The light outside cast rays around the middle of his room. A new, sunny day.

"I did it." Arwyn let go of his pencil. A smirk tugged at his face as he stared at his drawing. A sword, with a light aura that surrounded it.

Arwyn slumped n his chair, twirling a pencil between his fingers. The Zenith, his latest "masterpiece," glared up at him from the desk.

Its hilt crooked and the aura spoke more of "flickering candle" than "divine light."

"Eh. Good enough for today.”

His room was full of posters–his posters. Swords, guns, weapons, he loved it. Along with that were small figures of gun models that rested on his shelf.

His brown hair was so ruffled. The first thing he did when he woke up was to draw a model of a sword that just popped up in his mind. Same as his hair, his room was extremely cluttered. Pencils on the floor, some broken. His bed was unmade, and his table was filled with crumpled paper.

As he closed his sketchbook, someone knocked on his door.

Arwyn stood and called, not even getting close. "Dad?"

"The new housekeeper's here. Do me a favor and get out of there," the voice was mature, around mid-thirties. Before he lost his patience, Arwyn opened the door, expressionless.

He scratched his head, making his hair even more scrambled. "Since when did we need a housekeeper?"

"Auction's in a week. I'm behind." Marco didn't look back. His voice carried that familiar edge. Half patience, half exhaustion. "Nathaniel. Don't… just don't burn the place down."

Before Arwyn could even protest, the door slammed shut.

Arwyn could barely hear the engine of his car as he revved it up.

He had no choice anyway. He grabbed a box of cereal from the cabinet and some milk. Arwyn didn't bother putting the cereal into a bowl. Rather, he held on to the cereal box and the carton of milk as he walked to the living area.

In the living area was the housekeeper. He moved like a ghost. Quiet, methodical, and his blue hair tied back in a messy bun.

He knelt by the bookshelf, dusting titles Arwyn hadn't touched since middle school, a part of his chore.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The Tale of the Succubus, Advanced Calculus (unopened), and a suspiciously sticky jar labeled Emergency Ramen Fund.

"Hey," Arwyn said around a mouthful of cereal. "You're blocking the TV."

Nathaniel glanced up, green eyes sharp behind glasses. "Apologies." He shifted slightly, still scrubbing a stain that had probably been there since the Cold War.

"So. Nathaniel, huh?" Arwyn flopped onto the couch. "Is the whole 'clean freak' thing just a vibe?"

"Your father said you're an artist." Nathaniel didn't look up.

"Uh-huh. What's your deal?"

"I tidy messes."

"Wow. Fascinating." Arwyn cranked the TV volume. Titanic blared. Rose sobbed over Jack's icy corpse. "Ah. A classic."

A pendant dangled around his neck. Emerald eyes, and a golden paintbrush symbol that wrapped around it. It looked familiar to Arwyn, even if he'd never seen anything like it before.

"Hm." Nathaniel plucked a crumpled page from the floor near the bin. It was probably a missed throw.

It was the Zenith, mid-motion. Nathaniel nodded approvingly. "Interesting style. Chaotic."

"It's called modern art."

He crumpled it back and threw it back in the bin, ringless, then continued cleaning the shelves. Full of dust, it was obvious that no one really read these books.

Until he saw the Delacroix Diary.

Nathaniel's fingers lingered on the spine of the Delacroix Diary, and its leather was cracked and brittle. Arwyn slouched against the doorframe, crunching another pour of cereal.

"Seriously, it's just Dad's conspiracy blog in book form," Arwyn said. "Chapter 4's a real page-turner. How to Summon a Demon with Finger Paint. Riveting stuff."

Nathaniel didn't smile. He opened the diary to a page titled:

Generation 1: Shinichi Delacroix.

A sketch of a man stared back. Sharp jawline, blue hair tied in a warrior's knot, a serpent coiled around his wrist.

"Your ancestor," Nathaniel said, tracing the serpent. "First Dream Sketcher. He drew storms that sank fleets, beasts that devoured armies."

"Cool. Bet his therapist was rich." Arwyn rolled his eyes. He walked closer and took a look at the diary. "Look, unless there's a coupon for free Wi-Fi in there—"

Nathaniel flipped to another page.

Generation 4: Nathaniel.

The sketch was identical. Same blue hair, same piercing green eyes, and the same serpent pendant.

"…Huh." Arwyn leaned closer. "You do cosplay?"

"I am Nathaniel."

"Right. And I'm the Pope." Arwyn could never get tired of being sarcastic.

Nathaniel unbuttoned his sleeve, rolling it up to reveal a tattoo—the serpent, its scales shimmering like liquid ink.

"Shinichi drew this on me in 509 BC. Said it'd keep me humble."

Arwyn's demeanor turned serious. "Okay man, either you're a vampire, or Dad spiked my cereal."

"Sketches like me age a long time," Nathaniel said, flipping to the diary's final page.

Generation 120: Arwyn Delacroix. The rest was blank.

"Your parents skipped their turn. Now it's yours."

"My turn?"

"To learn. To create. To survive." Nathaniel tapped the empty page every time he repeated. "Every sketch you make feeds it. Every lie you tell strengthens it."

"You're insane." Arwyn backed toward the door. "This is some Netflix show bullshit—"

Nathaniel traced a single symbol in the air. A serpent devouring its tail. The pendant around his neck glowed, and the diary shuddered. His trace glittered.

Arwyn's breath hitched. The cereal in his stomach churned. "…What are you?"

"Your tutor." Nathaniel closed the diary, dust swirling in the sunlight. "You're a Dream Sketcher after all."