I nearly missed Psychology 101 that morning, all thanks to whatever twisted game Mr. Albu had decided to play before dawn. I dashed across campus like a man possessed, my backpack hanging open, straps flapping as if trying to escape with me. I slid into a back row seat just as the professor's monotone lecture on cognitive distortions droned on, my lungs on fire and sweat clinging to my shirt. I tried to disappear into the shadows, hoping to blend into the sea of students, but it was no use.
"Mr. Martinez, care to explain why you're late?" Mrs. Barik's sharp voice cut through the room. The lecture hall snapped silent like a trapdoor closing beneath me. I clenched my jaw, cursing myself silently. Why did she always single me out?
Mrs. Barik stood with arms crossed, her manicured nails tapping impatiently against her elbow. Her eyes narrowed, the same way they always did when I was under her scrutiny—a look that made me feel like a stain she desperately wanted to scrub off. "Late because of a Starbucks line again?" she sneered, voice dripping with scorn. A few students chuckled quietly. "Let me guess—a Caramel Macchiato?"
I gritted my teeth, fingers tightening involuntarily around my bag strap. Ever since I’d accidentally spilled iced mocha on her silk blouse early in the semester, she’d been relentless. I’d apologized profusely, even bought her a gift card from Zara, but she never accepted it. Instead, her grudge morphed into something personal, and every class felt like a gauntlet.
"Sorry," I muttered, hoping to just tuck myself into invisibility. Maybe if I kept quiet, she’d lose interest and move on.
But she wasn’t done. She stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply on the tiled floor. "You do realize this is a morning class, don’t you?" she said with a mocking tilt of her head. "Or does the concept of mornings elude you? Maybe if you exercised a bit more, you wouldn’t be so sluggish."
My stomach twisted into knots. The insult was barely veiled, but the smug curl on her lips told me she knew exactly what she was doing. Students shifted uncomfortably or snickered behind their notebooks. My face burned, but I swallowed the sharp retort clawing at my tongue.
Don’t give her the satisfaction. Don’t make her win.
Her voice dropped to an almost saccharine tone. "If you applied yourself as much to your studies as you do memorizing coffee orders, you might not be struggling so much in my class. Or is Psychology 101 simply too advanced for you?"
Another ripple of quiet laughter spread through the room. I forced a nod, my face a mask of blank acceptance. "I understand. It won’t happen again," I said quietly.
Mrs. Barik scrutinized me a moment longer, as though weighing whether to prolong my misery, then gave a dismissive wave. "See that it doesn’t," she said coldly, pivoting back to the whiteboard.
I exhaled slowly, sinking into my chair with the weight of the morning pressing down. Fantastic start.
Living without a thyroid gland had shaped my life in subtle but relentless ways. Daily medication kept me afloat, but my weight danced unpredictably—some weeks my body hoarded calories as if prepping for famine, others, despite everything I ate, I felt drained to the bone. I’d tried dieting, exercise, all the usual fixes. After years of losing battles with my own metabolism, I’d stopped obsessing over the numbers.
That didn’t mean it never got to me. Sometimes, scrolling through social media, I’d see guys with hard abs, chiseled jaws, and the casual confidence I lacked, and a familiar disappointment curled in my chest. I wasn’t ugly—not in my eyes—but I wasn’t the kind of guy who turned heads, either. Being gay in a town with a tiny dating pool made things even harder. Finding someone who’d like me for who I was—who could look past my insecurities—felt like hunting for a needle buried in a haystack.
And then there was this class.
Psychology had always been my passion, the reason I’d signed up for the honors track in the first place. But Mrs. Barik made every minute a test of endurance. Her gaze felt like a spotlight shining down on my mistakes, her words cutting through the air disguised as academic critique. Every second in her class was a battle to remain unnoticed.
The moment the lecture ended, I grabbed my things and bolted, slipping out before Mrs. Barik could ensnare me in another humiliating encounter.
The bus ride home blurred past—faces, buildings, and thoughts swirling in my mind. All I could think about was the looming reality that awaited me: stepping inside Mr. Albu's mansion.
The thought of facing the creature chained in that yard chilled me to the core. Yet beneath the cold fear, a reckless spark of curiosity flickered. What was I really afraid of? The demon? Or what I might find if I looked too closely?
I stopped a few feet from the wrought-iron gate that guarded Mr. Albu’s property. The mansion rose before me, a brooding silhouette against the pale blue sky, its stone walls smothered in ivy that clung like knotted fingers. The rusted gate groaned softly in the wind, as if warning away intruders. The windows, dark and empty, stared back like hollow eyes.
Knowing a demon lurked inside only deepened the dread.
My fingers curled around the cool metal of the keys in my pocket. For a moment, I debated turning back, retreating to the safety of my apartment and pretending I’d never agreed to this madness. But then I thought of Jared’s PS5 and the promise of some much-needed distraction.
With a deep breath, I slid the key into the lock. It caught briefly before turning with a grinding scrape. The sound sent a shiver down my spine, but I forced myself forward.
Pausing at the gate, I scanned the yard with careful eyes. My breath came shallow and quick. No movement, no shadows darting from the corner of my vision—just an eerie stillness.
My legs trembled beneath me, fingers tingling with nervous energy. More than once, I almost turned on my heel, ready to flee back to the mundane safety of my life. But something kept me rooted, a stubborn thread of resolve pulling me deeper into the unknown.
What had Mr. Albu been thinking, asking me to water his plants? The thought seemed absurd, layered with mystery and dark undertones I couldn’t yet decipher.
Steeling myself, I took slow steps toward the front door, every nerve alert. A strange mixture of fear and determination warred inside me. Something about this whole thing felt off—dangerous—but I had to see it through.
Just then, a faint whisper brushed my ear, so low I almost thought I imagined it: "If you feed him any more, boy…"
I froze, heart hammering. The words were barely audible, yet they carried a weight that settled deep in my bones.
"Watch it will," another voice murmured, colder and harder, like a warning etched from ice.
Shaking, I glanced around, but the yard remained still and empty under the waning light.
Swallowing my fear, I stepped forward, my hand reaching for the doorbell, the sound of my own breath loud in the quiet evening air. Whatever awaited inside, I was already in too deep to turn back now.