Something Is Wrong with His Eyes

The phone vibrated against the wooden nightstand with a harsh, grating buzz that shattered the silence of Liana’s bedroom.

She jolted awake, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs before her eyes even focused on the glowing screen. 1:47 AM. The caller ID read Arthur Museum Security.

Liana snatched the phone, a cold knot of dread tightening in her stomach. "Arthur? What’s wrong?"

"Liana, thank God," the old guard’s voice crackled through the speaker, thick with panic and the static of a poor connection. "It’s Kain. He’s… he’s in the west gallery. He collapsed. I called an ambulance, but he woke up before they got here. He said he’s fine, but Liana… there’s something wrong with him. He wouldn’t let the paramedics touch him. He just asked for you."

"I’m on my way," she said, already throwing off the covers and pulling on her boots. "Keep him there. Don’t let him leave the building."

Twenty minutes later, Liana’s battered sedan screeched to a halt in front of the museum’s staff entrance. The rain had reduced to a miserable, freezing drizzle. She found Kain sitting on a folding chair in the security office, a foil emergency blanket draped loosely over his shoulders. He looked up as she burst through the door, and for a fleeting, terrifying second, her breath caught in her throat.

He looked perfectly fine. His messy brown hair was slightly damp, his posture relaxed. But when he smiled at her, it didn’t reach his eyes.

"Hey, Li," he said. His voice was smooth, devoid of the usual warm, slightly raspy cadence she loved. "Sorry to worry you. Just a little dizzy spell."

"You collapsed, Kain," she said, her voice tight as she stepped forward, placing a hand on his cheek.

His skin was ice cold. Not the chill of someone who had been standing in a drafty museum, but the deep, unnatural cold of marble left in a winter graveyard. He didn’t lean into her touch. He just stared at her, his pupils dilated so widely that the blue of his irises was almost swallowed.

"I told Arthur I just bumped my head on a display case," Kain said, gently but firmly removing her hand from his face. "I’m fine. Really. Let’s just go to my place. I want to sleep."

The drive to his apartment was suffocatingly quiet. Liana kept glancing at him from the corner of her eye. Every time a passing streetlight swept through the car’s interior, she swore she saw a faint, crimson flicker deep within his pupils. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving her to wonder if it was just a trick of the rain-streaked glass and her own frayed nerves.

No, she told herself, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. You’re imagining things. You’re letting your paranoia take over.

But Liana knew better. She was the daughter of cursehunters, a lineage of men and women who had spent centuries tracking, binding, and eradicating supernatural anomalies. Her parents hadn’t died in a random car accident, as the police reports claimed. They had died in a ritual gone wrong, torn apart by a shadow they had underestimated. Liana had spent her entire life trying to escape that legacy, burying her innate abilities beneath a facade of a normal university life. She had sworn never to look at the world through the lens of magic again.

Yet, as she helped Kain into his apartment at 2:30 AM, her hunter’s instincts were screaming.

Kain moved to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water with steady, precise movements. "You should go home, Liana. Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow for your birthday."

"Not a chance," she said, crossing her arms. "I’m staying right here until I know you’re actually okay."

He paused, the glass halfway to his lips. For a fraction of a second, the air in the room grew heavy, pressing down on Liana’s chest like a physical weight. Then, Kain smiled that same empty, placid smile. "If you insist."

He retreated to the bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. Liana waited until she heard the rustle of bedsheets and the slow, even breathing of sleep. Only then did she allow herself to exhale.

She crept into the bedroom. The room was dark, illuminated only by the pale, silvery glow of the moon filtering through the blinds. Kain was lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes.

Liana sat on the edge of the bed. She needed to be sure. She needed to know if her fear was justified, or if she was losing her mind.

Closing her eyes, she took a slow, deep breath, centering herself the way her mother had taught her. She reached out with her mind, tapping into the second sight she had tried so hard to suppress. She focused on Kain, intending to read the color and flow of his aura. Normally, Kain’s aura was a warm, comforting amber, radiating kindness and a quiet, steady strength.

She pushed her consciousness forward.

And hit a wall.

It wasn’t just a block; it was a void. An absolute, impenetrable abyss of freezing static. It felt like staring into the bottom of the ocean, where no light could ever reach. Liana gasped, her eyes snapping open as she recoiled, her head throbbing with a sudden, sharp pain.

What are you? she thought, her heart pounding against her ribs.

She looked at him, really looked at him, stripping away the familiar features of the boy she loved. His chest rose and fell, but the rhythm was too slow, too deliberate. He wasn’t sleeping. He was waiting.

Her gaze drifted down to his left arm, which had slipped out from under the blanket.

There, coiled tightly around his wrist, was a single thread of crimson silk.

It wasn’t tied like a bracelet. It was embedded, sinking slightly into his skin as if it were a parasitic vine or a brand. It pulsed with a faint, sickly bioluminescence, matching the exact, horrifying rhythm she had seen in the museum.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. This wasn’t a bump on the head. This was an infestation.

Without thinking, Liana scrambled off the bed and rushed to the bathroom. She grabbed a silverplated lighter from the counter and a pair of metal tweezers. Her hands were shaking, but her resolve was ironclad. Her parents had died because they hesitated. She would not.

She returned to the bedside. Kain hadn’t moved.

Gripping the tweezers, Liana clamped them around the crimson thread. The moment the metal touched the silk, a jolt of freezing energy shot up her arm, making her teeth chatter. She ignored it. She flicked the lighter, the small orange flame trembling in the dark room, and brought it to the thread.

The silk didn’t burn like normal fabric. It didn’t catch fire or turn to ash immediately. Instead, it writhed.

And then, it screamed.

It was a sound that defied the laws of physics a highpitched, ultrasonic shriek that didn’t travel through the air, but vibrated directly inside Liana’s skull. It was the sound of tearing metal and a dying animal, a cacophony of pure, concentrated agony and rage.

Liana dropped the tweezers with a cry, clapping her hands over her ears, but the sound was already inside her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut, enduring the psychic assault until, with a final, sickening pop, the sound vanished.

She opened her eyes, gasping for air.

The thread was gone. In its place on Kain’s wrist was a faint, red burn mark, already beginning to fade.

Liana slumped back against the wall, her chest heaving, tears of relief and exhaustion pricking her eyes. She had done it. She had severed the connection. Whatever this was, she had stopped it. She stayed awake for hours after that, watching Kain’s chest rise and fall, waiting for the warmth to return to his skin, waiting for the boy she loved to come back.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed her. She curled up in the armchair in the corner of the room, pulling a blanket over her shoulders, and drifted into a fitful, uneasy sleep.

Sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting bright stripes across the floor.

Liana woke with a stiff neck and a dry mouth. The morning felt peaceful, almost normal. The oppressive heaviness from the night before had lifted. She stretched, a small smile touching her lips as she looked toward the bed.

Kain was sitting up, rubbing his eyes. He looked at her, and his face broke into a genuine, warm smile. "Morning, sleepyhead. Did you sleep in that chair all night?"

Liana’s heart soared. That was him. That was her Kain.

"I told you I was staying," she said softly, walking over to the bed. She reached out to gently stroke his hair. "How do you feel?"

"Much better," he said, his voice carrying its familiar, raspy warmth. "Like a new man."

Liana smiled, her gaze drifting down to his left wrist, resting on the white bedsheets.

Her blood turned to ice.

The burn mark was gone. In its place, the crimson silk thread was back. But it was no longer a single, thin strand. It had multiplied. Three thick, braided threads of bloodred silk were now coiled tightly around his wrist, sinking deeper into his flesh.

And as she watched, paralyzed with horror, the threads pulsed.

Thump. Thump.

From the bed, Kain tilted his head, his warm smile never faltering, but his eyes just for a second flashed a deep, predatory crimson.

"You really shouldn't have done that, Liana," he whispered, his voice suddenly layered with an ancient, echoing resonance. "Now, it’s angry."

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