The rain had teeth tonight.It didn't just fall — it bit, cold and sharp, cutting through Jonas's coat as he stepped into the narrow back alley off Bleaker Street. The neon from the strip club sign at the corner sputtered, drowning the brick walls in a sickly pink glow that pulsed like a dying heart. Somewhere above, a drainpipe choked and gurgled, spilling dirty water onto the cracked pavement.
He knew he was being watched.The air was heavy, too heavy — the kind of thick, damp pressure that meant more than just weather. Every sound was amplified: the scrape of his boots, the hum of a streetlight, the muffled bass from the club.
Then, from the shadow between two dumpsters, a figure stepped forward.
"Been a long time, brother," Rourke said.
Jonas froze. The man standing before him wasn't just from his past — he was the past. The long leather coat, the crooked grin, the tattoo snaking up his neck — all exactly as Jonas remembered. But his eyes… those were wrong. They glowed faintly yellow, as if something inside was looking out.
"You shouldn't be here," Jonas said, voice low. "Not after what happened."
"What happened," Rourke echoed, stepping closer, "is you left me in the fire. You let them burn me." His tone twisted — equal parts accusation and something more unhinged. "And now…" He reached into his coat and pulled out a switchblade. "…now I get to return the favor."
Jonas barely had time to shift before Rourke lunged. The blade caught the neon light as it sliced toward him. Jonas dodged, his shoulder slamming into the brick wall, pain shooting down his arm. He countered with a sharp right hook, connecting with Rourke's jaw. The impact was solid — too solid. It felt like punching stone.
Rourke grinned, blood dripping from his lip. "Still got some fight in you."
Jonas didn't answer. He moved forward, grabbing Rourke's wrist and twisting hard. The blade clattered to the ground, but before Jonas could follow up, the world… shifted.
The brick wall behind Rourke rippled. The ground beneath them softened, as if the pavement had turned to wet clay. The air grew thick, humming with a low, inhuman vibration.
Rourke's face… changed. His skin bubbled and stretched, jaw elongating, teeth sharpening. His eyes burned brighter, the yellow now molten gold.
"You can't outrun it," the thing wearing Rourke's face whispered. "The Sleeper is already inside you."
Jonas's stomach churned. He tried to shove the thing away, but his hands sank into flesh that wasn't flesh — something slick and writhing beneath the skin. He yanked back, and his palms were coated in black sludge that hissed when it touched the rain.
The alley stretched around them. The dumpsters grew taller, looming like warped towers. Neon signs twisted into jagged shapes, letters melting into symbols Jonas didn't recognize. Shadows poured from the cracks in the pavement, curling around his ankles like living chains.
And then — a whisper. Soft, almost gentle.Jonas.
He spun around. At the far end of the alley, a woman stood. Pale skin. Dark hair plastered to her face by the rain. He knew her — or thought he did. But her eyes were as black as the sludge on his hands.
"Come to me," she said. "It's warmer here."
Rourke — or what was left of him — lunged again. Jonas ducked, grabbed the fallen blade, and drove it upward into the thing's ribs. The scream that followed wasn't human. It was a howl that split the air, warping the neon light, shaking the ground beneath them.
The alley collapsed. Not physically — not yet — but Jonas felt it. Walls bending inward, sky bleeding into red and black streaks. The woman at the far end began to walk toward him, each step causing the rain to freeze mid-air.
Jonas staggered back, pulling the blade free. The sludge on it writhed like living tar, trying to crawl toward his hand. He dropped it.
"You can't kill what isn't awake yet," Rourke hissed, voice guttural and warped. "But you can be the first to welcome it."
Jonas's vision doubled. The real alley — cracked pavement, trash, neon glow — flickered against the nightmare one, where walls dripped blood and the sky boiled. His head throbbed. His breath came fast.
He bolted.
The pavement sucked at his boots, slowing him, but he forced himself forward. The woman's voice followed, echoing through the warped air. You can't run from dreams, Jonas.
At the mouth of the alley, a figure appeared — someone else. A man in a dark overcoat, face shadowed by the brim of his hat.
"Move," the man barked.
Jonas didn't think — he dove toward him. The man reached into his coat, pulled out a small silver flask, and hurled its contents into the alley. Where the liquid splashed, the sludge and shadows recoiled, hissing like acid on metal.
The nightmare flickered — then shattered. The alley returned to normal. Just brick, rain, trash. Rourke was gone. The woman was gone.
Jonas collapsed against the wall, gasping.
"You saw it, didn't you?" the man said, crouching beside him. His voice was low, urgent. "The Sleeper's mark. It's getting stronger."
Jonas stared at him. "Who the hell are you?"
"Someone who's been trying to stop this longer than you've been alive." The man straightened. "If you want to live, you'll come with me. Now."
Jonas hesitated — then nodded.
As they stepped out of the alley, Jonas glanced back. For a split second, he saw it again — the warped version of the street, the boiling sky, and at the far end, the woman smiling.
She mouthed two words before the vision faded.Not yet.