A fowl taste pervaded Mason's mouth as he woke up. His mind swam, thick and sluggish, the world around him hazy and warped. His head throbbed, each beat of pain a hammer against his skull. He blinked, the motion heavy and slow, as if even his eyelids refused to cooperate. Everything was blurry, disjointed, like a bad dream.
Mason: What... happened...?
His limbs felt heavy, his body burning, as though his skin had been set aflame and left to smolder. The heat was unbearable, searing him from the inside out. Was he sick? No, this wasn't sickness... It felt worse. Much worse. The air was thick and cold, sharp with an acrid stench that made his nose wrinkle in disgust. For a second, he wondered if he was still asleep. He had to be. This had to be some terrible dream.
But then he blinked again, and his surroundings came into a focus. This wasn't his room. No soft mattress beneath him. No familiar walls. No... He was sitting—sitting?—in a narrow, damp alleyway. The rough, cold ground bit into his skin through his clothes. His mind reeled, trying to grasp at something, anything that made sense, but everything was slipping through his fingers.
Mason: A... kidnapping?
It was the first thought that surfaced, weak and shaky. Someone had taken him, right? That's the only explanation. People get kidnapped all the time in movies. But where was the kidnapper? Shouldn't there be ropes or a blindfold? He tried to move, to reach for his phone, but the moment he stretched his arm, every muscle in his body screamed, a violent eruption of pain coursing through him like wildfire. He gasped, choking on the agony as if his flesh were melting under a burning stove.
What the hell is going on?
He rarely left the manor in the winter. He hated the cold, the way it bit into his skin, numbing him to the bone. And he had been home last night. Hadn't he? Yeah, he'd gone to bed, snug and warm under his blankets in his room. There was no way he could have ended up outside. None of this made sense.
The pain flared again, a hot, stabbing sensation that refused to let him think clearly. Mason lay still for a moment, the world around him spinning. His breath came in shallow gasps as he fought to make sense of what was happening. Stay calm, stay calm... But how do you stay calm when everything feels like it's falling apart?
Then, in the midst of his panic, things began to change. Slowly, like fog lifting after a storm. His vision cleared, sharpening. Oh. Oh, he could see now. That was good, right? His nose, which had been assaulted by that awful stench, cleared, and the burning in his body—the fire in his veins—faded away. Just like that. Gone. As if it had never been there in the first place.
A strange, almost euphoric sense of relief washed over him, and for a split second, Mason thought maybe—just maybe—it really was all in his head. Maybe he'd wake up, laugh about it later, and go back to normal life. Normal... That's what he wanted, wasn't it?
But then, as his eyes finally took in the scene around him, the real source of the putrid smell hit him.
Mason: Oh God...
Lying at his feet were three grotesque, dead animals. They weren't just animals—they were something... else. Twisted. Wrong. Their bodies were large, unnaturally large, like something out of one of those old monster movies he used to sneak into. Their fur—if it could even be called that—was burnt, charred, with deep, jagged scratches running across their flesh. Spikes, unnatural and jagged, jutted out of their backs, twisting and curling in ways that made his stomach churn.
The sudden, searing pain in his hand cut his thoughts short. He yelped, clutching his left hand as a burning, intense heat ripped through his palm. It was unbearable, a fierce, relentless fire that made him want to scream. Was his hand melting? Was it going to fall off? He squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the worst, for his skin to slough away like wax under a flame.
But when he opened his eyes again, what he saw was far worse than anything he could have imagined.
He held the palm of his left hand out in front of him, and watched as a flame, black as night, danced across his palm.
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Mason Heartson was found passed out in an alley on December 12th. Cold, alone, unconscious—just another boy who had wandered too far after a reckless night. That's what they said. That's what everyone assumed. Too much to drink, they whispered. Another rich kid with too much freedom and not enough sense. And maybe, just maybe, that would've been easier to believe. But the truth? The truth was far less convenient, far harder to swallow.
After all the tests, after every question, even after he told them everything—the black flame, the dead creatures—no one listened. Not really. His parents, the doctors, the police, even his own mother, they all wrote it off as nonsense. And why wouldn't they? It sounded absurd, like something out of one of those comics or movies he used to devour as a kid.
Gabrielle Heartson: Whatever's on your mind, Mason, we're here. You know you can tell us anything, right? No judgments.
No judgments. But the way she looked at him... her eyes, soft but distant, her voice too careful, like she was speaking to a fragile thing that might shatter under the weight of reality. She didn't believe him. Not really. And that stung. More than he wanted to admit. She was his mom. Wasn't she supposed to believe him no matter how crazy it sounded?
It's fine. It's fine... Of course, she doesn't get it. No one would. If I were her, I wouldn't believe me either.
But the hurt still simmered, a small burn in his chest that he couldn't quite shake. It was the same thing, over and over—people not believing him, brushing off what he knew was real, turning him into the punchline of some joke he wasn't in on. Maybe that's why he stopped explaining it. Stopped trying to convince them. They'd already made up their minds.
Lying in his hospital bed, the sterile white walls closing in, Mason felt the weight of their disbelief, heavier than any test result or doctor's conclusion. He nodded when his mother left, the barest movement, his throat tight. He didn't know if he could explain it to anyone. Not anymore.
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Again.
The thought barely registered before Mason felt his body slam against the cold, unyielding wall of the gym. Pain shot through him like a live wire, rattling every bone and stealing the breath from his lungs.
How—how did she do it so easily?
His mind reeled, struggling to keep up with the ache and the humiliation as he slumped to the floor. But he forced himself to look up, to take in the maid's stance, calm and unbroken, like his effort was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
She tilted her head, her gaze softened with a distant concern.
Maid: Young Master, perhaps that's enough for today
Her voice even and measured, as though she hadn't just thrown him like a ragdoll.
But Mason pushed himself to his feet, the dull throb in his limbs reminded him of how far he still had to go. He clenched his fists, forcing his breaths into a steady rhythm as he steadied his footing.
Mason: Shut it.
The words laced with defiance, his lips curling into a smug grin that didn't quite mask the frustration beneath it.
Mason: I'm not done yet.
He forced himself into a low stance, feeling the tension in his legs, his muscles taut like over-wound springs. She didn't understand. He was pushing closer to something greater. And today, he'd prove it.
He lunged forward, launching himself at her with reckless abandon, the familiar burn of exertion spreading through his limbs. But she sidestepped with ease, her movements almost leisurely as she twisted out of his reach. Before he could react, her foot hooked behind his ankle, sweeping him off balance, and in a heartbeat, she had him pinned to the floor. He struggled, but her grip was unyielding, her strength like iron.
Mason's chest heaved as he lay on the cold ground, feeling the bruise blooming across his back where he'd landed. A wry smile twisted his lips even as he winced.
Mason: I'm not stopping.
The maid hesitated, her brows drawing together in a faint frown.
Maid: Young Master, you've pushed yourself enough these past days. There's no need to—
Mason: Enough talking!
He didn't need her sympathy. His fists clenched tighter, knuckles whitening.
With a grunt, he launched himself at her again, ignoring the sharp protests of his battered muscles. His vision narrowed, his focus tunneled on one thing—to land a hit. This time, he moved faster, weaving, dodging, each movement fueled by his desperate determination.
But she moved even faster, sidestepping his every strike with an ease that only deepened the gnawing frustration in his gut. Her counterattacks were fluid, relentless, her blows calculated to push him back without causing any real harm—a reminder of the gap between them. He didn't care. Even as bruises blossomed along his arms and legs, even as his breath came in ragged gasps, he threw himself at her, inching closer each time, until—
Mason's foot snagged on the edge of the mat, and his balance wavered, his own body betraying him in that crucial moment. The maid's hand shot toward him, a blur of precision closing in fast. He braced, muscles tensed for the impact, but—
It never came.
Mason blinked, his gaze lifting to see Claire, the ever-dutiful maid, her expression as unreadable as ever, standing between him and his opponent, her hand raised having caught his opponents blow with ease.
Claire turned her gaze down to him.
Claire: Young Master, continuing would be pointless. This exercise serves no purpose if all it does is exhaust you.
Mason struggled to his feet, his jaw clenched as he forced himself to stand tall, ignoring the ache that gnawed at his bones.
Mason: I was doing just fine until you decided to interrupt.
Her expression remained impassive as she met his gaze.
Claire: If fine means blindly throwing yourself into failure, then yes, you were.
The words stung, but he masked it with a defiant scowl, turning his back on her. What did she know?
He muttered under his breath, though he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince her or himself.
Mason: I'm getting stronger. I've improved. I know I have.
But as he walked away, her words followed him, unrelenting.
Claire: Arrogance dressed up as determination is just denial you know.
He paused, his hand on the doorframe, but he didn't turn around.
Claire: You want to prove yourself? Then learn patience. Right now, you're just fighting for the sake of fighting, swinging wildly in the dark, hoping something sticks. But true strength—true resolve—doesn't come from pretending.
Mason pushed through the door.
Claire: Arrogance only leads to hollow victories, Mason. Build a foundation before you stack all your pride on top of it, or you'll find yourself standing on nothing. Without that groundwork, failure becomes a pattern—a cycle you'll never break.
He ignored her, letting the words slide over him like water, refusing to let them sink in. She was wrong. He knew he was getting stronger. He could feel it, each bruise, each ache was proof of the progress he'd made.
But as he stood under the stream of water, the sting of her words settled in, echoing louder than any physical pain.
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Mason rubbed a towel through his damp curly blonde hair as he emerged from the bathroom, the steam trailing him like a mirage. He moved through his room—if it could still be called that—more like a cluttered battlefield of half-formed ideas and discarded thoughts. His foot knocked into something solid, and he squinted down at a stack of old, glossy magazines, half-open on the floor, the pages crinkling under his weight. Dirty dishes cluttered the desk, bits of old food sticking to their edges, a smell just on the edge of unpleasant lingering in the air. Gadgets, long-forgotten projects, even wrinkled sketches of creatures with twisted bodies and flames sprouting from their skin, lay strewn across the room.
He stepped carefully through the mess, hopping over a pile of old snacks, and finally reached his laptop, still open, screen littered with tabs and internet searches. Black flames, one read, followed by endless variations of "mysterious alleyways" and "unexplained creatures." His fingers hovered over the mouse, and he shut the tabs one by one until he reached his email inbox.
The unread message sat there like an accusation: Brentwood Graduation Ceremony. His school was moving on without him, leaving him behind without so much as a second glance. His classmates would be standing in their crisp, new suits, receiving diplomas, shaking hands with faculty, taking photos with proud parents. They didn't care. Why should they?
He stared at the email, feeling something sour and hot rise in his chest before he muttered under his breath.
Mason: Who needs it? I don't need some paper or some ceremony.
His voice sounded too loud in the quiet, an echo that felt false even to him. His gaze drifted to the cluttered room around him, and his lips twisted into a bitter smile. He could coast forever, couldn't he? Take it easy—who would care? Who'd notice if he slipped off the map entirely, or if he stayed holed up here, buried under his piles of... nothing.
But then, as the thought settled, a flicker of something colder twisted in his chest.
Nah.
He shut his eyes, almost willing himself to believe in the lazy comfort he was painting.
No.
The ache was sharper, pricking at him from somewhere deeper than his idle thoughts. He couldn't just vanish. The idea sat heavy, cloying, in the back of his mind, and he felt it like a weight.
He didn't want to.
He closed the email, slamming the laptop shut with a flicker of irritation. It was fine. He'd come up with something to tell the maids later if they asked. His parents wouldn't even bother.
A knock on his door jolted him from his thoughts, echoing through the thick walls of his room. Mason flinched, stumbling back and landing knee-deep in the mess under his desk, his hand grazing against a half-finished sketch of something monstrous. He scrambled through the piles of clutter to the door, muttering curses under his breath as he pulled it open.
The maid, in truth he couldn't remember which one, stood there, her face carefully blank but her eyes slipping past him, widening as she took in the disaster of his room. She seemed almost afraid to step closer, her gaze moving over the scattered articles, the drawings that looked as though they'd been scratched out in desperation, the layers of dust settling over everything.
Maid: Young Master. you've been summoned downstairs. I'm afraid the matter is apparently urgent.
Mason felt his stomach lurch. He didn't need to ask why. They must've found out. His little habit of disappearing from classes had finally caught up to him. Still, he threw on an air of indifference, crossing his arms with a huff.
Mason: I'll be down in a minute.
But she wasn't finished. Her eyes flicked again to the room, and she added.
Maid: Shall I call for a cleaning service, Young Master?
The question struck him like an insult, his face flushing as he slammed the door shut with more force than he'd meant to. He pressed his back against the wood, breathing hard, feeling the weight of her judgment hanging in the air. She was gone, but the shame lingered. He reached for a shirt—a crumpled, worn one from a heap on the floor—and tugged it on, barely bothering to smooth it out before he headed toward the staircase, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. He was still thinking about her look, that careful concern, the way she'd regarded him as though he were a child in need of help. It burned.
The familiar echo of his footsteps accompanied him as he descended the grand spiral staircase. The Heartson Manor stretched out below him, vast and opulent, every corner of it carefully crafted, perfect, polished. The grand chandelier hung like a frozen cascade of diamonds, the lights glinting off the marble floors that shone under layers of polish. He walked slowly, his fingers trailing along the smooth wooden banister, but there was no comfort here, no warmth. The polished wood and the gleaming surfaces seemed dull, lifeless, an empty shell.
The manor was a beautiful cage, filled with the kinds of luxuries most people would envy. But it was a cage all the same, a hollow monument to a family that dealt in facts and figures, who saw the world in black and white, leaving no room for shadows.
His hand combed through his hair, nervously smoothing out the strands as he tried to prepare himself for whatever lecture was coming his way. He mumbled under his breath, half-formulating excuses, half-wondering if he could spin some story to soften the blow.
As he approached the foyer, his eyes found Claire and three other maids standing near the entrance, all poised and serious. His heart skipped, the thought of his cover being blown prickling his nerves. But the instant Claire spoke, her words derailed his spiraling thoughts entirely.
Claire: Your parents, Gabrielle and Samuel Heartson, will be returning to the manor tonight.
Mason froze, the carefully constructed excuses in his head dissolving instantly. For a beat, he could only stare, caught between surprise and bewilderment.
What? They were coming back?
Claire continued, her voice as steady as ever.
Claire: They'll be gone for an extended period—several more months than they'd planned. Something's come up with their company. As such, they'd like to have one more dinner with you before heading out.
Mason blinked, trying to process this strange twist of news. Relief washed over him, realizing this was not the confrontation he'd braced himself for, but his mind quickly filled with questions.
What could be so important that it demanded their absence for months on end?
Mason barely held back a scowl.
What kind of parents leave for that long, anyway?
He let out a short, annoyed sigh.
Mason: Whatever.
He muttered under his breath, a frown tugging at his face. But he barely got a few words in before Claire held up a hand, cutting him off mid-complaint.
Claire: I'm not finished, your parents will also be taking all the manor's staff with them. Every maid, butler, and servant. They'll all be needed to attend to their needs while they're away.
He blinked, his frustration giving way to confusion. The idea seemed bizarre, even for his parents' usual antics. Why would they need an entire household's worth of help for a business trip? What kind of company did they run that required such an entourage?
But before he could delve into his questions, Claire continued.
Claire: I'll be the only one remaining here. Just me, to look after you in their absence.
The room seemed to hang in silence. Mason's mind whirred with the strange implications of it all. He'd never much cared about his family's business, never asked about the specifics of where all that wealth came from. And yet, a trip this... elaborate, one that took everyone, even the staff, was a curiosity he couldn't ignore.
Still, he wasn't about to let Claire see any hint of curiosity or worry. He shrugged, tossing her a scoff and a roll of his eyes.
Mason: It hardly makes a difference if you're here or not.
He stepped past her with a forced smirk, aiming for the front door.
Mason: In fact, I was planning to head out on my own today, anyway. So don't think I need any company.
Claire didn't react, her expression as poised and unfazed as ever. Just as he reached for the door handle, her voice cut through the silence one last time.
Claire: Oh, and one more thing.
Her voice held a faint note of amusement, as though she'd been waiting for this exact moment.
Mason's hand hovered over the door, tension tightening his shoulders. He glanced back, and there was Claire, watching him with that knowing, almost infuriatingly calm smile.
Claire: Perhaps you should worry less, and try controlling your heartbeat. You needn't be so worked up. I couldn't care less about your lack of a school diploma. But if you don't learn to hide that fear, it will catch up with you sooner or later.
Mason's heart thudded painfully in his chest, his pulse betraying him even more under her perceptive gaze. For a moment, he could only stare, feeling exposed, as though she'd peeled back the layers he'd tried so hard to keep hidden. Heat crept up his neck, and he yanked the door open, stumbling outside in a hasty bid to escape her piercing observation.
The doors of the manor closed behind him, leaving him alone, but her words lingered, haunting him with their quiet precision. He scowled, pushing the thoughts away. It was just Claire being... Claire, he told himself.
Mason stumbled his way down the winding forest path, branches snagging at his shirt, tugging at his unkempt hair. He pushed them away absentmindedly, his gaze fixed ahead, jaw clenched. As he neared the edge of the forest and stepped onto the street, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched as he merged into the city.
His clothes, still wrinkled and a bit stained, felt conspicuously out of place here. And of course, he'd barely run a comb through his hair; it stuck up in haphazard directions, catching glances from passersby. A girl and boy around his age walked by, laughing about something he couldn't hear, and he caught their quick glances, their faint smiles of amusement as they took in his disheveled appearance.
What are they laughing at?
It's not like I care what people like them think.
But despite himself, his gaze lingered on them a moment longer, the easy way they moved together, their hands brushing now and then. He felt a slight twinge and quickly shook it off, looking away.
Side characters, Just extras, living lives so small they don't even know it. Probably can't imagine anything beyond this place.
His lips twisted into a smirk.
The streets began to change as he continued his path. The city bright lights and well-dressed people gave way to cracked sidewalks, peeling walls, and faded shop fronts. A few people lingered by doorways, slouched on benches, some stretching out empty hands, eyes hollow and pleading. One man's hand reached toward Mason as he passed, a wordless request, but Mason barely gave him a second glance.
What do they expect? If they have no direction, no reason to be here, why bother at all?
The thought left a strange taste in his mouth, but he pushed it down, walking faster as the distant hum of the city faded into silence. Ahead, the familiar alley loomed, shrouded in shadows, looking just as it had every time he'd come here. It felt colder, the shadows longer, the quiet too thick. This alley, this one, was different.
This was where it had all started.
He crouched down, eyes scanning the cracked pavement, fingers tracing over it as if it might somehow reveal a clue he'd missed before. His hand scraped against the cold ground, every scratch, every corner of it as empty as the last time.
Nothing. Just the same dirty, forgotten alley, as if it were mocking him. A place as meaningless as all the others.
But no. No, he couldn't have imagined it. His chest tightened, his fists clenching as he felt the anger boil up again. The creatures, the black flame, the proof of his purpose. The thought of them disappearing, of it all meaning nothing…
Mason took a shuddering breath, trying to calm the twisting feeling in his gut. He couldn't let that idea creep in. This—this was real. It had to be. He held onto that thought, clinging to it with everything he had, even as the empty alley seemed to stare back at him, indifferent.
Just then, a strange sensation crept over him, prickling at the back of his neck. He froze, his head snapping up. Something was wrong. His eyes darted upward, to the roof above. For a fleeting second, he caught what looked like a shadow, the faintest flicker of movement. Someone watching him? He stared hard, eyes narrowed, but there was nothing there, just the empty skyline and the faint hum of the distant city.
He forced a laugh under his breath, trying to brush it off. But his heart pounded faster, and he felt his fists tighten again.
Who'd waste their time watching me, anyway?
With a deep, shaky breath, he rose, brushing his hands off and forcing himself to turn away from the empty rooftop. The thought still lingered in the back of his mind, gnawing at him as he stuffed his hands back into his pockets, his footsteps echoing down the alleyway. Nothing here today, same as every other day he'd come here.
Today didn't produce any results so I'll just I'll just have to take it easy and relax for now.
Tomorrow, I'll find something.
Tomorrow.
And so Mason Heartson shoved his hands into his pockets and began his march back down to the gates of the colorless Heartson Manor.
Alone.
Always alone.
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Samuel Heartson: Claire tells me you've been working hard
Mason didn't bother looking up. He grinned as if the words bounced off him, shoveling food into his mouth, chewing slowly. It had been almost two months since his parents had bothered to sit down for dinner with him, and five months since the night that changed everything. The air between them was thin, stretched, like they were tiptoeing around something none of them wanted to acknowledge.
Gabriella Heartson: What have you been doing lately dear?
Mason considered the question for a while, thinking about whether he should tell the truth or not. If he could avoid it, Mason did not like lying to his parents, and even though they treated him like a kid, they never kept secrets from each other. But something was different now. A voice in his head told him he couldn't tell his parents what he was actually doing.
The question hung in the air longer than Mason liked. He considered his options, fingers twitching against the cold fork in his hand. He could tell the truth... but that seemed impossible now. He never liked lying to his parents—despite everything, they'd never kept secrets from each other before.
Before.
Mason: Oh, just buried in homework, you know.
He forced a casual shrug, the kind you give when you want someone to stop digging. His mother's eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of disbelief in her gaze. She always saw through him. But Mason couldn't meet her eyes. Not this time.
He stabbed at his food, chewing with a deliberate slowness, hoping she wouldn't press further. His father's silence was heavy, Samuel's presence always felt like a shadow in the room—solid, imposing, yet distant. His mother, however, was persistent.
Gabriella Heartson: Mason... it's the summer.
There it was. The disbelief she didn't bother to hide. Summer. There was no homework.
Mason: Yeah, well... just trying to get something off the ground, you know? It's not exactly going as planned.
He heard the lie in his own voice, but he could convince himself it wasn't completely untrue. The black flame... figuring out what was going on with that counted as "something," didn't it? He was working on it, after all. The words tasted bitter, though, even to him.
Gabriella: Well, if you're having any trouble, you know you can just ask us for help sweetheart.
Her hand stretched across the vast dining table, her fingers wrapping gently around Mason's arm. The touch was light, caring, but it felt wrong—like she was trying to ground him when he was already slipping away.
Mason: I'm not a child anymore mom!
He forced a playful tone, even flashing her a quick grin. But the smile didn't reach his eyes, and hers didn't return it. She looked at him with that same worried expression, and Mason's irritation grew. Why couldn't she just drop it?
Gabriella: I know you're not, we know, but still, your father and I are worried about you. First, we heard you stopped attending your classes last semester…
Mason bit his lip and made a mental note to chew Claire out the next time he saw her.
Gabriella: …And then of course there was the incident in December.
There it was.
Mason: What does that have to do with anything!
His voice was sharp, harsher than he intended, and he saw the way his mother flinched ever so slightly. Just a twitch of her fingers against his arm, but it was enough. Enough to make him realize.
She was afraid.
Gabriella: Your behavior has been odd these past few months and I just need to make sure everything is alright with you. You're our only child and you know we would do anything to keep you safe, so if there is anything bothering you, please tell us.
Her voice was soft again, pleading, but all Mason could hear was the accusation beneath it. She didn't believe him. She never did. How could she ask him if something was bothering him when she hadn't even listened before?
Mason: If you actually cared, maybe you'd have tried to help me instead of leaving me in this place with nothing but servants to babysit me! Maybe if you took five minutes out of your precious day, you'd know how I felt!
Mason slammed his hands on the table and stood up.
Mason: Do you have anything to add, father?
Mason glared at his father who was now wearing an uncharacteristically grim expression on his face.
His voice shook, his anger bubbling over, but Samuel didn't respond. He just shook his head, barely looking at Mason. Instead, he glanced toward his wife—his expression uncharacteristically grim, a shadow of something Mason couldn't place behind his eyes.
It was subtle, just for a second, but the way they exchanged that look—
Mason's stomach churned. He didn't wait for an answer. He stomped up the stairs, the echoes of his footsteps bouncing off the walls of the manor. When he reached his room, he slammed the door behind him, the force of it rattling the frame.