The door’s still wide open. The wind sneaks around the frame, cold and sharp. Grabbing it with numb fingers, I slam it shut and lock it, before doubling back and wedging a chair under the handle for good measure. Because that’ll stop whatever the fuck he is.
My heart won’t slow down. I drag myself to the kitchen and splash water on my face. It doesn’t help.You were not dying.His words echo in my head like they belong there. Like they always have. I glance at my hand, the spot where he touched me still tingles. It’s not cold anymore but something about it feels wrong. It is wrong in a way I cannot shake.
I move through the apartment like I’m underwater. My sketchbook-style notebook is on the bed, open to a blank page, though I have no recollection of leaving it that way. I sit. Stare at it. Then, slowly, like something inside me is being dragged forward by a string I can’t see, I start to draw.
Lines flow before I know what they’re becoming. A circle. A fracture. A line down the center. A branching spiral. The hint of rot curling through beauty. It’s a symbol…new, precise. Not Riven’s. This one is different. Sleeker. Sharper. It feels like it’s been sitting in me all along, waiting for the right moment to surface. I don’t remember learning it, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing. Regardless of whether I remember where it came from, my hand knows the shape instinctively, like muscle memory.
When I finish, I stare at the page, breathing hard. “What the fuck is happening to me?” The symbol stares back. Silent.
11
The Rot Beneath the Skin
I wake with the taste of rust in my mouth, skin humming like a bad frequency. An uncomfortable vibration, sharp and almost piercing, like my body sending a warning. The red satin sheets still wrapped around me tightly are the only thing bringing a sliver of comfort while my body and brain battle, leaving me to dread the fuckery today will bring. I’m learning quickly that whateverthisis, there’s no avoiding it. Someone, somewhere, or hell, something, has a message for me, and I have a feeling it doesn’t end with Riven or freezer man.
Feet finally on the floor, the sketchbook screams to me, page open to the new symbol drawn, different from the symbol belonging to Riven. I may not understand a lot of what's going on lately, but just like the others this wasn’t drawn on purpose. At this point, nothing makes sense.
I lean forward, half hanging off the bed. Rubbing my eyes when the panic sets. My hands were normal seconds ago and now they’re not. Padding to the bathroom, I quickly flick the switch allowing light to enter the dark room. The mirror begins to flicker. I notice for a moment the reflection is lagging, moving slower than me. It’s the same version of me again. The version of me I’m terrified will be released if I stare too long, begging me to escape.
I hit the light switch so hard I wouldn't be surprised if it never came back on again. Then I notice my reflection syncing with me again. I lean in, whispering like it’ll matter. “Get your fucking shit together.” I know something is wrong. It feels like there is rot under my skin now.
The city is screaming at me. It’s loud, blinding, and full of people who feel like threats. With the need to escape this apartment and what I hope is just paranoia, I try to get a coffee before going to work. The barista doesn’t meet my eyes and I can feel it. Here we go again.
I brush past a guy in a suit and he stumbles back like I hit him. I wish I did. People are giving me a wide berth,like they can feel it too. My phone vibrates with push notifications.
MYSTERY ILLNESS SWEEPS INNER CITY. UNKNOWN PATHOGEN. CASES UP. SYMPTOMS UNEXPLAINED.
Elias. I’ve known his name since the moment he touched me. His name burns in my brain like a scar, no matter how many times I try to scrub it out. He didn’t infect me with something, he altered me. Awakening a different part of me, like Riven has. And now, it feels like it’s bleeding into everything.
By the time I reach the bar, I’m sweating, not from the heat, but from the itch behind my eyes. The feeling that something’s off-center in the world, and I’m the fulcrum. “Hey, Lux,” Rowan, one of the regulars, says as I walk in. Hoping he doesn’t notice and ask questions I’m not in the mood to answer. He orders his usual. Gin and tonic with two limes. He’s staring at me with a puzzled look on his face. He’s noticing something is off, great. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” I reply, trying to hide a sarcastic tone sothis conversation ends.
“You were kinda out of it the other night.”
My stomach knots. “What night?”
He shrugs. “Two nights ago. You were weird. Like…not you.” I don’t answer. I step behind the bar, hands shaking, and grab my half apron. In the front pocket, the one reserved for straws and random shit, is a folded piece of paper. Just four words, written in clean block print:
The rot suits you.
My fingers curl around the note until the paper crumples and the edges press into my skin, threatening to cut me as I squeeze tighter. I don’t bleed, not right away, not like I should.
I leave the bar before my shift ends. I can’t explain, but I can’t stay. The feeling of rot is still under my skin, and if I stay too long, I’ll start peeling it off just to feel clean. The streets are packed. Horns. Neon. Voices sound like static. Every sound feels like it’s aimed at me. And the worst part? It doesn’t feel wrong anymore. It feels like coming home.
I take a turn too early and end up in a side alley. Someone is there, standing on the other end of the street.He is lean, has his hands in his pockets, with eyes hollow. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. He just watches me like he’s memorizing something important. A bus rolls past me, and when it’s gone…so is he.
I stagger back into my apartment and slam the door. No peephole. No lock strong enough. No drink stiff enough. I toss the note in the sink and light a match. I watch it curl, blacken, and disappear into ashes. The words don’t disappear. I can still feel them. Crawling up the back of my throat.The rot suits you.
I grab my phone and pull up the bar’s security from two nights ago, the night apparently everyone noticed that I wasn’t acting myself. I fast-forward, and freeze. It looks like me, but slightly different. I’m moving differently. Too smooth. Too confident. Like someone else is driving. I watch myself smile at a customer. I never smile like that. I watch myself pour drinks without shaking hands and with eerie precision. That’s when I see it, the symbol, seemingly burned into the inside of my wrist. Plain as fucking day. I don’t remember that. I pull my sleeve up, nothing there. In the footage, it’s there...I rewind.
There it is again. Always on my wrist. Always glowing faintly under the lights. A symbol I’ve never seen before, but somehow already know. I slam the laptop shut and sit in the dark, chest tight. Something’s inside me now. It’s not a dream. It can’t be a haunting, it’s a trigger, and someone out there is waiting to pull it.
The gates groan open like they’ve been waiting. I don’t knock, I just walk in. I storm through the foyer, boots loud on the marble. Past the relics of ruin or whatever the fuck he calls them. Every corner is familiar. I find him in the study. Fire lit. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled up those delicious looking forearms. He is reading a leather-bound book like he didn’t rearrange my entire fucking world two days ago. He looks up. Doesn’t flinch. “Lux.”
“Don’t say my name like it's yours to use.”
He closes the book slowly. “You’re here.”
