Author's Note: This chapter contains themes of suicide and emotional breakdown. Please read with care.
James, Olivia, Alex, and Emma were sitting downstairs, trying to think about what they should do — how they could help Angelo.
Emma walked up to Alex, who was sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees and his jaw resting on his knuckles. She tugged gently on his leg. Alex looked down at her.
"Will Angelo be alright?" she asked.
Alex forced a broken smile and replied, "He'll be alright. He's strong. I know he'll pull himself back up."
He meant every word, but it didn't convince Emma. She looked down at her feet.
"Angelo looks weird. He doesn't look like himself anymore. I don't like it."
Olivia and James heard her. Both clenched their fists in frustration. They couldn't help Angelo — and that truth was eating them alive.
Alex picked up Emma and set her down beside him on the couch. "No matter how he looks or sounds, he's still our Angelo. Do you want to play with him again, after he feels better?"
Emma nodded slowly, then asked, "When will he get better?"
Alex thought for a moment before answering softly, "… I don't know. But I hope it's soon."
While they talked downstairs, Angelo sat alone on his bed, lost in silence.
He picked up the mirror beside him again.
His reflection stared back — strange, unfamiliar.
His hair now had streaks of white running through it, like lightning had struck the crown of his head and burned a pattern into it. He leaned closer. The streaks weren't random — the way they curved and framed his face felt deliberate, almost unnatural.
He set the mirror down beside him with a sigh. His throat felt dry. Reaching for the water bottle on his nightstand, he tilted it — empty.
He groaned softly and closed his eyes. But then… something strange happened.
The bottle grew heavier.
He opened his eyes and looked at it. As he held it, water began to rise from the bottom — clear, smooth, silent — filling the bottle like it was obeying him. No sound. No glow. Just water, appearing from nothing.
He stared in disbelief.
Cautiously, he took a sip. It was normal water. He drank a quarter of it — and the bottle refilled itself instantly.
He gripped it tighter, disturbed.
What is this? A trick? A curse?
Frustration spiked. He hurled the bottle across the room. It hit the wall and bounced off harmlessly.
He whispered, "What time is it? How long have I been sitting here… all alone?"
Reaching toward the nightstand, his hand met empty air. Scanning the room, he spotted his phone on the cabinet across from him. He sighed. "Of course."
With a weak chuckle, half in defeat, half in mockery, he stretched out his hand lazily toward it. "Come here."
The phone jerked — floated — then zipped into his palm.
He froze. His fingers tightened around it. A rush of adrenaline surged through him.
"What the hell…?"
Awe. Fear. Disgust. They churned together inside him, forming a toxic storm.
I'm becoming a monster.
That thought echoed again — louder this time.
He remembered the mark that had formed on his back the last time this happened. He took off his shirt and grabbed the mirror. Twisting, he tried to get a glimpse.
It was faint… but visible. The mark had spread.
Thick, black tendrils of strange symbols reached further across his skin, curling like vines — alive, creeping, invasive.
He whispered, "I never asked for any of this."
His chest tightened. Rage boiled inside him.
Memories flashed — the rabbit, the coyote, the drunk man's voice calling him a freak… and in his mind, even his friends looked disgusted.
His eyes widened. His hands began to shake.
With a cry, he smashed the mirror on the nightstand. It shattered, glass exploding outward like frozen tears.
Breathing heavy, something dark twisted inside him.
He picked up a shard. It glinted red under the light. His hands trembled. He clenched it — it cut deep into his palm. Blood dripped, warm and real… then the wound sealed shut. He stared, then clenched again. It reopened. He bled. It healed.
Over and over.
Then — without thinking — he jabbed it into his throat.
Blood exploded out — hot, fast, violent. He choked, gurgled, gasped. But seconds later — the wound sealed.
Eyes wide, he stared at the shard, now soaked in red.
He let out a broken cry — and stabbed again. And again.
Blood sprayed, the wounds closed, the pain stayed.
He didn't stop.
Screaming, he dropped to the floor, sobbing, voice cracking from agony and exhaustion — but he kept doing it. Again. Again. The blood painted everything — bed, nightstand, walls, floor — in crimson red.
Downstairs, James had just put down a cup of tea when he heard the shatter. Then the scream.
Olivia was already on her feet, color draining from her face. She bolted up the stairs. James followed, heart pounding.
They threw the door open — and froze.
Blood. Everywhere. On the walls. The bed. The floor.
And in the center of it all — Angelo. Kneeling. Trembling. A shard of glass in his hand. His throat smeared in red. His sobs sharp and uneven.
James felt his legs lock. His mouth opened, but no sound came.
Olivia didn't hesitate. She dropped to her knees, slipping in blood, reaching for the shard.
"Stop, Angelo! Please, stop!"
But Angelo didn't listen. He screamed and stabbed himself again.
James broke free from shock and lunged forward, grabbing Angelo's arm. "Angelo! Stop! Please, it's going to be alright!"
Angelo resisted, screaming, tears and blood mixing as he fought them off.
Olivia sobbed, "Please, don't hurt yourself anymore, I beg you!"
But Angelo shouted through the pain, "I'm becoming a monster! I have to end it before I hurt you all!"
Olivia grabbed the shard with her bare hand. It sliced her instantly — blood ran down her fingers, dripping onto the floor and mixing with his.
Angelo froze.
Seeing her hand bleed, his own grip faltered. Olivia seized the moment — she wrenched the shard from him and threw it across the room.
He stopped resisting.
Olivia pulled him into her arms. James took a shaky breath and joined them, wrapping his arms around both.
Angelo sobbed into Olivia's chest. "I don't want to be a monster. I don't want to hurt you, or anyone."
James's voice cracked. "You're not a monster. You're Angelo. Our son."
Angelo gasped between sobs. "I didn't know what else to do… I… I feel like I'm disappearing…"
"Then we'll hold on to you," James said, voice trembling. "We won't let you disappear."
Olivia ran her hand through his hair, tears streaming. "You're not alone. Do you hear me? You are not alone."
They held him there, soaked in blood and grief, but refusing to let go.
Their clothes darkened as his blood soaked through them. Olivia didn't flinch when it smeared across her arms or matted into her hair. James's hands shook, but he held on tighter.
They didn't try to clean anything yet. They didn't move. The blood covered everything — the floor, the walls, their skin — but none of it mattered.
Not yet.
The chaos inside him didn't vanish. The marks didn't fade. The powers didn't stop.
But in that moment, they gave him something the powers never could —
Warmth.
Love.
And something he hadn't felt in days —
The feeling of being human.