he wore for the world was slipping, and the cracks were starting to show. His mind was a battlefield, and he was losing the war.
The idea of ending it all had crossed his mind more times than he could count, but tonight... Tonight was different. Tonight, the darkness felt more like a companion than an enemy. It whispered to him, soothing his troubled soul, telling him that it was okay to let go.
And for once, Dorian was ready to listen.
He stood up slowly, his movements sluggish, as if every step required more energy than he had. He glanced around the room, taking in the mess of discarded clothes, empty takeout containers, and the general disarray that mirrored his mind. None of it mattered anymore. He didn't care. He just wanted it to stop—the pain, the confusion, the relentless self-loathing.
As he reached under his bed, searching for the small, sharp object he knew would bring him peace, he heard it.
A sound.
Faint at first, barely noticeable, but it was there. A low, guttural growl, like the rumble of distant thunder. Dorian froze, his hand hovering just above the cold metal of the razor blade he had hidden there weeks ago. His heart, which had been beating slowly, lethargically, began to pound in his chest.
The sound grew louder, more insistent, and then—silence.
For a moment, Dorian thought he had imagined it, that his mind was playing tricks on him, another cruel joke from the universe. But then, something moved in the shadows. A shape, dark and indistinct, shifting beneath his bed.
Dorian's breath caught in his throat as the shape began to take form. The darkness seemed to thicken, coalescing into something solid, something tangible. A chill ran down his spine, and he took an involuntary step back, his hand falling away from the razor blade.
From beneath the bed, a figure emerged, rising slowly, impossibly, from the shadows themselves. At first, it was nothing but a silhouette, an outline of something human-shaped yet distinctly inhuman. As it stepped into the dim light, Dorian could see it more clearly—a man, or at least something resembling one.
