Silas Greystoke awoke suddenly, his breath shallow and his heart pounding. The sound—a slow, foreboding creak—rattled through the far corners of the room, drawing his gaze into the gloom. His downturned blue eyes blinked rapidly as he tried to shake off the haze of sleep, but the unease twisting in his gut only grew stronger. Something was wrong.

His room was... different.

Where once there had been neatly arranged books lining polished shelves and weights stacked meticulously upon the floor, now there was only ruin. Dust and grime clung to warped wooden planks, his belongings noticeably absent. The scent of mildew and neglect choked the air, sending a shiver of revulsion down his spine.

Instinctively, Silas reached up, fingers threading through his blonde hair in a familiar gesture of confusion—only to freeze. His hand. It was smaller, more delicate, though the same marks he had known all his life remained etched upon his skin. His limbs, his frame—they were younger, leaner. Yet the scars, the familiar imperfections, all spoke of a body that was unmistakably his own. Changed, but still his.

His eyes darted downward. The rough texture of the clothing draped over his frame was nothing like his own—coarse fabric, tattered at the hems, as though it had endured years of wear. The realization struck him like a hammer to the chest: this was not just a dream. This was real.

A sharp breath rasped through his throat as he lurched to his feet, his knees trembling beneath him. Dust swirled around his legs, disturbed by his sudden movement. The air felt thick, oppressive, pressing against his skin like a phantom weight. He coughed, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as his mind reeled.

Where was he?

More importantly—who had done this to him?

A chill crawled up his spine, settling at the nape of his neck as his gaze flickered toward the room’s only exit: a door, barely visible through the dim light filtering through the cracked windowpane. The creak—the sound that had awakened him—had come from beyond that door.

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Then, another sound.

Rough, uneven panting. A ragged breath, animalistic and wrong. The hair on his arms stood on end, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Something was out there. Something was searching.

Thinking quickly, Silas dropped to the floor, crawling backward toward the decayed and rotting bed he had risen from moments before. The wood was splintered, the frame fragile, but it would have to do. He ducked beneath the slats, pressing his smaller body against the dirt-laden floorboards, forcing himself to still his breath. He had barely settled into place when—

The door splintered.

Wood cracked and flew inward, shards clattering against the ruined floor. Silas clenched his jaw to keep from making a sound, his wide eyes locked on the threshold. Through the dim light, he could make out the figure stepping into the room.

It stood on elongated, clawed feet, its veins crawling up its legs like writhing vines. Though its posture was hunched, it loomed unnaturally tall, its skeletal frame shifting with every movement. And then—Silas saw its face.

A face eerily like a man’s, yet stretched unnaturally long, its jaw unhinged slightly to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth. The thing sniffed the air, exhaling a rasping breath that sent a fresh wave of fear clawing at Silas’s chest.

It searched, its feet making no sound against the warped planks. Silas might have believed it was a figment of his imagination, a nightmare, just like this entire experience—if not for the smell.

Rot. Decaying flesh, sickly and overpowering, hit the back of his throat like a physical force. Bile rose, but he swallowed it down, fighting against the visceral reaction. The beast paced, sniffing the air, searching for him.

Then, with an abrupt and terrible swiftness, it lashed out.

A long, clawed hand stabbed downward, slicing deep into the mattress above Silas. The wood groaned under the force, sheets torn as the talons raked through them. Silas barely kept himself from gasping, his breath coming in shallow, measured gulps as he watched the creature’s glowing eyes—like a nocturnal predator—dart back and forth over the ruined bedding.

It hesitated, its frustration mounting. A low growl rumbled in its throat, an eerie sound of displeasure, and it took a step closer, sniffing once more. It was near, too near. Silas could feel its breath disturbing the dust beneath the bed frame.

Then—

SMASH!

The sudden shattering of glass rang through the night. The creature's head snapped up, its posture stiffening. A snarl curled its lip as it spun toward the source of the noise. Without hesitation, it turned, dashing through the broken doorway, its clawed feet eerily silent even in its haste.

Silas remained frozen beneath the bed, his breath trapped in his lungs, waiting—listening. The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, deep-throated growls. Not one, but several. The sound of heavy, pounding footfalls echoed outside the room—more creatures, moving quickly. Their footfalls left deep impressions in the ground, each one sending tremors through the decayed floorboards.

In the distance, a woman screamed. A sharp, piercing cry that was suddenly and brutally cut off.

Silas’s breath hitched. Fear coiled around his chest like an iron vise, squeezing the air from his lungs. He huddled beneath the bed, curling into himself as the chill of the night seeped into his bones. The fear, the cold, the overwhelming sense of wrongness—he was awake, and he could not move.