Lars woke abruptly in the middle of the night, his breathing uneven, the echo of the girl's voice still lingering in his mind. For a few seconds, he remained sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to separate what had been a dream from what felt disturbingly real. The image of her—her expression, her voice, the accusation—refused to fade.
"…What the hell was that?" he muttered under his breath.
He ran a hand through his hair and stood up, heading straight to the bathroom. Turning on the cold water, he splashed his face repeatedly, as if trying to force himself fully awake. Droplets slid down his skin and fell into the sink as he slowly lifted his gaze toward the mirror.
His reflection stared back at him.
Tired. Tense.
For a brief second, something felt off.
"…What the hell…" he whispered.
But nothing changed.
It was just him.
