The world returned slowly.
Jagger stirred against the cold tile, his body heavy, every limb numb. At first, he thought he was still dreaming—the silence pressing around him was too thick, too absolute. His breath fogged faintly in the dim light. The air was colder now, clinging to his bare skin like damp cloth.
He forced his eyes open. Above him, cracks spiderwebbed across the pharmacy ceiling, dust clinging to the jagged edges like cobwebs. His vision swam, the room pitching and tilting. His tongue was dry, thick with the coppery taste of blood, and his throat burned like sandpaper with each swallow.
Pain followed awareness. His bandaged arm throbbed, every heartbeat a hammer blow against raw flesh. His leg was worse—stiff, burning, each twitch sending fire clawing up his calf. He groaned and tried to sit up. The effort was like dragging chains. His ribs shrieked in protest, his stomach cramped, his body folding under its own weight. He had to roll to his side, teeth grinding together as agony flared in every wound at once.
Blinking, he scanned the pharmacy floor. Shards of glass gleamed faintly in the dim light, pill bottles lay crushed like brittle bones, their medicinal smell faint but bitter in the air. His gaze caught on a few tablets scattered across the tiles—similar to the ones he'd taken from his home. He didn't know what they were. He didn't care. He had to take a chance. His fingers fumbled as he picked them up, dropping more than once. Finally, he swallowed a few dry, wincing as the chalky edges scraped down his raw throat.
That was when he heard it.
Footsteps.
Jagger froze. His breath caught, lungs refusing to expand. He strained his ears, every nerve stretched taut.
The sound was slow. Careful. Barely more than a shuffle.
Someone—or something—was out there.
The footsteps grew louder, dragging against the floor in a steady rhythm, each scrape followed by a faint hiss. They were coming closer.
Jagger forced himself upright, the counter blocking his view of the ruined store beyond. His head swam, vision tunneling, but the footsteps echoed clear and steady.
He moved quickly, teeth clenched against the pain. He dragged the stiff hoodie over his shoulders, fabric scratching his raw skin. A sharp jolt of agony shot through his bandaged forearm as he shoved his arm into the sleeve. His face twisted, but he bit down hard on his lip, tasting iron as he swallowed the cry. Next came the sweatpants, then socks, and finally his blood-soaked shoes—the leather stiff, sticky with dried stains.
With his bag clutched tight, he crawled beneath the counter, curling into the shadows. Every muscle was coiled, his fingers gripping the fabric until his knuckles ached.
The footsteps stopped.
Silence fell. Thick. Oppressive.
Jagger's pulse pounded in his ears, his body locked tight as stone. His eyes burned a hole through the wood above him, braced for the strike.
Then, a voice rasped out.
"…Excuse… me…"
Jagger's heart stopped.
"…Can I stay with you? It's scary… out there."
A girl's voice. Barely a whisper.
He stayed frozen, breath lodged in his chest. Slowly, with rigid movements, he peeked over the counter.
Blue eyes stared back at him—wide, familiar.
It was her.
The girl from the aisle.
Jagger's voice came out rough, cracked. "Why are you walking around out here alone, especially at night? Go hide somewhere safe."
The girl just stared, unmoving. Her hair was tangled, strands plastered to her dirt-streaked face. She looked like she hadn't slept in days.
"You have my father's bag."
Jagger's gaze dropped to the backpack slung over his shoulder. Her father's backpack. His chest tightened, guilt twisting his gut.
"Oh." His voice rasped. "Yeah. I'm… sorry."
"Can I at least stay with you?" the girl asked softly.
He hesitated. Silence weighed heavy between them.
"Please." The word cracked, small and pleading.
Jagger's jaw clenched. His head pounded. Finally, he muttered, "Fine. Come here."
Her eyes brightened. She hurried across the pharmacy, bare feet slapping faintly against the tile. Her clothes hung in tatters, dark stains crusted into the fabric. She ducked behind the counter and sat near him, curling small and fragile in the shadows.
A long silence followed.
Jagger shifted awkwardly, sneaking a glance. She kept her gaze on the floor, her face pale beneath the dirt. She looked hollow, empty—the kind of emptiness carved by grief and terror.
He unzipped the pack, pulling out a bottle of water and a Ziploc bag of trail mix. Carefully, he cracked both open. He took a sip, then a handful of peanuts and raisins, chewing slowly. When he swallowed, he extended the bottle and bag.
"Here. Eat. Drink. You look dehydrated."
Her brow furrowed, but she accepted them gently, as if afraid they might vanish. "Thank you." She popped a few peanuts into her mouth, washing them down with a gulp of water.
"I'm Jagger," he said quietly, fingers trembling against the bag.
The girl lifted her head. Her blue eyes met his, unreadable.
"My name is Dream," she replied. A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.
"Dream?"
She nodded. "My mother saw me in her dream. So she named me Dream."
"Huh." Jagger blinked.
"You look terrible," she said bluntly.
"I've felt better." He let out a hollow chuckle, but the sound cut off in a grunt as pain lanced through his ribs. "Got attacked by a monster."
"So did I," Dream murmured.
Jagger frowned, studying her. Blood-stained clothes. Bare feet. The exhaustion of someone who had seen too much.
There's no way a little girl survived out there alone. She would've been eaten alive. Either she's lying… or she's the monster.
He didn't let his guard drop. Not for a second.
Dream looked up, her eyes catching the faint light. For a moment, Jagger swore he saw something buried deep in them—something cold, something not meant to belong to a child.
"I killed them," she said.
Jagger's brow furrowed. A chill traced his spine. "Who did you kill?"
"The monsters." Her voice was flat, hard. "The ones that attacked us. They hurt my parents and brother. I couldn't let them get away with it."
Her words were ice, her eyes sharper still. Jagger's chest tightened.
She lowered her voice, almost to a whisper. "The voice told me to do it. It was the only way."
"The voice?" Jagger leaned forward, unease prickling at his skin. "What do you mean?"
Dream didn't answer. She just stared at the floor, fingers tapping against her thigh in a restless rhythm.
Jagger pressed again. "What is this thing helping you? It doesn't sound very human."
"I don't know." She scratched at her temple. That was when Jagger saw it—a dark, festering wound on the side of her head, edges raw and ugly.
"It talks to me," she continued. "Sometimes it helps me find food and water. Sometimes it protects me from monsters."
"Protects you how?" Jagger's voice was low, cautious.
Dream didn't answer. She just lifted her gaze, fixing him with a stare. Then she leaned forward, slow and deliberate. Her blue eyes glimmered unnaturally, a flicker of something beneath.
Jagger tensed instantly, muscles coiling tight. His heartbeat thundered in his chest.
"Dream," he warned.
She kept crawling closer, hair falling in matted curtains to hide her face.
"Don't come closer," he snapped, voice shaking.
Dream froze, then lifted her head. A smile spread across her lips—wide, wrong.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Jagger. I'm just going to take care of that body for you."
His breath hitched. The words scraped across his mind like broken glass.
"W-what are you talking about?"
She came closer, her smile stretched unnaturally far. Her eyes flashed crimson.
With a sudden lunge, Dream's mouth stretched unnaturally, her skin tearing into a grotesque maw, teeth snapping at his throat.
Jagger jerked sideways, but not fast enough—her bite clamped down on his shoulder instead. Her teeth punched through the hoodie, ripping fabric and flesh alike. White-hot agony exploded as she tore free, a chunk of meat ripping from him. Blood gushed, hot and wet, soaking the hoodie and running in rivulets down his chest.
"FUCK!" His roar broke the silence, raw and jagged.
He stumbled backward, clutching the wound, warmth spilling through his trembling fingers. Pain flared bright and burning—but then dulled, distant, as if his body were already shutting parts of him down. Not important. Not yet.
Dream—or the thing puppeteering her—rose from the ground in a slow, deliberate motion. The corners of her lips cracked as the grin stretched wider, skin splitting, blood trickling from the wounds. Red stained her chin, a grotesque mask that gleamed in the pharmacy's dim light.
"Stay the fuck away from me!" Jagger rasped, his voice breaking as he scrambled across the tile.
His hand struck something—a plastic bottle. Without hesitation, he hurled it. The bottle spun through the air and struck her forehead with a hollow crack. The cap popped loose, liquid splattering. She didn't even blink. The bottle bounced and clattered across the floor, rolling into the shadows.
'Fuck, fuck, fuck.'
His back slammed into the pharmacy racks, rattling pill bottles loose. His legs kicked, sneakers squealing against the tile, trying to keep distance between them.
"Oh, Jagger…" Dream's voice came out twisted, guttural, scraping low in her throat. Her laugh slithered through the silence, cold and inhuman. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just going to take care of that body for you. After all… there's no need for you to keep suffering, is there?"
She dropped low onto all fours, her movements jerky, twitching, unnatural—like a marionette dancing on broken strings. A hiss rasped from her throat, animalistic, her breath stinking of rot.
"Stay away from me!" Jagger shouted, pushing himself upright. His vision blurred, sweat stung his eyes. He rose a few inches—then his legs buckled. His knees smashed against the tiles with a sharp crack. Pain shot up his spine.
The creature lunged.
He barely rolled aside before she collided with the shelves. Metal screamed and buckled as pill bottles exploded outward, scattering across the floor like shrapnel. The acrid stink of chemicals filled the air.
Jagger forced himself up, his legs trembling, his balance faltering. But she was already moving again—too fast. She launched forward, and instinct flung his arm up to block.
Her fist slammed into his chest. The impact was a thunderclap in his bones. His body lifted from the floor and flew backward. He crashed against the counter with a sickening crack—something inside him gave way. The momentum flipped him over, hurling him into the glass storefront.
The window shattered. He hit the ground outside in a spray of shards. Glass dug into his back, slicing skin, grinding with every shallow breath. The air ripped from his lungs—he gasped, chest convulsing, vision swimming with black spots.
'Get up. Get up. Get up.'
His body didn't respond. He tried to move his legs—nothing. A pit opened in his gut.
'I can't move. I can't feel my legs.'