It happened on a rain-slick morning.
Ty sat on the edge of his bed, body hollowed out, his mind heavy like soaked cloth. For the first time, he couldn't even summon the strength to sneer at the nurses when they passed. His lips twitched, but the smirk died before it could form.
The mirror shimmered faintly in the corner of the room.
He looked up—and there he was. The boy. Not a warped reflection this time, not a flicker. He was clear. Soft features, wide eyes, a face Ty had tried to deny for years but could no longer push away.
The boy's lips moved soundlessly at first, then formed words Ty could hear only inside his skull:
It's time.
Ty felt a weight pressing down on him, not violent, not crushing—just steady, relentless. His chest tightened as though the very air no longer belonged to him. His fists clenched, but they trembled instead of striking.
"No," Ty whispered. His voice cracked. "No… I'm not done. I'm not—"
The boy's hand pressed against the inside of the glass. Calm. Patient. Certain.
And then Ty's own body betrayed him. His fingers lifted on their own, aligning with the boy's. The contact wasn't cold—it was warm. Warm in a way that made Ty's fury burn out instead of grow.
The glass rippled like water.
Ty staggered forward, but instead of going through, he went in. Pulled down into black water, his screams echoing only in his own mind. He pounded, clawed, tore—but the darkness folded around him like a coffin, smothering his fire.
And when he finally went still, the boy stepped into the silence.
His breaths came sharp and shaky. His hands clutched the sheets. His eyes darted around the room in panic, like he'd been dropped into a world that wasn't his.
When the nurses entered, they froze. For a moment, they said nothing, just staring at him as if something was wrong with the picture in front of them.
"Ty?" one finally asked, cautious.
The boy shook his head quickly, eyes wide. "Wh-where… am I?" His voice cracked, breaking like glass.
The nurses exchanged a look—not pitying, not soothing, but unsettled. One whispered, "He doesn't sound the same."
Another edged closer, clipboard clutched to her chest, studying him with wary eyes. "You know where you are. This is the ward. You've been here a long time." Her tone wasn't soft; it was probing, testing.
The boy swallowed hard, shaking his head again, fingers gripping the sheets so tight his knuckles whitened. "I… I don't remember."
The silence in the room stretched too long. Finally, the head nurse spoke in a low voice, almost to herself:
"…Something's changed."
The others didn't answer, but none of them looked away from him. Their faces weren't comforting. They were tense, suspicious, as if they were no longer sure who sat in that bed.
And in the drowning dark, Ty laughed once—a muffled, bitter sound that only he could hear.
Because they were right. Something had changed.
And Tyler had awakened.
And Ty was forced to sleep.
For now.