Night pressed in, a suffocating hush swallowing the shrunken world outside. Creel vanished under snow and shadow, the dull white glow ghosting through Bruce's threadbare curtains painted his cramped, wretched room in bruised blue and gray. The cold here was not the bite of weather, but a seed growing roots into bone.
Bruce sprawled across a mattress little better than rags and springs, cocooned under a blanket that stank of old sweat and mildew. Sleep offered no sanctuary. His body twisted, shivering—sweat slick on skin even as frost crawled the window glass. Each muttered breath caught in his raw throat, a struggle not to sob, not to break.
Inside the nightmare, reality dissolved. He stood in a dim, unlit chamber. The silence was heavier than the dark—something malignant lurking behind the stillness. A mirror faced him: tall, cracked, its silvery surface fogged with age. He moved closer, the floor biting cold against bare feet, the only sound a muffle of his pulse thrumming in his ears.
His own face stared back—gaunt, eyes rimmed in sleepless purple. But the reflection was wrong, eyes flickering a sick green, color bleeding into the irises like toxic paint. The other Bruce smiled first, and then the grin stretched—becoming a sneer, the lips peeling back to show teeth too big, too jagged. The eyes flared neon, mocking and inhuman.
A scream ripped the air—inhuman, animal, yet it welled from Bruce's own chest. He tried to cover his ears, but the sound only burrowed deeper, vibrating his teeth, pounding in the skull. The reflection's mouth distended, unhinging into an impossible maw, fangs glinting, eyes blazing. Spiderweb cracks shot through the mirror, the world fracturing in green and black and white. The walls squeezed tighter, collapsing—the nightmare pressing inward, suffocating.
Bruce awoke with a juddering gasp, shuddering upright. The scream still echoed—phantom, inside his skull. For a heartbeat, the room pulsed in green tints; Bruce stared at his trembling hands and saw his eyes reflected dimly in the window: glowing, unearthly green. Slowly, painfully, that color ebbed, replaced by exhausted blue. The monster never truly left.
He sat on the edge of the bed, hunched and shivering. His heart jackhammered, veins icy. Bruce ran a shaking hand through his tangled hair, breath ragged. The nightmare didn't fade. It clung to him, tightening its grip.
The sense of violation—his mind invaded, boundaries between man and monster erased—left him gasping. The cheap lamplight threw his shadow across sickly walls. Bruce's bedroom floored seamlessly into the bleak living space—a reminder he was always exposed, always the hunted.
He rose, lumbering towards the battered desk where disarray reigned. Old papers, formulas stained with blood, notebooks dense with equations that led everywhere and nowhere. The laptop's glow lit his hollow eyes. For a heartbeat he could not remember who he was—scientist or animal.
Every corner threw long, stuttering shadows. He stared blankly at the blinking cursor. It beat like a metronome for his dread. No words would come, only a memory of the monster's green gaze.
Bruce found the glass vial from yesterday—a symbol of hope so faint it was almost cruel. His hands shook as he fumbled for a syringe. He punctured his own skin, the needle's sting trivial next to the screaming inside him. Crimson blood welled, darker than usual, tinged at the edges with swampy green—a taint that would never be washed clean. He dripped the blood and the compound together in a petri dish, breath held while an impossible hope trembled in his gut.
Under the microscope, something almost beautiful happened: the red, normal blood surged for a moment, striving to reclaim lost ground. But inevitably, the green crept back, swallowing the healthy cells. The dish fractured with a sharp ping, red and green fluids pooling among the glass shards. Bruce stared, jaw tight; failure nested sharp as teeth in his chest.
Then came terror with a human face. He moved to the window, half-dreaming, when movement drew his gaze. Red glinted from a distant rooftop—a sniper's sight. Instinct jerked him back a split second before the bullet shattered the window, glass sparkling as it sliced air and skin alike.
Adrenaline struck. Bullets raked the walls, gouging masonry and spraying debris. Bruce dove, heart pounding, grabbing his battered jacket and boots, moving by muscle memory—the hunted animal who had learned never to sleep too deep. Cold wind poured in, carrying the stink of gunfire and blood.
Snatching his laptop and backpack, Bruce's hands fumbled with laces, with zippers, with panic. As more bullets screamed, he darted through the apartment door, boots thudding hard on rotten floorboards. The hall flickered dark, bulb light jittery overhead—shadows clawing at the walls. Gunfire thundered. He ran blind for the exit, every instinct wired for escape.
Outside, the snow fell heavier, erasing tracks, erasing hope. The only sound: Bruce's racing heartbeat, and the monster's voice whispering beneath it all.