Sleep did not come easily.
Ozion lay in the small, barely furnished room he called home, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The air was thick, oppressive, as if something unseen pressed down on the world.
The whispers had been growing louder.
He shut his eyes, but the darkness was not empty. Shapes flickered behind his lids—shadows that did not belong to him.
Then, the voice returned.
"Hungry."
The word slithered through his mind, a presence curling just beneath his thoughts.
Ozion's fingers twitched. "What do you want?"
A low hum. Not a voice, not quite. More like a presence given sound.
"To see. To take."
A pulse thrummed in Ozion's chest. Not fear. Not quite.
He had always known there was something inside him—something not quite human.
And now, it was waking up.
The darkness in his room seemed to deepen, stretching toward him. His breath came slow, steady. He did not move.
Then, just as suddenly as it came, the presence receded. The air lightened.
Ozion exhaled, sitting up.
He wasn't alone. He never had been.
And soon, the world would understand why.