Darkness pressed down like a weighted veil. I ran. My bare feet slapped against the cracked concrete floor, echoing in the endless corridor that twisted and shifted with each breath I took. Shadows bled from the walls, stretching and curling like living things. Whispers clawed at my ears, urging me to keep running, but I didn’t know what was chasing me. I only knew that if it caught me, I wouldn’t survive. Not truly. Not as myself.

  “Wake up”, I rasped, my fingers brushing the crumbling wall as I turned a corner. My lungs burned. “Wake up, Luna”.

  Behind me, the whispers grew louder, no longer just voices in the dark. Now they had faces. Familiar ones.

  A man’s voice—was it my father’s? It used to be gentle. Now, it trembled. “I tried, Luna... I really tried. But she—”

  And then a woman’s voice, cold and smooth like honey. My mother. “She’s always been broken. Never meant for anything more.”

  I stumbled. My legs tangled beneath me, and I fell forward, but the floor beneath me dissolved. I screamed as I plunged into blackness.

  I jolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat, the scream still lodged in my throat. My heart pounded like a war drum. The morning light filtered through my faded curtains, soft and warm—a cruel contrast to the coldness still clinging to my skin. I pressed my palms into my eyes, exhaling shakily. Another damn dream. But something was wrong.

  I looked at my nightstand. The lamp had exploded. Glass littered the floor, the bulb shattered like a tiny battlefield. I blinked, the heat still buzzing on my fingertips. Was it real? Or had I finally snapped?

  Taking a deep breath, I slid out of bed, careful to avoid the shards. My bedroom—small, cluttered, oddly comforting—looked mostly normal. But not quite. There were scorch marks on the bookshelf. A singed corner of my blanket. I touched my neck, half-expecting burns or blisters. Instead, I found the familiar shape of my mole near my nose. Another, beneath my cheekbone. Strange. Once those marks had been sources of teasing when I was younger. But now? Now, they felt different—like symbols I couldn’t fully understand.

  I stood and moved to the mirror. My reflection stared back—same dark brown eyes, same disheveled hair—but something felt... off.

  Something in me felt sharper, like I was more aware than I had been before. Closing my eyes, I felt it again: a pulse of energy that wasn’t entirely mine. Like standing too close to a speaker, feeling the vibration in my chest, but this time... it was inside me. A frequency that only I could hear. And within that frequency: emotion. Not mine. It was frantic. Angry. Afraid. What the hell is happening to me?

  Later that night, the memory of the dream, the feeling of being pursued and the harsh words echoing in the darkness, still clung to me like a shadow, a subtle tremor beneath the surface of my anticipation for the concert.

  Perhaps that’s why I found myself drawn to the chaotic energy of the venue, a desperate, almost subconscious attempt to drown out the lingering unease with a tidal wave of noise and light, to lose myself so completely that the echoes of the nightmare would finally fade.

  The bass slammed into me like a physical blow, a second, visceral heartbeat that resonated deep within my chest, a primal rhythm that momentarily silenced the anxious hum in my mind as I stood submerged in the heaving mass of the crowd.

  My arms were raised, my body swaying in involuntary rhythm to the music, my breath catching in my throat, a strange mix of exhilaration and a prickle of something akin to fear – a ghost of the terror from my dream.

  The strobing lights above painted the sweating, ecstatic faces in shifting hues of electric violet and molten gold, creating a disorienting, almost dreamlike atmosphere, blurring the lines between reality and the lingering surrealism of my night terrors.

  The air was thick with the scents of sweat, cheap perfume, spilled beer, and the palpable anticipation of thousands of bodies packed too tightly into one space, a sensory overload that both overwhelmed and strangely comforted me.

  The venue itself seemed alive, a breathing, vibrating entity fueled by chaotic energy that threatened to consume anyone who wasn’t anchored to the present moment.

  But I welcomed it. No, I craved it.

  Tonight, none of it mattered—the relentless stress of my barely-held-together life, the constant pressure to be someone I wasn’t, the suffocating weight of unspoken expectations that echoed the critical voices in my dream.

  It was the eve of my twenty-first birthday, a milestone that usually filled me with a hollow dread, a reminder of another year spent feeling inadequate.

  But tonight, the concert felt like a temporary reprieve, a chance to shed the weight of those anxieties, to simply be within the music.

  I wasn’t anxiously checking my phone for obligatory messages and calls, the phantom vibrations usually a source of low-level stress momentarily absent.

  I wasn’t mentally juggling the never-ending list of responsibilities that constantly weighed me down, the demands of a life that felt increasingly alien.

  No. Tonight, I was just Luna, a girl with a concert ticket clutched in her hand, a half-empty drink warming in her grasp, and a desperate desire to feel something authentic, something raw and untamed that could momentarily drown out the persistent hum of anxiety in my mind, and perhaps, the lingering echoes of the nightmare, the feeling of being inherently broken.

  The band tearing up the stage—The Fallen Ones—weren’t just musicians churning out catchy tunes. They were an immersive, almost ritualistic experience, their music possessing a strange, almost visceral quality that resonated with the unease I felt, a dark undercurrent that mirrored the unsettling tone of my dream.

  Their genre defied easy categorization, a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of haunting orchestral overlays that sent shivers down your spine, bass-heavy drops that rattled your bones, and eerie, ethereal harmonies that lingered in the corners of your mind long after the last note faded, like the ghostly echoes of a forgotten dream whispering you back into the comforting embrace of darkness.

  People called them a phenomenon, an enigma shrouded in carefully cultivated aesthetic mystique, a cult of personality masquerading behind distorted chords and the charismatic allure of their frontmen.

  But to me? They weren’t just a storm of sound and light—they were a conduit, a raw expression of something dark and powerful that mirrored the undercurrents of my dream, the feeling of being both pursued and strangely drawn to the darkness.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I was the exposed shoreline, bracing for the inevitable impact, craving the catharsis even as a sliver of fear pulsed beneath my excitement, a fear that felt strangely familiar, a shadow of the terror from my nightmare.

  I had come alone, a deliberate act of self-imposed solitude. The voices in my dream, my parents’ cutting words, had left me feeling raw and exposed, the familiar sting of their disapproval echoing in the silence of my thoughts.

  I desperately needed the anonymity of the crowd, the silence between forced interactions, the stillness that descended only when no one expected anything of me.

  I needed to lose myself in the music without apology, to stop being perpetually ‘on’ for everyone else’s benefit, to escape the constant feeling of not being enough that the dream had so vividly resurfaced.

  The relentless noise of the world had grown too sharp, too fast, and ultimately too hollow, leaving no room for my own thoughts to breathe, for the quiet whispers of my own intuition.

  So I slipped away, quietly and without explanation, not to isolate myself further, but to tentatively reconnect—with something deeper, something hidden that had been pulsing beneath my skin for weeks, maybe months, a subtle vibration that felt strangely connected to the unsettling energy of my dream, a feeling that I was on the verge of something significant, something unknown.

  I couldn’t name it, couldn’t articulate its presence, but I knew, with a growing certainty, that it was coming. The weight of it hung behind every breath, coiled like a question I was both desperate and terrified to ask.

  So I stepped into the surging crowd not to disappear entirely, but to allow myself to be found by something far greater than the fractured pieces of the life I was barely holding together, a life that felt increasingly disconnected from some deeper truth.

  From the moment they walked on stage, the world tilted.

  First came Kairo. Tattoos snaked across his arms, dark blue hair wild beneath the lights. He moved like a flame, unpredictable and mesmerizing, pulling the crowd into his rhythm with reckless charm. Every note he struck was both invitation and dare.

  Then Thorne, his green-streaked hair spiked with intent, exuded raw, controlled aggression. He grinned like a predator mid-hunt, his voice gritty and guttural as he spat verses with spine-chilling precision.

  Asher followed—natural wavy hair tousled in perfect disarray, shoulders square and confident. His aura was grounding, like a heartbeat the others could rally around. He nodded to the crowd, offering steady presence rather than theatrics.

  Cael moved like liquid shadow, black hair tied in a high ponytail, sharp angles softened only by the grace of his form. Every spin, every flick of his fingers felt like poetry written in real time.

  Lucien was light incarnate. Pale blonde hair shimmered beneath the strobes, his every movement catching the glow like stardust. He smiled openly, dancing between the others like joy personified.

  Elior, with his burgundy hair tucked behind one ear, offered the most subtle performance—but there was a wit in his eyes, a calculation that never missed a beat.

  Sethiel rounded them out, curls black and white like an Oreo swirl, bouncing with each step. He radiated youthful chaos and kinetic mischief, uncontainable and electric.

  And then—Silas.

  The storm beneath the stillness. Purple hair tousled but neat, his clothes all black and carefully layered, hiding more than just skin. He didn’t grin. He didn’t move much. But when he played—it was a force of nature.

  He stood a little apart from the rest, watching more than performing. He played like the music came from somewhere deeper, somewhere no light touched.

  And then—for one slashing second—he looked at me.

  I should’ve been flattered. Any fan would have. But his gaze didn’t spark butterflies or admiration—it was sharp, cutting, surgical. Like he was trying to see beneath my skin.

  I broke eye contact and looked down, brushing it off. Maybe I was projecting. Or maybe I was going crazy. Both felt equally likely lately.

  But as the final song approached, the air shifted. It wasn’t just excitement or the impending end of the show. It was something internal. Like my blood was vibrating. My breath caught in my throat. My hands tingled, and not in the pins-and-needles way. In the something-is-happening-and-you-can’t-stop-it way.

  It started with heat. Not the kind from the lights or the bodies packed around me. This heat was under my skin, radiating from my chest outward like wildfire. My vision sharpened unnaturally—every flicker of light became too bright, every sound layered and distinct. I could hear individual cheers, the rustle of jackets, the creak of stage boards.

  I blinked hard, trying to shake it off. Just adrenaline, I told myself. Or a sugar crash. Something rational. Something explainable. My logical brain clung to excuses.

  When the lights finally faded and the applause roared, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The moment passed. I was still standing. My hands had stopped shaking.

  Some girl I didn’t know—dressed in gold with platform boots and confidence for days—slipped me a wristband.

  “VIP afterparty,” she said with a wink. “You look like you belong.”

  I don’t know why I didn’t question it. Maybe part of me wanted to see if this surreal night could stretch just a little longer. Maybe the quiet part of me hoped something extraordinary was waiting.

  The loft was a sleek, towering thing nestled above the city. Steel and glass, curated furniture, low lighting. A soundtrack of ambient house music played from hidden speakers, blending seamlessly with the low hum of chatter and the clinking of crystal glasses. It smelled like cedarwood, whiskey, and something faintly herbal—like burning sage or cloves.

  The band was here.

  Kairo was the most recognizable—gorgeous, magnetic, already halfway through a bottle of something expensive. He danced like the music lived inside him, spinning strangers into his orbit like it was nothing. His laugh was a weapon. When our eyes met, he gave me a mock salute and a grin that made several nearby people blush.

  I quickly turned away, heart thudding.

  But I felt it again. That presence. Heavy and dark. Like standing too close to a thunderstorm.

  Silas.

  He stood on the balcony, arms folded, staring down at the street like he could see miles past the buildings. His face was unreadable. A man carved from stone. But his eyes—they were watching.

  I tried to act normal. Casual. I wandered deeper into the apartment, past tall bookshelves and strange art installations. My fingers brushed a sculpture that felt too warm to be stone.

  And then—I wasn’t alone.

  I didn’t hear him come up behind me. One second I was breathing steady, the next my pulse was sprinting.

  “Are you following me?” I asked, turning on my heel.

  Silas stepped from the shadows, arms crossed, posture rigid. “You’re unravelling.”

  His voice was calm. Low. But urgent.

  “Excuse me?”

  He looked at me the way a soldier might examine a ticking bomb. “You feel it, don’t you? The heat. The pressure. Your senses are slipping. You don’t know what’s happening to you, and it’s only going to get worse.”

  I laughed, short and sharp. “You seriously pulled me aside for some cryptic nonsense? What are you, a cult recruiter?”

  He didn’t blink. “You don’t have time to doubt this. You’re waking up. And when it breaks loose, you’re going to take half the city with you.”

  My vision blurred. A sharp pulse pounded behind my eyes. I staggered back.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He paused, eyes narrowing as if debating how much to reveal. “You’re not... normal,” he finally said, voice low and measured. “Whatever’s inside you—it’s ancient. Powerful. And it’s waking up. Fast.”

  A gust of invisible wind pushed through the hallway. My hair lifted. My skin burned.

  Then, everything exploded inside me.

  Light erupted from my chest. I screamed—not in fear, but in sheer, unfiltered force. Time fractured. My knees hit the floor. I heard a voice—his voice—say something I couldn’t understand.

  And then:

  00:00 The world split open.

  TO BE CONTINUED...