READY OR NOT - Landoscar

2 - You Can't Hide

Lando's alarm cut through the early morning silence, a relentless beeping that pulled him from uneasy sleep. He blinked, momentarily disoriented as he tried to shake the remnants of yet another nightmare. His eyes adjusted slowly to the dim room, bathed in the pale, watery light of dawn filtering in through the thin gap in the curtains. For a brief, blissful second, he felt grounded, like maybe the dark haze that had clung to him for days would finally start to lift.

But as he sat up, pushing tangled sheets aside, a familiar ache settled in his chest. The dreams had been plaguing him for nights now, each one a haunting echo of that first encounter with the stranger in the forest. His face flashed through Lando's mind—the piercing caramel eyes, the smear of blood on those unnervingly sharp fangs, and that strange, ghostly smile. Every detail haunted him, lingering in his memory with unnatural clarity. It was as though the dream had etched itself into his mind, impossible to shake no matter how hard he tried.

"Enough, Lando," he muttered, running a hand through his hair, attempting to dispel the lingering sense of dread. "It's just a dream. Just... stress, that's all."

With that small declaration, he forced himself out of bed, his legs heavy with the reluctant pull of exhaustion. His room was silent, and as he moved through it, the morning light did little to warm the oppressive quiet. He could feel the weight of the dream in the air, as though traces of it had followed him from sleep into waking. Trying to shake it off, he turned on the light, bathing the room in a soft yellow glow that at least made everything seem a little more ordinary.

Lando rubbed at his face, feeling the grit of too many sleepless nights beneath his fingers. The mirror above his dresser caught his eye, and he paused, studying his reflection. He looked haggard, his usually bright eyes shadowed, and his skin was a shade paler than he remembered. He tilted his head, almost expecting to see something foreign in his own face—some mark left behind by the dreams, a sign that the stranger's presence was somehow bleeding into his reality.

"Get a grip," he murmured to himself, gripping the edge of the dresser as he tried to shake the paranoia creeping through him. "You can't let a few bad dreams do this to you. It's just... it's just stress."

It was a thin excuse, one he'd been telling himself for days now. Classes were piling up, deadlines looming, and the pressure to keep up had gnawed at him, keeping him awake on nights when he wasn't already haunted by the stranger. His professors had been quick to warn him that the workload this semester would be intense, but he hadn't expected it to unravel him like this. Maybe his mind was just playing tricks on him, conjuring fears he'd never acknowledge in the daylight.

Determined to move on, he turned away from the mirror and made his way to the bathroom. The cold tiles beneath his feet brought him fully back to reality, and he splashed water on his face, letting the shock of it wake him up. As he rubbed a towel over his face, he caught himself glancing toward the corner of the bathroom mirror, almost expecting to see those dark, knowing eyes staring back at him from behind. But he was alone, and he shook his head, huffing at his own foolishness.

"Focus on what's real," he told his reflection firmly, meeting his own gaze with a resolve he wished he actually felt.

The morning routine settled him somewhat, the mundane tasks grounding him as he dressed in the familiar dark jeans and soft hoodie that had become his unofficial uniform. He threw his bag over his shoulder, grabbed an apple from the kitchen, and slipped out the door, welcoming the cool morning air as he stepped outside. The world beyond his flat was bright and ordinary, bustling with people heading off to work or school, caught up in their own lives, blissfully oblivious to the turmoil that had overtaken his nights.