It was pleasant and dreadful at once — sweet, yet laced with a bitterness that clung to the soul. Something wrong that felt irresistibly right. That was all Leximus could remember of the dream. A contradiction wrapped in shadow.
He woke staring at the rotten, pale-brown ceiling above him, waiting for it to finally give up and collapse on his face. For a long moment, he lay there, unmoving, the thin blanket tangled around his legs, the mattress scratching at his back through the torn bedcover.
A heavy wave of exhaustion washed over him.
Did I tire myself by sleeping?The thought felt absurd, yet true.
His body begged to dive back under the blanket and chase that strange dream — the one he could not recall, only feel, like a whisper fading behind a closing door. But he forced himself upright.
He swung his feet over the ledge of the creaking bed. The floorboards responded with their usual groan — a warning, a complaint.
Leximus rubbed his eyes, then headed for the door. His hand wrapped around the faded wooden handle. He sighed, whispering to himself:
"Why dream of luxuries you can't afford?"
He tugged the handle — nothing — then remembered, as he always should have, that the door didn't open by the handle. He had to drag it aside by its edges. He paused, frowning.
Sixteen years in this house… why did I think the door would suddenly work today?
He pushed the thought away and stepped into the narrow hallway.
Waiting at the bathroom were two figures.
His mother stood first in line — impossibly young-looking despite her thirty-five years, with pink hair cascading over smooth pale skin and bright blue eyes that never failed to look out of place in the slums. In front of her was Sheila, only eleven, her yellow eyes sharp with curiosity, her pink hair a mirror of her mother's.
Leximus approached. Sheila turned, eyes narrowing playfully.
"What's with that stare? You look like you've seen a ghost," she teased, smiling far too brightly for morning.
"What's with that smile? It's too early for joy, you gremlin," he countered, grabbing her cheeks and stretching them apart.
"Ow— ow! Lex! That hurts!" Tears welled immediately.
He let go with a small, satisfied smirk.
The bathroom door slid open and their father stepped out — tall, scarred, brown hair and brown eyes matching Sheila's. Bare-chested, still drying sweat from his neck.
"What's with the broad smile? Too early for that. And why is Sheila about to cry?" Paul asked, glaring.
"It was just a harmless little game," Leximus muttered.
"It was not harmless! It hurt!" Sheila tattled instantly.
Paul sighed and shook his head at Leximus. "Disappointed in you, son." But he smiled faintly — the kind of smile that meant the scolding wasn't real.
Paul stepped aside, and Leximus entered the bathroom.
The cracked wall mirror greeted him with a version of himself he almost didn't recognize. Goosebumps covered his bare skin. His shaggy black hair stuck in odd angles, and his eyes—usually a plain dark—seemed… darker. As if something had sucked the light out of them while he slept.
He turned on the tap.
The moment the cold water touched his fingertips, a chill shot through him, sharp and unnatural. He flinched, turned the tap off, moved to the basin, and washed his face quickly instead.
Minutes later he walked out.
"I thought you were bathing," his mother said.
"Too cold," he answered simply.
He returned to his room, got dressed in his dusty brown shirt, light jacket, and old black boots. He checked the front door. Everyone was distracted — perfect time to sneak out. Except the wooden floor betrayed every attempt at stealth.
He made a run for it.
Three steps from the door, a voice stabbed him from behind:
"And where do you think you're going?"
He froze and slowly turned. Sheila stood there, arms akimbo, wearing a faded green dress and the expression of a miniature dictator.
"I… uh… heard a knock on the door. Going to open it."
"I heard nothing." She squinted. "Just admit you're sneaking out again. I won't tell."
A real knock sounded at the door.
They both froze.
No one ever visits this house.
Leximus opened the door slowly.
A tall figure filled the doorway. Light brown hair, light brown eyes, a polite smile stretched thin across his face. Expensive clothes — not from the slums. Not even close.
"Is this the Cross household?" he asked.
Leximus's blood ran cold. No one in this district knew their last name.
A heavy hand gripped his shoulder.
"And what if it is?" Paul said, stepping forward, voice stern. Sarah moved behind him, pulling Sheila close, eyes narrowing.
What's happening? Leximus thought as tension thickened the air.
"What do you want?" Paul asked.
"I wish to speak with the three of you," the stranger replied. "Send the children away."
The grip on Leximus's shoulder loosened.
"Go," Paul ordered. "Wherever you were heading."
Leximus obeyed, stepping past the stranger — and felt the air around Paul shift, warming, as if the temperature spiked.
He walked. Streets blurred. The slums twisted around him in their usual maze of stink and shadow. He walked until dusk stained the narrow alleys orange.
At the slum border — the thin strip dividing the forgotten from the fortunate — he stopped, stared, then turned back with a sigh.
Who was that man? Why now? What did he want with my family?
When he reached his home, something was wrong.
No lights. No sound.
He touched the door handle. Swallowed hard. Pushed it open.
Drip.
Drip.
The smell hit him first — copper and rot.
He stepped forward. Something wet spread under his boots.
He reached the gas pump on instinct, turned the valve, watched dim lamps sputter alive with a faint glow.
He walked back toward the living room—
And froze.
His breath died in his throat.
His mother's body lay in two pieces — her lower half thrown onto the dining table, her upper half collapsed on the floor, her insides spilling like dark ribbons.
His father was nearby, limbs twisted in impossible angles, legs pointing the wrong way, arms wrung as if broken by a monstrous hand.
Leximus dropped to his knees and vomited bile onto the floor.
"No… no, not again… wake up, Lex… please wake up…" he whispered, pounding the floor as memories he had tried to bury clawed their way up — memories of his past family, their deaths, their accusations.
A faint cough made him snap his head upward.
Paul.
Barely alive. Barely breathing.
Paul's lips trembled. "Make… sure… you… live."
Then silence.
A voice came from behind him.
"May God bless his soul."
Leximus turned.
A cloaked figure stood in the doorway, watching him with unreadable calm.
"I searched the house. Didn't find the younger one. You had another child here, right?" the man asked.
Leximus nodded, tears streaming.
"Do you know where she is?"
"No," Leximus choked. "If I did… I'd tell you."
"Then let me tell you who I am," the cloaked man said. "I'm someone with an offer."
He stepped closer, extending a hand.
"You want revenge. You want to find your sister. If so, come with me. If not… wait for the police and hope they're faster than the thing that did this."
Leximus stared at the hand.
His world was gone. His family. His sister missing. Something monstrous walking the streets.
He reached out and shook the man's hand.
Even if I must make a deal with the devil… I'll kill whoever did this.
Leximus walked out with the cloaked stranger, leaving everything he knew behind.