The icy grip of fear tightened around him, cold dread twisting his stomach into merciless knots. A heavy lump formed in his throat, constricting his breath as panic clawed its way up his chest.

The doppelgänger's words—spoken in his own voice—slithered through the dark, claustrophobic space with an otherworldly quality, as if alive. They mocked him, taunted him, each syllable a sharp sting, sending shivers down his spine.

The air thickened, oppressive, as the doppelgänger’s presence filled every corner, suffocating him. The voice came from everywhere at once, surrounding him, making it impossible to find its source.

He tried to shake off the suffocating dread, but the words echoed in his mind, venomous snakes hissing in his ears.

Emerson’s voice trembled as he stammered, "Y-you're not real. This isn't happening." He squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to escape the nightmarish reality unfolding before him. The doppelgänger’s words had been like poison, seeping into his thoughts, coiling around his sanity like a heartless constrictor, squeezing him from within.

But his own words rang hollow, powerless against the undeniable truth he couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he tried. Deep down, he knew the terrifying reality he faced, but he wasn’t ready to accept it. He wasn’t prepared. Not at all. A growing pressure built inside his head, like a frayed rope about to snap. The pain in his mind grew unbearable, each passing second pushing him closer to the edge.

Emerson's heart pounded violently, his breath ragged and shallow.

He opened his eyes, but the nightmare was still there.

His doppelgänger stood there, a distorted mirror image of himself, a cruel smile tugging at its lips. The voice, his own, rang in his head—cold, sharp, inescapable.

The truth hit him hard. He was facing the darkest parts of himself—the things he had tried to bury. The pressure in his head was building, pushing him toward a breaking point.

Emerson's vision blurred, his body trembling.

“I’m as real as it gets,” the doppelgänger said, its tone dripping with confidence.

Emerson flinched, the words coming from his own mouth, mocking him. His heart pounded as he shook his head, trying to reject what was happening. Fear gnawed at him, but he forced himself to breathe, his jaw clenched.

"No... I'm going to wake up now," he said, his voice shaky but determined. He repeated it, forcing himself to believe it. "This isn't real. This didn't happen." His words, though, sounded hollow, even to him. Nightmares were supposed to end.

He sighed, but it didn’t help. The air was heavy, and the pressure in the room thickened like a weight pressing down on him.

"That's where you're wrong," said the doppelgänger.

It stepped forward, and Emerson’s pulse spiked. He tried to back away, but his feet refused to move, like they were glued to the floor.

The footsteps echoed, loud and deliberate, each one driving home the cold truth. Emerson felt himself shrinking back, his back pressed against the countertop, fingers digging into the edge.

The walls seemed to press in, closing tighter around him. The footsteps stopped. Emerson couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes, unwilling to face what he feared might be waiting. The air was heavy, suffocating, as though some invisible force was weighing down on him. His chest heaved, each breath a struggle, and a sharp ache gnawed at him, as if something was crushing his ribs.

"The nightmare’s just beginning," a voice whispered, cold and sharp.

With a sudden drop, the floor beneath him disappeared. Emerson plunged into darkness.

His scream was swallowed by the void, lost in the endless descent. His mind spun, and his body twisted as gravity seemed to shift in every direction. He reached out, grasping for anything to anchor him, but there was nothing but empty air.

Fear gripped him like a vice as he tumbled deeper into the abyss. His senses overloaded—stomach twisting, head spinning, body betraying him with vertigo and nausea.

Wind roared in his ears, like the cries of the damned, whipping against his face. It stole his breath, each attempt to inhale met with a crushing pressure on his chest. Every gasp made it worse, the suffocation tightening its hold.

Then came the voices. Whispers surrounded him, a cacophony of desperate pleas and furious cries. The voices were familiar, yet he couldn’t place them, each one driving a fresh wave of dread into his core. He didn’t recognize the words, but the tone alone filled him with an overwhelming sense of despair.

Hallucinations followed. Distorted faces hovered at the edges of his vision, larger than life but impossible to grasp. They drifted, taunting him, slipping away every time he tried to focus.

At some point, he started crying—low, helpless sobs as fear and adrenaline overwhelmed him. His body curled into a fetal position, arms and legs drawn close as he clung to any sense of control. It was the only thing grounding him in the chaos.

He didn’t know how long he fell—minutes, hours, days. Time lost all meaning as he tumbled through the void, locked in the fetal position, crying and whimpering.

The cold came next. The frigid air numbed his skin, the chill seeping into his bones. He opened his eyes briefly, only to see the endless blackness stretching on in every direction. Staring into it too long only made the whispers louder, the pressure building, scratching at something deep within him—a hunger he didn’t understand.

He didn’t want to understand.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, focusing inward. This was a dream. He could control this. He didn’t have to let his mind torture him.

That thought broke something loose, and a flood of emotions surged through him—anger, frustration, helplessness, guilt, fear. The weight of it crushed him, leaving him breathless as he curled in on himself, trying to weather the storm.

He sobbed until there were no tears left.

He screamed into the wind until his voice gave out.

He lashed out in fury, kicking and punching at the abyss, though it made no difference.

Finally, when there was nothing left, he stopped. He stretched out his arms and legs, tilted his head back, and stared into the void.

And let go.

He didn’t know how long he floated there, emotionally spent and utterly empty. His breathing steadied. The weight in his chest lifted.

For the first time, he didn’t care anymore.

It was then that the nightmare faltered.

The wind stopped. The voices fell silent. The hallucinations vanished.

In the blink of an eye, Emerson found himself standing on solid ground. The sudden transition didn’t faze him. He stood there, unmoving, his expression cold and empty, as though carved from stone.

“I’ve always hated that feeling,” the doppelgänger said from beside him.

Emerson blinked, not reacting at all to its sudden appearance to his right as he surveyed the familiar hospital corridor with a detached expression.

“Do you?”

For the first time, Emerson glanced at the doppelgänger, taking in its demonic form with pure apathy. He sniffed and looked back at the surroundings, waiting for whatever the nightmare had in store.

“It was… unpleasant,” Emerson said, his eyes cold, his gaze distant and devoid of warmth.

The doppelgänger snorted. “It was the least unpleasant option,” it replied, turning toward him. “How do you feel?” it asked, the tone almost laced with genuine concern.

Emerson scoffed, throwing an incredulous glance at the doppelgänger. The question, spoken with such sincerity, seemed absurd. And yet, it stoked the embers of a rage that had been quietly simmering inside him.

“How do I feel?” Emerson whispered, repeating the question with narrowed eyes. He wasn’t losing his temper, but there was no amusement in his tone. “How do I feel?” Each word was measured, weighed as he looked down at the floor.

“I feel…” His voice sharpened, the frustration swelling inside him. His hands clenched into fists.

“Very fucking angry.” The growl that escaped his chest sent a wave of energy through the corridor.

The space around them began to shake and distort. Cracks splintered through the walls, floor, and ceiling. Chunks of debris rained down but disappeared into an inky black smoke just a moment before touching his skin. The corridor fractured, breaking apart into floating islands drifting in a sea of darkness.

The once-threatening shadows now seemed submissive, drawn back by the sheer force of his rage. They writhed at the edges of his presence, waiting, but no longer in control.

The doppelgänger stood silently beside him, watching with a knowing grin. Its posture had the air of a mentor, proud of its student.

Without warning, Emerson lunged with a snarl. His hand shot out, faster than thought, gripping the doppelgänger by the throat and hoisting it off the ground. He slammed it against the fractured remains of the wall, the impact shaking the structure. Debris cascaded over them, vanishing into dark motes of oblivion as they touched the floor.

The intensity of his rage warped the space around them. And his eyes glowed with a cold, gray light, the sclera darkening as his canines sharpened, nostrils flared, and veins pulsed black under his skin. He glared down at the doppelgänger, daring it to move.

His chest heaved with each breath, something inside him begging to be unleashed. The pressure built, nearly consuming him. But then, in a moment of clarity, he realized something was trying to control him. Again.

He fought back with a low roar, the glow in his eyes intensifying. He wouldn’t let his emotions control him—not again. The rage was there, seething under the surface, but it would remain where he commanded it.

The doppelgänger hadn’t flinched, meeting Emerson’s gaze with calm indifference. An eternity seemed to pass as they stared each other down until Emerson finally swore under his breath. He shoved the doppelgänger one last time into the wall before releasing his grip.

It dropped to the floor, unbothered, and stood as if nothing had happened.

Emerson cast it a dismissive glance, sneering, before turning his back and walking to the edge of the shattered corridor. He crossed his arms and stared into the abyss. Silence stretched between them.

The doppelgänger eventually stepped up beside him, saying nothing. They stood side by side, gazing into the void.

“Am I going insane?” Emerson’s voice broke the silence, soft but heavy with resignation. He let out a hard sigh, closing his eyes. “What am I even saying?” he muttered bitterly. “Hearing voices, arguing with hallucinations… reliving old nightmares. I am going insane.” His lips twitched in a humorless smile. “Is this schizophrenia?” He raised his hand, inspecting it as if expecting an answer.

The doppelgänger stayed quiet, allowing the rant to run its course before speaking.

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“You were going insane,” it finally said. “I prevented that.”

Emerson glanced at his clone from the corner of his eye before closing them again, his face relaxing into an expression of acceptance.

“Why?” he asked, drawing the word out slowly.

“It is my purpose.”

“So, you have a purpose aside from torturing me? Good to know.” A smirk tugged at his lips but didn’t reach his eyes.

“It was not torture.”

Emerson’s expression tightened momentarily, then smoothed again.

“What was it, then?”

“Necessary.”

“For?”

“You.”

Emerson’s brows furrowed, his lips thinning as his nose wrinkled in distaste.

“I don’t like you. Cryptic asshole,” he muttered in a low, harsh tone.

The doppelgänger glanced sideways at him.

“You don’t like yourself?” it asked, raising its brows.

The surroundings momentarily ground to a halt, the color draining from the scene before everything snapped back to normal. Emerson unclenched his fist at his side and exhaled slowly.

“Nice try.”

“You are improving,” the doppelgänger said with detached observation.

“Fuck you,” Emerson replied flatly, licking his lips before opening his eyes again.

Oddly, the verbal exchange left him feeling better. Almost comfortable. He didn’t like it.

A nagging sensation in the back of his mind told him he’d just been manipulated. Worse, he could feel himself slowly sinking deeper into madness, walking into it with eyes wide open.

But what choice did he have? There were no options, no way out. He was trapped in this ride until he either died in his sleep or woke up completely unhinged.

What would it even feel like to be awake again? He could hardly remember what it was like to inhabit a physical body.

The thought disturbed him deeply. It wasn’t something he ever imagined he’d ponder.

‘Am I lying in a hospital bed right now? Hooked up to machines and IVs while my body wastes away in a coma?’ Emerson’s expression darkened as fragments of memory resurfaced.

‘I hope that old bastard trips and breaks something carrying my body,’ Emerson fumed, but then grew calm as the thought crossed his mind that maybe the old man had abandoned him in the woods to die.

He could only hope he’d wake up before that, give himself a fighting chance. But if not—well, dying in a dream seemed better than freezing or starving.

“You are not in a coma.”

Emerson raised an eyebrow. “Then… what is this? Where am I?” he asked, eyeing the darkness surrounding the fractured corridor.

“Your mind,” the doppelgänger replied without hesitation.

“But I’m not in a—” Emerson stopped, scoffing at the absurdity of it all. He was talking to a hallucination, a projection of his own mind, discussing his mental health.

He would’ve laughed if the sense of denial and devastation weren’t so crushing. But he wasn’t going to let it crush him. Not yet. He took a few steadying breaths, forcing the weight away. Never again, he’d promised himself—one step at a time.

He gazed out at the tendrils of shadow lazily coiling through the darkness. He could sense them, somehow, feel their direction and presence even behind him.

‘Well… it’s not the weirdest thing I’ve seen,’ Emerson thought, focusing on the distant shadows. There was something else there, too—something faint but persistent, like an instinct guiding him. The shadows felt like tools, waiting to be used. He closed his eyes and focused on the sensation welling up in his chest.

‘What the hell am I doing?’ he wondered briefly as the sensation spread from his chest to his fingertips. But he pushed the thought aside and leaned into it.

A frown tugged at his lips when whispers began to intermingle with his thoughts. Irritated, he clenched his jaw.

‘Quiet,’ he demanded. An invisible shockwave rippled from him, causing tremors through the island and darkness beyond.

The whispers stopped.

The surrounding shadows pulsed, then fell still, as if responding to his will.

The doppelgänger glanced at him but said nothing, its expression unreadable.

Emerson’s frown relaxed as the whispers faded, though the strange instinct had disappeared entirely. He barely had time to process this before a wave of fatigue hit him, like staying up all night cramming for an exam. His shoulders sagged, and he blinked, clearing his bleary vision.

‘That was weird,’ he thought, rubbing his temple. He could still faintly sense the tendrils, though the connection was weaker.

“This is… really weird,” he muttered. “What are they?” he asked, gesturing toward where he sensed the shadows.

“It is complicated,” the doppelgänger eventually answered.

“You don’t know,” Emerson shot back, his tone dry.

“I do. And I don’t.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is all I have.”

Emerson grunted, shaking off the grogginess before scanning the darkness for anything unusual. But it was all the same—empty, quiet, desolate. The small floating island they stood on felt like the eye of a storm, but it wouldn’t last. He could feel the cracks in the floor widening, the ground slowly eroding into the sea of nothingness.

It was probably his mind’s way of signaling the end, he thought. Death creeping in.

He couldn’t do anything about it. He’d tried before, using rage and force, and it had only made things worse. The environment cracked more when he let anger control him. Now, he needed to stay calm—his mind handled that better. Less broke when he stayed calm.

“What are you?” Emerson finally asked, turning to face his doppelgänger.

The doppelgänger smirked and met his gaze. “I am you.”

Emerson’s stomach fluttered with unease, but he shoved it down. “Then what am I?” he asked, his tone flat.

To his surprise, the doppelgänger didn’t respond immediately. It simply regarded him with an intensity he hadn’t seen before.

“The part that hasn’t let go,” it finally said.

Emerson frowned, turning the words over in his mind. They didn’t make sense, but the question was burning in his chest.

“Let go of what?”

The doppelgänger gave him a sad smile, then tilted its head back to stare up at the empty sky.

“Of what you were.”

As the words left its mouth, the doppelgänger began to dissolve into a sparkling silver mist.

Emerson watched with narrowed eyes, arms crossed, instinctively alert for anything suspicious. Oddly enough, he didn’t feel threatened. In fact, focusing on the mist brought him a strange sense of peace.

The mist began to swirl around him, and though Emerson shifted to keep track of it, he still felt no danger. It paused around his right arm, coiling tighter, until it formed a silver ring around his finger.

His eyes widened. He raised his hand, inspecting the ring.

“You—”

“Yes,” the doppelgänger’s voice echoed faintly.

“I don’t… understand,” Emerson said slowly, turning his hand to examine the ring. It was exactly as he remembered it, yet not his.

It belonged to the man who had kidnapped him.

Snap!

The surroundings warped, reality bending toward a distant point before snapping back into place.

Emerson's posture tensed as something flashed through his eyes. The darkness around them shifted.

"Do you remember?" the ring spoke directly into his mind.

Emerson flinched and rapidly blinked as he came to terms with what he’d witnessed before a look of unrestrained horror spread across his face, and a chill raced down his spine.

Then, reaching down and removing the ring in a frenzied panic, he threw it down the hallway, watching its gleaming silver surface bounce and disappear into the void.

“Please listen.”

Emerson’s posture went rigid, and he felt a prickling in his scalp. He looked down and saw the ring on his finger again.

“Nonono, why is this happening- you’re supposed to be helpful and not…” Emerson ran a hand through his hair as frustration and denial edged his tone, “-why… why in the hell would my mind make you of all things?” He started pacing.

“It doesn’t make sense… it doesn’t make sense anymore. Why are you tormenting me like? What did I do to deserve this…? Is this Stockholm Syndrome, am I… is this a subconscious symbol of me being his property? Jesus Christ, that is so fucked, oh my god.”

Emerson pressed his forehead against the wall and took quick, shallow breaths as his vision tunneled.

His chest tightened, and his thoughts became incoherent and jumbled. It was hopeless. He couldn’t do it anymore.

He felt himself spiraling as only one thought repeatedly played in his mind.

The only constant in his coma, the one thing he’d somehow come to rely on for stability, represented the kidnapper.

That old man had followed him into his own fucking mind! It was the final straw. He couldn’t continue the act. He was petrified, exhausted, and anxious.

He just wanted to lie down and let it end; he didn’t want his last waking moments pretending everything was okay in this never-ending nightmare.

“Emerson,” a familiar woman’s voice suddenly filled his mind, “Focus. I am trying to help.”

‘Great… another voice in my head,’ he sighed, his head dipping further down against the wall as the tension in his shoulders was gradually released, and a sense of lightness lifted the rising sense of panic.

He placed a palm against the wall and moved sideways and down, letting himself slide down the wall with his own weight until he plopped down and leaned his head against the wall.

A sense of déjà vu swept through him as he tried keeping his heavy eyelids open. He was so tired. So tired of the mind games. Of everything he’d been through. Even his mind was playing tricks on him. He just… didn’t have any fight left in him. He closed his eyes and let his head droop down.

“Emerson. Listen to my voice.”

His arms and legs felt so heavy…

The surrounding darkness grew restless, drawing closer…

“Emerson…” Her voice became distant, overlapped with a muted ringing.

The cracks along the floors and ceiling of the small corridor grew. Small chunks of the island broke off, spiraling off into nothingness…

“Emerson!”

A pair of soft, warm hands pressed on either side of his face and lifted his head.

“Look at me.”

Almost against his own will, Emerson slowly opened his bleary eyes. Finally, his vision cleared to reveal the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He knew her. Somewhere, deep down, he felt as though he was supposed to love her.

“It’ll be okay,” she smiled. It broke him.

Emerson felt his vision glaze as his eyes heated up, and something warm spilled down his cheeks.

He sucked in a shuddering breath as a sob escaped him. The back of his throat hurt, and a rush of dizziness made him want to sleep.

“Please…” he begged with a pained whisper, “Not like this… Please just leave me alone… please… please…” his voice cracked toward the end as it trailed off.

His head tried lolling off to the side as he pulled himself away, but the woman’s hands kept it firmly in place, her obsidian eyes intently staring into his own; holding him together as he fell apart in her hands.

He pushed against her arms, but they didn’t move.

He weakly tugged at her wrists, his struggle growing stronger until his sobbing and grunts of effort echoed through the corridor; her hands remained on his face.

He finally gave up and slowly looked at her with glossy, red-rimmed eyes.

Her lips curved with a small, loving smile, and one of her fingers wiped away the streak of blood on his cheek.

“It’ll be okay,” she repeated; a soothing, cleansing sensation eased his sore muscles and let him relax.

He was too tired to think anymore. It didn’t matter if nothing made sense anymore. He was done. He felt like he was on a bad mushroom trip, and the only way to escape was to ride it out and try to enjoy himself if possible. His eyes lost focus as he dully looked past the woman’s shoulder.

“Do you trust me?” she expectantly asked.

“…Yes,” Emerson emotionlessly replied.

“Okay then, good,” the woman nodded and took her hands away as she stood before him.

Emerson listlessly stared at the floor between her bare feet and absently watched as her body dissolved into a cascade of glimmering silver mist that gently swept across the floor and curled around his ring finger. A silver ring soon sat on his finger.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” her voice sounded out in his mind. He didn’t respond.

“But I need you to look, Em.” Something about the way she said his nickname stirred him into raising his eyes from the floor.

‘Oh,’ the barest flicker of surprise passed across his gaze.

Across from him was a hyper-realistic still frame of him in his work scrubs, hydro flask in hand, and scrambling backward through a thin layer of snow and water.

A woman with striking red hair and a gorgeous body loomed over him in the doorway, one of her hands swiping through the air where he'd stood—a crazed look in her red-rimmed bloodshot eyes.

He felt nothing when looking at all of this now. He just felt cold. Empty.

"Look closer," the voice prompted.

Emerson gave the scene a thoughtful look, then slowly paned around the area and focused on the corners, the ceiling, the door, and the woman's frightening visage. He didn’t see anything new.

"Stop resisting."

He blankly looked down at the ring.

"You are repressing details."

He looked back at the tableau. Something clicked in his head.

A lingering pressure he hadn’t even noticed before suddenly dissipated.

Then, the scene changed as the woman's hands and face shimmered in a blurry haze.

The shimmering faded, revealing sharp nails extending past her fingers, frightfully glowing red eyes, fangs where her canines should have been, and sickly pale skin.

He blinked, then blinked again. Processing what he was seeing. The events of that night came rushing back like a floodgate had been opened.

He didn’t respond to the images or sounds anymore. He just felt… drained.

‘So that’s what happened…’

“Yes.”

“…What is she?” he muttered, already knowing the answer as he looked at those nails; it was more something you would find on a wild animal than a person. And those eyes... those weren’t contacts. The fangs... it didn't get any more obvious, really. He took it all in with clinical detachment.

“A vampire.”

Emerson’s thoughts ground to a halt, then slowly started working again. He sighed and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. He took a slow breath. The ring pulsed brightly on his finger.

“Then that means…” he trailed off.

“You are a vampire.”

“…Makes sense.”

“You are lying.”

“Yes. But… I don’t know why, but I believe you. I guess,” he muttered. It would explain the weird sensations he experienced at the police station… which he actually couldn’t remember what happened after that all too well. He put a pin in that. It would also explain the situation with the old man who ‘kidnapped’ him. He probably had, by the looks of things, and thinking back on their conversation. But he wasn’t drugged.

So when he looked at things through an alternate lens of the impossible, it all started making sense. In a very confusing, fucked up way.

“Fine. Fine,” Emerson brought his ring hand up, “I believe you. Can we please stop all of this? I understand now.”

The ring remained silent, and Emerson slowly resigned himself to being lost inside his mind when a silver glow harshly glared into his face and- Snap!

The surroundings vanished as everything was plunged into an inescapable darkness.

An intense sense of nebulous disassociation...

A dim, hazy focal point of light gradually grew stronger in the center of the nothingness…

The point slowly flattened and stretched, elongating and cutting through the darkness…

Emerson's eyes fluttered, revealing the hazy light to have been the small crackling fire across from him.

He saw the multitude of dark skeletal trees edged in white surrounding him; their boughs weighed down with snow and a layer of frost crystals on their trunks reflecting the campfire light.

He smelled the painfully crisp air with a hint of ozone and the lingering wood smoke coiling into the air.

Felt the snowflakes falling on his clothes.

He heard twigs snapping and near-silent movement of nocturnal wildlife stalking through the snow.

He felt the biting cold on the exposed skin between his ruined clothes.

He closed his eyes again and inhaled—he was alive. He’d woken up.

“Finally, took you long enough.”