I shoved the door open and stepped into the chaos. The streets were already packed—shoulders slamming, voices overlapping, engines screaming like the world had somewhere better to be. Traffic jammed, people moved like a swarm of clueless idiots clawing through space they didn't own. I hated mornings. I hated being late even more.
7:37 a.m. The clock hated me too. College started at eight, and that damned bus loved to crawl. Every stop felt like an eternity, picking up half-dead passengers who looked as soulless as I felt. Zombies, the whole lot of us.
I sank into my seat by the window. The city blurred past, gray and cold. The air carried that early chill—biting, just enough to make you wish you'd grabbed a jacket. Not that it mattered. The fog started to roll in, soft and eerie, the same fog that crept through my dreams.
I slipped on my headphones, music drowning the noise. Didn't help. The dreams still clawed at the back of my head. The whisper. The door. The blood.
So I did what anyone half sane would do—I searched for a decent psychologist on my phone. No cheap, fake therapy crap. Someone who could actually fix whatever the hell was wrong with me.
By the time I looked up, the bus had rolled to a stop in front of the building I'd been calling my personal prison for the last two years—college. Same walls, same faces, same loop. My hell, painted in fluorescent lights and coffee stains.
I stepped off the bus, and for a second, it felt like it was trying to drag me back in — like it knew I didn't belong out here.
8:12 a.m.
"Shit— I'm late."
I bolted across campus, shouldering through the morning herd, my bag smacking against my side as I ran. The hallways blurred past, echoing with footsteps and laughter that felt too loud for this hour.
I slammed the classroom door open, breathless.
Every single pair of eyes turned to me — perfect. Nothing like walking into hell fashionably late. The teacher's glare could've burned a hole through me, and of course, because the universe hates me, there was a presentation going on.
"Glad you could join us," she said, voice dripping with disappointment. "You're after Miss Lane."
"Of course I am," I muttered, dragging myself to a seat in the back.
The room was dark, only the projector throwing pale light across faces. My friend Alice leaned over, whispering, "You're pretty late."
"I know."
"The teacher's pissed."
"Tch, as if I care."
She grinned, the kind of grin that said she knew I'd regret that later.
I slumped in my chair, trying to catch my breath. But even in the dark classroom, even surrounded by the noise of normal life… I couldn't shake it.
That feeling.
Like something was watching me still.
The girl kept rambling about chemistry like her life depended on it. I swear, if I heard one more word about the periodic table, I'd throw myself out the damn window.
My eyes burned, heavy, ready to shut down mid-presentation. It wasn't even the teacher's fault—chemistry just always felt like torture wrapped in numbers and lies.
Every element, every formula—it all blurred together until it felt like the whole room was spinning. Maybe it was just my lack of sleep. Or maybe… the air itself felt wrong, thicker, like the fog from my dreams had followed me here.
I shook the thought off and flipped through my notes, pretending to care. My sigh came out louder than I meant, right before the teacher called my name. Great. My turn.
I stood up, forcing my legs to move through a minefield of staring eyes. Every step felt heavier, slower, like the air didn't want me to reach the front. The teacher was still scrolling through her endless pile of emails, trying to find my damn presentation—the one I sent at 2 a.m. while losing my sanity over caffeine and bad dreams.
When she finally pulled it up, I started talking. Compounds, chemical reactions, equations that made me want to bash my head against the wall. Alice watched me from the front row, nodding like a proud idiot. For a second, it almost felt normal.
Then—there it was.
At the very back of the room, the walls began to… move.
The whiteboard rippled like water, and from the corners, black vines slithered out, twisting, reaching. Leaves—dark and sharp—unfurled across the plaster. The forest. My forest. Crawling into the world that wasn't supposed to be touched.
I froze mid-sentence. My words died in my throat.
Everyone turned to look, but instead of screaming, they just frowned. Confused. Like I was pointing at empty space.
"Seren?" the teacher called once.
Then again, louder.
The third time, her voice sounded like it came from the bottom of a well—distant, fading.
And then everything tilted. The floor disappeared. My pulse roared in my ears as the world went black.
That was the last thing I remembered.