Each night, the dream deepened.
A silhouette stood atop a mountain of skulls beneath a red moon. The wind carried whispers, a voice like broken glass inside his skull: I see you, Julian Graves.
He woke drenched in sweat. His pillow soaked crimson. Blood from his nose. The mirror in the bathroom was fogged, but he hadn't used hot water. On the floor lay a crumpled napkin from the café, covered in symbols he didn't remember writing.
His dreams became sharper. More vivid. Sometimes he woke to find his door open. The same song played on his radio at 3:03 a.m. each morning. He tried unplugging it. It still played.