Jon hugged the shadows as houses closed in around him, avoiding the streetlights' reach. He didn't need them; his senses were heightened now, painting the world in vivid, almost overwhelming detail. Even the air felt different here, thick with the stench of exhaust and chlorine.

He wasn't sure what drew him back to his apartment. It was a reminder of a life that felt like a distant dream. A life where monsters only existed in the books he read.

A part of him, a fragment of his old self, clung to the familiar. It was a lifeline to a reality that felt further away with each step he took into his new existence.

He stopped across from his apartment building. It was a pale rectangle in the moonlight. His apartment in the second-story, overlooking the street, was dark, curtains drawn, silent. No one knew he was gone, no one knew what he had become.

He thought of his landlady, Mrs. Henderson, who loved to chat and overwatered her plants. He thought of his neighbors, their everyday lives a comforting pattern in a world he knew was on the verge of chaos.

He didn't belong here anymore. He was an outsider now, bound to the woods, to the entity, to the bargain he had made.

Still, he felt a pang of longing for the life he had left behind. A life he could only pretend at, never again truly experience.

He reached for his keys, then remembered he didn’t have them. He hadn't brought his phone or wallet either. He had left them behind in the woods, along with his humanity and his future.

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He thought about knocking on Mrs. Henderson's door, waking her up. He could give her some excuse for his appearance, for his bare feet and torn clothes. But he couldn't face her startled expression, the questions, the worry that would follow him. He couldn't explain what he couldn’t, or offer comfort.

He looked up at his apartment window. It was slightly open, the latch he’d meant to fix still broken. He remembered the unseasonably cool breeze that had been blowing earlier, ruffling his curtains.

He crossed the lawn, his bare feet silent on the damp grass. He reached the window, jumped and pulled himself up effortlessly. His body, lighter than he remembered, moved with a new agility. He slipped through the opening and landed silently in his darkened living room.

He stood for a moment, listening to the familiar sounds of the old building: the creaking floorboards, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant noises of the city. It was all so normal.

He was exhausted. Grief and fatigue weighed heavily on him, as he was coming to terms with the chilling reality of his new existence. This bargain, this impossible choice, was his life now.

Sleep seemed impossible, a luxury he no longer deserved. Yet he wanted to. Just a brief escape from the crushing weight of his new reality.

He had two thousand years to live with the consequences of his choice, to think about it. But did he even need to sleep anymore? He wasn’t sure. But he wanted to more than anything. He stumbled to his bed and collapsed, letting the darkness take him.

And for the first time since it all began, there were no thoughts, just the blessed emptiness of sleep.

When he woke, it was to the weak light of dawn filtering through his window. He didn’t feel rested, not exactly, but most of the crushing fatigue had lifted. He sat up, pushing himself to his feet.