Content Warning:
This story is set in the dark and dangerous world of the Nightside and contains themes that may be unsettling to some readers. It features:
Violence: Graphic depictions of combat, injury, and physical conflict.Death: Characters face mortal danger, and death is a recurring element in the narrative.
Please proceed with caution if these themes are sensitive or triggering for you. This story is intended for mature audiences and explores the gritty, supernatural, and often brutal reality of life in the Nightside.
Chapter 1: A exile in the Nightside
Michael stumbled into Strangefellows, slamming the heavy door behind him as if the weight of the world had chased him inside. Blood seeped through his torn shirt, his breath came in heaving gasps, and every part of his body ached. The creature that had ambushed him in the alley wasn't playing around, and it had made sure he knew he didn't belong here. But somehow, against all odds, he'd made it.
Inside the bar, the world seemed to shift. Conversations stilled, heads turned, and curious eyes studied him. Strangefellows wasn't a place for the faint of heart—Michael knew that much. He also knew every single one of the patrons would happily watch him bleed out on the floor if it meant some entertainment. He leaned against the wall to steady himself, his bruised ribs screaming with every shallow breath.
Behind the bar, Alex Morrissey stood watching him with the kind of cool detachment that could cut steel. His expression betrayed no surprise, only faint irritation, like Michael was just another inconvenience in a long day of dealing with the city's worst.
"You planning to bleed all over my floor?" Alex asked, his tone dry.
Michael pushed himself upright, wincing. "No. Just… give me a second."
Alex snorted, already reaching for a bottle of something glowing faintly amber. He poured a measure into a glass and slid it across the counter. "Drink first. Talk after. What happened?"
Michael limped to the bar, eyeing the drink but not touching it. Instead, he looked up at Alex. "Before I take it… I don't have any local money," he said cautiously. "If you're offering, I'll take it. But I'll pay you back later. I'm good for it."
Alex froze for a moment, his eyes narrowing. The room went deathly quiet as every patron turned to see what would happen next. Alex didn't speak right away. Instead, he leaned forward, resting both hands on the bar as he glared at Michael. The silence stretched long enough that Michael started to regret speaking at all.
Finally, Alex sighed, a sharp, exasperated sound that carried through the room. "You're new," he said, his voice laced with annoyance. "Fine. You get a pass this time. But let me make one thing clear."
He turned to the rest of the bar, his gaze sweeping over the assorted patrons. "There are no free drinks in Strangefellows. Got it? Don't even think about trying your luck."
A low murmur of assent rippled through the bar, and the patrons returned to their drinks, though a few shot Michael bemused or pitying looks.
Alex straightened and gestured to the glass. "There. Consider it a welcome gift. But next time, you pay—one way or another."
Michael gave a tired nod. "Fair enough."
He picked up the glass and downed the drink in one burning gulp. It hit his throat like fire and spread warmth through his chest, momentarily dulling the pain. He set the empty glass back down with a quiet clink, trying to steady his voice as he spoke.
"I don't know what it was. Some… thing. Claws, big, fast. It didn't like me showing up where I did, and it let me know it."
Alex tilted his head. "Just showed up? Out of nowhere?"
Michael nodded, keeping his expression neutral. "One moment, I was on a train back home. Next thing I know, I'm in an alley. And then it was there."
Alex leaned back, crossing his arms as he studied Michael. "Well, you're here now. And you're lucky you made it. Most don't."
Michael glanced back toward the door. "It won't get in here, will it?"
"Not unless you invite it," Alex said. "And if you do, I'll personally throw you back to it."
Michael let out a shaky breath, nodding. He'd barely survived one encounter. The thought of facing another made his stomach churn. For now, though, he was alive, and that would have to be enough.
"Welcome to the Nightside," Alex said, his tone sharp and weary. "Hope you survive the night."
Michael sat at the bar for a moment, processing Alex's matter-of-fact explanation of the Nightside. It wasn't comforting, but it was something to hold on to, a thread of understanding in a chaotic mess. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, before deciding he needed a moment to regroup.
"Is there a bathroom I can use?" he asked, his voice still hoarse but steady.
Alex jerked his head toward the side of the bar. "Down the hall, second door on the left. Try not to make a mess."
Michael nodded in thanks, grabbed his backpack, and made his way down the dimly lit hallway. The air grew colder the farther he went, and the lighting flickered intermittently, as though the place itself couldn't decide how much light it wanted to allow. When he reached the bathroom, he was almost relieved to find it was as dingy and grimy as he'd expected—dirty tiles, a cracked mirror, and the faint smell of mildew.
He closed the door behind him and set his backpack on the floor. Taking off his jacket and then his shredded shirt, he finally got a clear look at his injuries in the mirror. The claw marks weren't deep, but they crisscrossed his side in angry red lines that stung with every breath. He frowned, rummaging through his backpack until he found what he was looking for—a roll of tape and some paper from his school supplies.
"This is going to suck," he muttered to himself, dabbing at the wounds with dampened paper towels. Each swipe sent sharp jolts of pain through him, but he gritted his teeth and kept at it. Once the blood was cleaned away, he folded a few layers of paper, pressed them over the worst of the wounds, and secured them with strips of tape. It wasn't pretty, but it would hold.
He sighed, leaning against the sink for a moment to catch his breath. His hands were still trembling, his mind racing. Whatever had attacked him could have killed him in seconds. That it hadn't only added to the questions swirling in his head.
And then it happened.
The pain came out of nowhere, sudden and overwhelming. It was as if a spike had been driven into his brain, setting every nerve in his body ablaze. His vision went white, and his knees buckled beneath him. He couldn't even scream—the agony was so complete, so absolute, that it consumed him entirely.
Darkness followed.
When Michael came to, he was lying on the cold, grimy floor of the bathroom. His head throbbed, a relentless pounding that made every thought feel like a battle. The tiles were damp beneath him, pressing uncomfortably against his cheek as he slowly opened his eyes. His limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, like he'd been drained of every ounce of strength.
He blinked, trying to orient himself, the dim, flickering light overhead casting unsettling shadows around the room. It took a moment to piece together where he was—or how he'd ended up on the floor. All he knew for certain was that something had happened. Something he couldn't explain.
He groaned softly, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the bar outside, and tried to move.
Michael groaned as he pushed himself off the cold bathroom floor, his head pounding with a strange intensity. But it wasn't just pain—it was awareness. He could feel them. Everywhere. Tiny movements in the walls, under the floor, and across the room.
The insects.
They were all around him, countless tiny creatures milling about in their own little worlds, doing insect things. And somehow, impossibly, he could feel them. Not just their presence but their individual locations, each distinct and vivid in his mind like glowing pinpoints on a map. The sensation was overwhelming yet oddly… natural.
He staggered to his feet, his hands gripping the edge of the sink for balance. As he raised his head to the cracked mirror, his eyes caught on a spider in the upper corner, spinning its web with patient precision. The awareness sharpened. He could feel it too—its tiny legs moving, the vibrations of its silk as it worked.
Curious, he focused on the spider. The sensation intensified, a strange connection forming. He pushed—not physically, but with his will—and, to his amazement, the spider responded. It stopped spinning its web, hesitated for a moment, and then began descending. Slowly, it came down its thread until it reached the sink, where it perched, motionless.
Michael stared at it, his amazement growing. He could control them.
"This is… incredible," he muttered to himself, a small, incredulous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He stared at the spider, willing it to move again. It twitched, then began to do what could only be described as a tiny jig, its legs moving in an erratic dance.
Michael couldn't help but laugh, the sound shaky and disbelieving. "Okay, that's enough. Go back."
He released the mental push, and the spider scurried back up to its web in the corner of the ceiling. His heart was racing, but not from fear. Whatever this was, it felt… natural. Right, even.
The sudden pounding on the bathroom door jolted him out of his thoughts. "You done in there, or do I need to bring the door down?" a gruff voice demanded from the other side.
Michael shook his head, quickly grabbing his shirt and slipping it back on. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and opened the door to find a burly figure with tentacles spilling out of its sleeves glaring at him. The creature muttered something unintelligible as it shoved past him into the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind it.
Michael made his way back to the bar, his mind still racing. He needed to process what had just happened, but if this was part of what being in the Nightside meant, he was only beginning to scratch the surface. He took a seat at the bar, glancing at Alex, who was wiping down glasses with his usual air of irritation.
"Something to drink?" Alex asked without looking up.
Michael hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. Definitely."
Michael slumped onto a barstool, his head still pounding and his nerves shot after whatever had happened to him in the bathroom. He struggled to keep his focus, but the sensation of awareness—the spiders, the insects, their constant movements—was still there, like an undercurrent humming just below the surface of his mind. He shook it off as best he could and turned to Alex.
"Can I ask you something?" Michael said, his voice low, but with a desperate edge.
Alex looked up from the glass he was wiping, raising an eyebrow. "You're already sitting at my bar, bleeding on my stools, and asking for drinks you can't pay for. Might as well keep going."
Michael ignored the jab, leaning forward slightly. "You've seen people stranded here before, right? People who just… show up with no idea what's going on?"
Alex's gaze narrowed slightly, his movements slowing. "Yeah, it happens. What about it?"
"What do they do?" Michael asked, his voice a little more urgent. "What do people like that do to survive? I mean, what's the first step when you're… stuck here?"
Alex sighed, setting the glass down and leaning on the counter. "Most of them? They either figure it out fast or end up dead. This is the Nightside, kid. Nobody's handing out survival guides or safety nets. You're on your own."
Michael swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the bar. "I get that," he said quickly. "But I need more than that. I don't know anyone here. I don't have money, and from the way you've described this place, I'll probably be dead by the end of the week. Hell, maybe the end of the night."
Alex's expression didn't soften, but he didn't interrupt.
"So, I'm asking," Michael pressed, his voice rising slightly with desperation. "Do you know someone who can help me? Someone who can point me in the right direction? A job, a place to stay—anything."
For a long moment, Alex didn't respond. He just stared at Michael, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighed again and shook his head. "You don't get it, do you? This is the Nightside. People here look out for themselves. That's it. You want help? You've got to make yourself useful first."
"I'll do anything," Michael said, leaning forward. "I'll clean. I'll work for scraps. Whatever it takes. Just give me a chance."
Alex frowned, tapping his fingers against the bar. "You're really not getting it, are you? If I stick my neck out for you, that's on me. You screw up, you cause trouble, or you bring something nasty down on this place, it's my head on the chopping block."
"I won't," Michael pleaded. "I swear I won't. Just… just give me something. A trial. Anything. I just need a chance to get on my feet."
Alex studied him for a long moment, his expression cold and calculating. Finally, he let out a sharp breath and straightened. "Fine. You want a chance? I've got a basement that's barely fit for rats. You can sleep there. And if you want to eat, you're going to work for it."
Michael's shoulders sagged with relief, but Alex wasn't done.
"You'll be on trial," Alex continued, his voice firm. "No screwing up, no whining, and no dragging your mess into my bar. The pay will be lousy—barely enough to survive—but it'll be something. You screw up even once, you're out. And trust me, if you end up on the streets of the Nightside, you won't last long."
Michael nodded quickly, his chest tightening with a mixture of gratitude and fear. "Thank you," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "I won't let you down. I promise."
Alex snorted, shaking his head. "We'll see about that. Don't make me regret this, kid." He turned away, muttering something under his breath about taking in strays, before gesturing toward the back of the bar. "Come on. I'll show you the basement."
Michael followed, his legs still shaky but his mind resolute. It wasn't much, but it was a chance. And in the Nightside, that was more than most people got.
The basement was surprisingly vast, stretching farther than Michael had anticipated, with shelves stacked high with supplies for the bar—barrels of ale, boxes of liquor bottles, and cleaning supplies. Dust clung to the air, and the faint smell of dampness lingered. It wasn't exactly cozy, but it was shelter, and that was enough.
Alex led him to the back, where a small closet-like room sat tucked away. It had just enough space for a cot, a rickety nightstand, and not much else. Alex tossed a blanket onto the cot and gestured around the dimly lit space.
"This is you," Alex said. "I live above the bar, you live here. For now."
Michael dropped his backpack near the cot, surveying the cramped space. "Thanks," he said quietly, though his gratitude was genuine.
Alex snorted, leaning against the doorframe. "Don't thank me yet, kid."
Michael frowned, the word catching his attention. "Why do you keep calling me that? Kid?"
Alex raised an eyebrow, giving him a once-over. "Because you look like you're barely eighteen. Maybe nineteen, tops."
Michael blinked, confusion washing over him. "That's not… right," he said slowly. "I'm not a kid. I'm a lot older than that."
Alex's expression didn't change, but he stayed quiet, watching as Michael's brow furrowed and his hand went to his temple. The pounding in his head returned, sharper this time, like a drumbeat growing louder and louder.
"I mean it," Michael said, his voice shaky as he tried to explain. "I'm not—this doesn't make sense. I'm… older. I'm—"
The words started to blur together, his tongue growing heavy. The room swayed around him, and he staggered, reaching out to steady himself on the wall. But his legs gave out beneath him, and he crumpled to the floor. He tried to speak again, to explain, but his words came out slurred and muffled, as though the air had thickened around him.
The pounding in his head grew unbearable, drowning out every coherent thought. Somewhere, faint and distant, he heard a voice—a low, cold chuckle that echoed through the darkness creeping into his mind.
It laughed.
It laughed, and it sounded like it was laughing at him.
The last thing Michael saw before everything went black was Alex's face, leaning over him, his expression unreadable as he said something Michael couldn't hear over the pounding in his skull.
Then, nothing. Only darkness.