The faint glow from his phone cut through the darkness of the room, spilling across Kyle's face in a cold, washed-out light.
Outside, the night had long since settled into a heavy silence — well past two in the morning — and he still wasn't asleep.
He was scrolling through short videos — memes, anime edits, random clips. The algorithm had long figured him out; one video bled into the next with barely a pause, hooking him, keeping him there.
A new season of Jujutsu Kaisen was coming out soon, and he found himself revisiting old scenes without really thinking about it — familiar fights, lines, moments.
His eyes were starting to ache, eyelids growing heavier, but he stubbornly refused to go to sleep.
His phone buzzed briefly. A notification appeared at the top of the screen:
"darr.en_m posted a story."
Kyle blinked.
As far as he could remember, it was the first time.
He dismissed the notification almost immediately, without thinking. Too automatically.
But as he kept scrolling, he caught himself circling back to it again and again. The videos flickered past, but he wasn't really watching anymore. His fingers moved on their own.
A couple of minutes later, he realized he was already opening the messenger. Just like that. Without attaching any meaning to it.
The story circle was lit.
He tapped it — and flinched.
The phone jerked in his hand and nearly hit his face; he barely managed to catch it in time. The screen went dark. The locked phone dropped onto his chest, face down.
His breathing went uneven. His heart kicked hard — too hard — like it had shifted upward, pulsing somewhere in his temples.
A second. Another. A third.
He stared at the ceiling, not moving, as if waiting for the feeling to pass on its own.
A few minutes later, he turned the screen back on. Opened the story again. This time, he didn't look away.
Darren filled the frame immediately. The background was all metal and muted gray — a gym.
His movements were sharp, but strangely fluid, controlled. A raised hand in a black glove — step in — an upward strike. Another step — a hit from the side.
He moved fast. Confident. No wasted motion, no hesitation either.
His opponent barely kept up, mostly blocking or dodging.
Kyle didn't notice when he stopped breathing.
The camera wasn't particularly close, but even from that distance the shape of his body was unmistakable beneath the dark, sweat-soaked shirt. Muscles in his arms and back tightened and shifted under the skin with every movement, following through each strike.
Kyle watched. Didn't blink.
His lip started to sting — he'd bitten it harder than he'd realized.
The frame shifted. Darren stepped closer — almost right up to the camera. Took a few deep pulls from a water bottle. Then, without thinking, lifted his shirt and wiped his face with it. The fabric rose higher.
Kyle locked his phone. Too fast — like something had startled him.
He covered his mouth with his hand and squeezed his eyes shut. The last frame stuck. Clear. Sharp. Too detailed. And it started replaying on its own.
Again.
And again.
A slow, heavy tension spread low in his stomach.
Kyle forced a breath in. Then out.
One more.
In. Out.
His nostrils flared with the force of it.
A couple of minutes later, he opened his eyes. Unlocked his phone again.
The video was paused — right on that exact moment. He didn't press play. Just looked.
His gaze caught on details — dark, damp hair, the line of his neck, his arms where veins rose under the skin, the bare stretch of his torso where beads of sweat caught the light.
He didn't move.
Then the video resumed.
By the end, Darren had caught his breath, taken a few more gulps of drink. Another guy stepped into frame — shorter, solid build — waved at the camera.
Darren waved too. Smiled — bright, easy. Almost too open. Then thanked his coach for the sparring.
The screen went black for a second, marking the end — and almost immediately, it started over from the beginning.
Kyle didn't stop it. Not the first time, not the second… Not the ninth. At some point, he lost count entirely.
His fingers didn't move. His eyes didn't leave the screen.
Only when the video suddenly froze — the connection lagging — did Kyle blink sharply, like snapping out of it.
His eyes widened and he smacked his forehead lightly with his palm.
"What am I doing…?" he breathed out.
His heart had been beating unevenly the whole time, and he seemed to remember how to breathe only every few seconds.
Now the awareness of his body came back all at once. The tension in his muscles, the heat under his skin, the uneven rhythm of his breathing — everything felt too present. Unfamiliar. Like it belonged to someone else.
He dragged a hand roughly through his hair, messing it up further. Then finally set the phone aside on the nightstand and turned onto his side.
But his heart kept pulsing for a while longer — a steady throb from his chest all the way up to his head.
And sleep didn't come for a long time.