The room was heavy with the oppressive warmth of early morning, the kind that made sleep sticky and dreams linger like unwelcome shadows on the edges of consciousness. Sweat coated his bare skin in fine, glistening droplets that ran down the planes of his torso and pooled faintly along the curve of his lower back, half-hidden beneath the tangled weight of blankets that seemed reluctant to let him go. The sun had not yet pierced the thick curtains, and the room existed in a fragile state between shadow and the faintest promise of light, revealing the edges of furniture, the subtle textures of peeling paint along the window frame, and the faint outlines of a wardrobe leaning slightly to the right as though burdened by unseen weight.
Then the alarm clock screamed its mechanical insistence, a shrill insistence that shredded the lingering tendrils of dream and dragged him abruptly into consciousness. He sat up in the bed, chest rising with a sudden, sharp intake of breath, and for the first time allowed himself a moment to look, really look at his reflection in the glass of the nearby dresser mirror. His eyes, dark brown and shadowed with the weariness of nearly forty years lived in quiet compromise, blinked against the dim light, and his short black hair, damp and sticking slightly to the sweat along his forehead, caught the faintest reflection of the morning lamp from across the room.
Half-covered by the blanket, he observed the faint line of black hair across his chest and along his collarbone, the subtle definition of muscles hardened over years of neglectful discipline and quiet routines, and he exhaled with a groan, wiping moisture from his shoulders. "Damn… I need to take a shower," he muttered to himself, voice low and rough, thick with the remnants of a dream that refused to release him, "these nightmares again…"
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting the cold hardwood floor, and moved slowly toward the doorway, the blanket falling from one shoulder like a discarded memory. Each step was measured, careful, as though the sound of his own movement might shatter some fragile illusion of normalcy that still clung stubbornly to the room. His hand brushed against the wall as he passed, the slight warmth of the morning sunlight filtering faintly through the gap in the curtains reflecting along the faded wallpaper, before he reached the bathroom.
Inside, the small black radio on the sink caught his eye. He turned the faucet, the hiss of cold water snapping him further awake, and splashed his face with it, letting the shock wash away the last vestiges of sleep. Water ran down his face and into the sink with a faint metallic taste, and he shook his hands, droplets scattering across the tiled floor. Then he reached for the radio, turning the small dial until the static resolved into voices — voices of people speaking in calm tones, but underneath that calm a subtle tension, as if the weight of unseen things pressed against their words.
"…Reports keep coming in," the woman said, her tone careful but edged with alarm. "North Clayton, East Clayton, even some of the outer suburbs — entire families disappearing without warning. Some say they hear footsteps late at night, people wandering streets when they shouldn't be, staring blankly at nothing."
The man beside her, speaking now in a measured tone, interrupted gently. "Marissa, let's not get carried away. Eyewitness accounts are unreliable at best, and fear tends to inflate perception. We have no confirmed incidents linking these disappearances to anything extraordinary."
"Yes, but it's consistent," she pressed, almost leaning into the microphone despite the invisible barrier of static. "It's been three months. You can't ignore that there's a pattern here. People are avoiding crowds, neighborhoods are quieter than usual, lights flicker in the middle of the night, and some homes report… disturbances. Shadows moving in ways they shouldn't. And the military patrols — I've received multiple reports — armored vehicles moving at odd hours, streets cordoned off without explanation. Residents are frightened."
A second woman's voice joined the broadcast, calm but tinged with unease, as though trying to reassure listeners without admitting her own doubt. "The official explanation is minor civil disturbances, power fluctuations, or isolated criminal activity. But I've spoken to families personally — they swear something is happening in the darkness. Doors open on their own, items disappearing, and strange markings on walls. People report waking up with scratches or bruises that couldn't be explained. There's talk of a sickness spreading quietly, something… unseen."
The first man cleared his throat, sharper this time, a subtle note of authority creeping through. "Enough speculation. Let's move to lighter topics. Remember, the public needs calm, not panic. Reports of missing people are tragic, yes, but we have no evidence connecting them. And speculation about shadowy phenomena only fuels fear."
Marissa's voice dropped to a whisper, almost drowned in the static, but sharp enough for anyone listening to catch. "I've also received reports from military personnel themselves — patrols in uniform, weapons at the ready, but their movements are… irregular. At night they move silently, sometimes in areas where nothing should be happening. And some of them have… been reported missing too."
The man interjected again, firm, commanding. "Let's move on. We don't have verified sources for those claims, Marissa. The public deserves factual reporting, not fearmongering."
The broadcast crackled, and for a moment the room was silent except for the hiss of static and the faint hum of the water running in the bathroom. He finished brushing his teeth, swallowing the metallic taste of toothpaste while listening to the fading argument between caution and alarm, and he allowed his eyes to meet the reflection in the mirror. He saw the slight hollows beneath his eyes, the fine lines beginning to crease around his temples, the faint shadow of dark circles that seemed permanent. His reflection stared back at him, unflinching, and he muttered, almost to himself, "There's clearly something wrong…" The words were barely audible, swallowed immediately by the harsh hum of the morning light flickering through the partially drawn curtains.
He stripped off the last of his clothing and stepped toward the shower, the cold tile sending a sharp chill up his legs. The water hissed as it struck the porcelain floor, then roared down from above, cascading over his skin and washing away the sweat, the heat, the remnants of dreams that clung stubbornly to his mind. The bathroom became a theater of motion and sound — steam curling from the drain, droplets beading along the mirror, his own ragged breathing echoing against the walls.
The shower had left him invigorated yet strangely hollow, the sting of cold water chasing away the last vestiges of lingering dreams, but leaving a sense of tension coiled in his chest as he stepped onto the cool tile floor. Wrapping a pristine white towel tightly around his hips, water droplets clung stubbornly to the black strands of his hair and traced paths down the contours of his shoulders and torso, glistening faintly in the pale morning light that struggled through the slightly ajar blinds. He shook his head, scattering the remaining moisture, and ran the towel slowly over his hair, the rough fabric catching stubborn droplets, as though reminding him that even routine could not fully erase discomfort.
His gaze drifted down the hallway to the right, where the modest path led toward the kitchen and the main living area, a corridor filled with the quiet hum of morning: the soft creak of floorboards, a distant engine stirring beyond the fence, and the faint smell of damp earth seeping through the slightly open window in the corner. For a long moment, he simply stood there, the weight of silence pressing against him, before returning to the bedroom and switching on the light, the familiar glow revealing the simplicity of the room. A modest desk sat against the wall, illuminated by a single lamp, and on it rested a black bag, its zipper glinting faintly as he approached.
The dresser next to the desk bore a mirror, reflecting his own reflection with clinical accuracy, and he opened its drawers with deliberate care. Inside lay his small collection of clothes: a black suit with a tie neatly folded on the side, white shirts stacked with precision, brown jackets that carried faint traces of dust from disuse, and nestled in a corner, a baseball bat, its polished wood catching a slant of light.
He removed the towel, allowing it to fall to the floor, leaving him completely exposed to the mirror's gaze. His eyes lingered on the bat for a moment, the rough grain and slight curve of its barrel triggering a quiet, almost whimsical thought. He spoke aloud to no one, his voice low and amused, "One day, my friend… when I get the chance, I'll swing you just right."
Turning back to the drawer, he selected his athletic outfit for the morning: a fitted black compression shirt that hugged his torso, revealing subtle definition of his chest and abdomen, paired with slim black joggers that allowed free movement yet stayed taut against the muscle of his legs. Black sneakers with faint scuff marks completed the ensemble. As he pulled the shirt over his shoulders, the water droplets running down his skin caught the light briefly, glimmering like remnants of a storm just passed. He ran the towel again through his hair, brushing the remaining damp strands back from his forehead and shaking it free from the stubborn clinging curls.
Dressed and composed, he closed the wardrobe with a soft click, the sound echoing slightly in the otherwise silent room. His attention was drawn then to the window, where sunlight struggled to penetrate the wooden blinds. Lifting one flap carefully, he allowed a sliver of the outside world to come into focus. Below, the street was waking in the quiet, ordered rhythm of suburban life: a man pushing a hose over his lawn, water spraying onto neatly trimmed grass, the gentle hiss of the sprinkler a normal counterpoint to the distant hum of engines. Another neighbor, a woman bundled in a sweater, walked a dog along the curb, leash taut as the animal sniffed at the edge of the pavement. The world moved obliviously, perfectly unaware, and he watched them in silence, feeling a faint chill of separation — the sense that he could observe, but they could never truly see him. He murmured quietly to himself, almost inaudibly, "I hope nothing bad happens here."
His gaze drifted back to the bedside table and landed on the alarm clock. Picking it up, he squinted at the small glowing numbers: 6:27. He exhaled softly, a contemplative smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "It's time to rethink my daily routine," he muttered, almost whispering to himself, "if you don't want to become…" His eyes followed a stout man trudging slowly down the street, his posture rigid, movements sluggish. His lips curved into a wry, knowing smile. "Like him... Ethan," he said quietly, putting the alarm clock back down.
For a brief moment, Ethan lingered at the window, the weight of morning stretching around him, both comforting and constraining. Then he turned, letting the towel fall lightly to the floor as he stepped toward the door, running a hand over his damp hair one last time, shaking off the residual chill. The doorknob felt cool under his fingers as he opened the door, letting it swing quietly behind him.