The atmosphere was tense, thick enough to choke on. The room suddenly felt hot too hot as she quietly and cautiously made the bed.
"I'm done," she said softly, turning toward him where he sat on the chair.
But the words froze on her lips.
Allan sat slumped, eyes shut tight, his jaw clenched as though he were struggling just to breathe. Sweat dampened his hair, making the dark strands cling to his face. His body trembled, not violently, but enough to send a ripple of fear through her chest.
Her voice must have reached him somehow, because his eyes cracked open barely. He glanced at the bed with a tired effort, and tried to stand.
His legs failed him instantly.
Before he could fall, the chair caught him, and she rushed to him, panic written all over her face.
"Allan, are you alright?" she asked, her voice sharp with fear.
Only a low groan escaped his lips, a sound so weak it made her panic spike.
"Allan! Are you alright? What's wrong with you?" she yelled, her voice trembling.
Instinctively, she placed her palm on his forehead, expecting heat. Expecting fever. Expecting something normal.
But the moment her skin touched his, she jerked her hand back.
Cold.
Freezing cold.
Her heart thudded painfully. That wasn't normal. That wasn't natural. She knew it yet she had no idea what to do.
Mind racing, she hurried to the bed, grabbed the thick blanket, and wrapped it around him. But Allan only gave a faint, strained smile as he pushed the blanket away.
"What?" she asked, confused. "You're cold, Allan. Why are you refusing the blanket?"
"I'm… hot," he whispered.
She paused. Then it clicked. The sweating. The trembling. The desperate breaths. His skin might feel cold to her, but his body was overheating from the inside.
She quickly removed the blanket and rushed to the windows, pushing them open. The cool evening breeze drifted in, soft and gentle, bringing a small wave of calm into the stifling room. She exhaled shakily.
From where she stood, she watched him carefully the way he struggled to stay calm, the suppressed groans, the uneven rise and fall of his chest, his eyes clenched shut against something she could not understand.
Minutes passed. Then more. Nearly an hour slipped by.
Now Allan sat on the floor, one leg stretched out, the other bent slightly, his head resting weakly on her shoulder. She sat beside him in silence, feeling his weight, feeling his breaths, feeling the fading tremors. He was no longer sweating, no longer shaking, but he looked painfully weak.
"Allan…" she whispered, her voice barely there.
"Hm?" he replied faintly.
"Your hand."
His eyes opened slowly. He followed her gaze to his right hand.
Her breath hitched.
From his fingers up to his elbow, the skin had turned black deep, dark, skeletal. The veins bulged unnaturally, dark and raised as though lying on top of the skin. His nails had lengthened, sharp and dangerous.
A cold dread swept over her.
His expression, however, was neutral. Almost empty. As if this didn't shock him at all as if he had been expecting it.
He was changing. And he knew it.
"What… what's wrong with it?" she asked, her voice cracking with worry. She recognized the look she had seen this same terrifying form when he had stabbed Skyle.
"It's changing," he said simply, closing his eyes again.
Changing… Her mind repeated the word with growing fear.
"Your true form?" she whispered.
He nodded slightly.
He acted as though it were nothing, but she knew it was not minor. Not even close.
Curiosity and fear warred inside her. Slowly, almost against her own will, she stretched out her hand… and touched his transformed one.
And everything shattered.
A cold breath swept past her. The floor vanished. The room vanished. Allan vanished.
She was no longer beside him.
She was no longer in her room.
She wasn't even in the house.
There was nothing.
Only darkness.
Endless, swallowing darkness.
"Where am I?" she whispered, her voice small and trembling.