Julian made it through exactly forty-three minutes of Professor Vasquez's seminar before his carefully constructed focus began to crumble.
The topic was supposed to be Northern Renaissance iconography, something that normally would have captured his complete attention. But today, every mention of religious symbolism made the mark on his chest pulse with phantom heat, and every discussion of artistic technique reminded him of the impossible drawing hidden in his sketchbook back in his room.
"The use of symbolic elements in religious art served multiple purposes," Dr. Vasquez was saying, her voice carrying the authority of someone who had spent decades studying these works. "Artists embedded meaning within meaning, creating layers of interpretation that spoke to both the educated elite and the common observer."
Julian tried to take notes, but his hand kept drifting across the page in curves and angles that had nothing to do with the lecture. Without conscious thought, he found himself sketching the curve of an aristocratic jaw, the sharp line of elegant cheekbones. Golden eyes that seemed to burn even in graphite.
He jerked his hand away from the paper and stared at what he'd drawn. It was him again—the demon from his impossible dream. But this time, the sketch was darker, more menacing. Shadows pooled around the figure's features like gathering storm clouds, and there was something predatory in the tilt of his head that hadn't been there in the original portrait.
"Mr. Cross?"
Julian's head snapped up to find Dr. Vasquez looking at him with raised eyebrows. The rest of the class had turned to stare, and he realized with growing horror that she'd asked him a question he hadn't heard.
"I'm sorry, Professor. Could you repeat the question?"
Her dark eyes studied him with the kind of penetrating intensity that made him feel like she could see straight through to his soul. "I was asking about your interpretation of the demonic imagery in Hieronymus Bosch's work. Given your... evident interest in the subject."
Heat flooded Julian's cheeks as he glanced down at his notebook, where his unconscious sketching had filled the margins with increasingly dark and supernatural imagery. Not just the demon's face, but symbols that seemed to pulse with their own malevolent energy, creatures that looked like they'd crawled out of nightmares, and shadows that seemed to move even when he wasn't looking directly at them.
"I..." Julian struggled to find words that wouldn't make him sound completely insane. "I think Bosch was trying to show that the line between divine and demonic isn't always clear. That sometimes what appears beautiful can be dangerous, and what seems monstrous might be... misunderstood."
The words came out sounding more personal than academic, and Dr. Vasquez's expression shifted to something that might have been concern.
"An interesting perspective," she said carefully. "Perhaps we could discuss it further after class?"
Julian nodded, not trusting his voice, and spent the remaining seventeen minutes of the seminar trying to keep his hands still and his mind focused on anything other than the growing certainty that he was losing his grip on reality.
When the class finally ended, students filed out in clusters of animated conversation about weekend plans and upcoming assignments. Julian gathered his things slowly, hoping Dr. Vasquez would get distracted by other students and forget about her offer to talk. No such luck.
"Julian," she called as the last student left. "Could you stay for a moment?"
He approached her desk reluctantly, his backpack clutched against his chest like armor. Up close, Dr. Vasquez looked younger than her forty-something years, with intelligent eyes that missed very little and an expression of genuine concern that made Julian's carefully constructed walls start to crack.
"Are you all right?" she asked simply. "You seem... distracted today. More than usual."
Julian almost laughed at the understatement. Distracted didn't begin to cover waking up with mysterious drawings and strange marks on his body. "Just tired, I guess. Didn't sleep well."
"Nightmares?" The question was casual, but something in her tone suggested it wasn't a random guess.
Julian's grip tightened on his backpack. "Why would you ask that?"
Dr. Vasquez gestured to his notebook, which he was still clutching along with his other materials. "Your sketches from class today suggest someone wrestling with some very dark imagery. I've seen similar themes in students who are processing trauma or dealing with recurring nightmares."
For a moment, Julian was tempted to tell her everything. About the dream that felt more real than waking life, about the portrait he couldn't remember drawing, about the mark on his chest that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Dr. Vasquez had always been the one professor who actually seemed to see him as more than just another face in the lecture hall. Maybe she would understand. Maybe she could help.
Then reality crashed back in. What was he supposed to say? That he thought he'd been visited by a demon? That he was drawing supernatural beings with impossible accuracy? That he was pretty sure he was either having a psychotic break or living in some kind of paranormal romance novel?
"It's nothing," he said instead. "Just... weird dreams. They'll pass."
Dr. Vasquez studied him for a long moment, then reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a business card. "I know I'm just your art history professor, but I want you to know that my door is always open if you need to talk. About anything. Sometimes discussing our fears and anxieties can help us process them in healthier ways."
Julian took the card, noting that it had her office hours and email address written in neat handwriting. "Thank you, Professor. I appreciate it."
"And Julian?" She waited until he met her eyes. "If those nightmares get worse, or if you start experiencing anything... unusual... please don't hesitate to reach out. Sometimes the things that seem impossible have more basis in reality than we'd like to believe."
There was something in her voice that made Julian pause, a weight to her words that suggested she knew more about impossible things than a typical art history professor should. But before he could ask what she meant, she was already turning back to her papers, effectively dismissing him.
Julian left the classroom feeling more unsettled than when he'd arrived. Dr. Vasquez's reaction to his sketches had been strange enough, but that final comment about impossible things having basis in reality? It was like she knew something was happening to him. But that was crazy. Wasn't it?
The rest of his morning classes passed in a blur of half-listened lectures and increasingly disturbing doodles. By lunch time, Julian's notebooks were filled with images that made his skin crawl—shadow creatures lurking in the margins, symbols that hurt to look at directly, and always, always, those golden eyes watching him from every page.
He found himself in the campus art building, seeking refuge in one of the open studio spaces. The familiar smell of paint and turpentine usually calmed him, but today even the art studio felt wrong somehow. The shadows in the corners seemed deeper than they should be, and more than once he caught movement in his peripheral vision that wasn't there when he turned to look.
Julian set up at an easel in the far corner, pulling out a fresh canvas and his oil paints. Maybe if he could paint what he was feeling, he could make sense of it. Art had always been his way of processing emotions too complex for words.
But the moment his brush touched the canvas, something else took over.
His hand moved with a confidence and skill that felt borrowed from someone else, laying down broad strokes of deep crimson and shadowy purple. Colors he'd never mixed before flowed from his brush like they'd been waiting his whole life to be used. The painting that emerged was unlike anything he'd ever created—dark and beautiful and terrible all at once.
It was a landscape, but not of any earthly place. Twisted spires reached toward a sky that burned with unnatural fire, while in the foreground, flowers that looked like they were made of shadows and starlight bloomed from soil the color of dried blood. And there, barely visible in the distance, was a figure walking through this hellish garden. A figure with golden eyes and elegant horns who looked like he belonged in that impossible place.
Julian stepped back from the canvas, his heart pounding. He'd been painting for over an hour, but it felt like minutes. And the level of detail, the technical skill displayed in the work—it was far beyond anything he'd ever accomplished before. It was like someone else had been guiding his hand, someone with centuries of artistic knowledge and supernatural sight.
"Holy shit," a voice said behind him. "That's incredible."
Julian spun around to find Noah Hayes standing a few feet away, staring at the painting with wide eyes. Noah was in his medieval art survey class, a transfer student who'd started at Crestwood this semester. He had the kind of easy confidence that Julian envied, along with dark hair that always looked artfully tousled and green eyes that seemed to notice everything.
More importantly, Noah was looking at Julian like he actually existed, which was more attention than Julian was used to receiving from anyone, let alone someone who looked like they'd stepped out of a coffee shop aesthetic blog.
"I didn't hear you come in," Julian said, instinctively moving to block Noah's view of the painting. "It's not finished."
"Are you kidding? It's amazing. Where did you learn to paint like that?" Noah stepped closer, and Julian caught a whiff of his cologne—something clean and expensive that made Julian acutely aware of his own thrift store clothes and cheap deodorant.
"I'm mostly self-taught," Julian mumbled, which was true for his normal work. This painting, however, felt like it had come from someone else entirely.
"Seriously? This looks like something you'd see in a museum. The technique, the use of color—it's professional level." Noah paused, tilting his head as he studied the dark landscape. "Though I have to ask, what inspired it? It's beautiful, but also kind of... terrifying."
Julian followed Noah's gaze back to his painting, seeing it through fresh eyes. It was terrifying. The kind of image that belonged in nightmares rather than an art studio. But it was also undeniably beautiful, with a haunting quality that drew the eye even as it repelled.
"Just a dream I had," Julian said, which was at least partially true.
"Must have been one hell of a dream." Noah's smile was warm and genuine, the kind of expression Julian had always assumed was reserved for people more interesting than him. "I'm Noah, by the way. Noah Hayes. I think we're in Dr. Merritt's medieval survey together."
"Julian Cross." The name felt strange on his tongue, like he was introducing a different person than he'd been yesterday. "And yeah, I think I've seen you in class."
That was an understatement. Julian had noticed Noah from the first day he'd walked into Dr. Merritt's classroom, with his easy laugh and the way he actually participated in discussions without seeming like he was showing off. He was the kind of person Julian had always admired from a distance, too intimidated to even consider attempting conversation.
"Listen," Noah said, glancing around the empty studio, "I know this might be weird since we don't really know each other, but would you maybe want to grab coffee sometime? I'd love to hear more about your art. And maybe you could give me some pointers—I'm decent with a pencil, but painting has always kicked my ass."
Julian stared at him, certain he'd misheard. People like Noah didn't ask people like Julian for coffee. They barely acknowledged his existence, let alone sought out his company.
"You want to have coffee with me?" The question came out more incredulous than he'd intended.
Noah's expression shifted to something that might have been concern. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
Because I'm nobody, Julian thought. Because I'm invisible and boring and the kind of person who gets laughed at for thinking someone like Sophia Martinez might give me a chance. Because yesterday, you walked right past me in the hallway like I was furniture.
But he didn't say any of that. Instead, he heard himself saying, "Yeah, okay. Coffee sounds good."
"Great!" Noah's smile brightened, and Julian felt something warm unfurl in his chest. "There's this place off campus that's supposed to have amazing espresso. How about tomorrow afternoon? Say, two o'clock?"
"Sure." Julian couldn't quite believe this was happening. "Tomorrow at two."
"Perfect. It's called The Grind—it's on Maple Street, just past the bookstore." Noah pulled out his phone and handed it to Julian. "Here, put your number in and I'll text you the address."
Julian took the phone with hands that only trembled slightly, grateful that his newfound visibility apparently came with improved social skills. He typed in his number and handed the device back, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. The contact sent a little jolt through him that had nothing to do with the marks on his chest.
"I'll see you tomorrow then," Noah said, backing toward the door with that easy smile still in place. "And Julian? Seriously, that painting is incredible. Whatever's inspiring your work lately, don't lose it."
After Noah left, Julian stood alone in the studio, staring at his painting and trying to process what had just happened. For the first time in his nineteen years of existence, someone had sought him out. Someone attractive and interesting and normal had looked at his work and seen something worth admiring.
It should have been the highlight of his day, possibly his entire semester. So why did he feel like he was somehow betraying the golden-eyed demon who'd visited him in dreams?
The thought came out of nowhere and made no sense whatsoever. He didn't owe anything to a figment of his imagination, no matter how vivid or emotionally affecting the dream had been. If his subconscious was finally allowing him to be noticed by people like Noah, he should be grateful, not conflicted.
But as Julian cleaned his brushes and prepared to leave the studio, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. A chill went down his spine, and the sensation carried with it an overwhelming sense of displeasure, like whatever he was feeling wasn't happy at all.
The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to shift and writhe, and more than once Julian caught glimpses of movement that made his skin crawl. Once, he could have sworn he heard someone whisper his name, but when he turned around, the studio was empty.
The marks on his chest grew warmer, and suddenly some of the uneasiness slipped away, though he couldn't explain why.
By the time Julian made it back to his dorm, the sun was setting and his nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Every shadow looked like it might contain something predatory, every flicker of movement in his peripheral vision made him flinch. He pulled the hood of his hoodie lower over his head and tried to focus on the concrete path instead of the moving shadows. The walk back had felt longer than usual, with an inexplicable heaviness in the air that made each step feel like he was walking through water. The rational part of his mind insisted he was having some kind of delayed stress reaction to yesterday's humiliation, but the growing dread in his chest suggested something far worse.
Marcus was at his desk when Julian entered their suite, surrounded by anatomy textbooks and color-coded flashcards. He looked up when Julian came in, and his expression immediately shifted to concern.
"Dude, you look like hell. Are you feeling okay?"
Julian caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror by the door and paused. Something was different about his reflection, though he couldn't quite put his finger on what. His skin looked clearer somehow, with a subtle glow that made his features seem more defined. There was also a confidence in his posture that hadn't been there yesterday - his shoulders were straighter, his chin lifted slightly, like he actually believed he deserved to take up space in the world.
But there were also faint dark circles under his eyes, and something about his expression looked off. He looked tired, but he didn't feel tired. The marks on his chest were hidden beneath his shirt, but somehow their presence felt noticeable anyway, like they were radiating some kind of warmth that made him more aware of his own body.
It was like looking at two different versions of himself layered on top of each other - the old Julian who had always faded into the background, and someone new who was beginning to emerge. Someone people like Noah actually wanted to talk to.
"Just tired," Julian said, which seemed to be his default response to everything lately. "Long day."
"Yeah, I know you didn't sleep much. I heard you pacing around your room last night for hours. Were you on the phone or something? Next time maybe take it off speaker - the conversation sounded pretty intense."
Julian stared at his roommate, his mind racing. Marcus thought he'd been on the phone with someone, having an intense conversation that kept him pacing for hours. But Julian had been alone all night. Completely alone.
Except for the dreams. Except for the golden-eyed demon who'd touched him with reverent hands and left marks that were definitely not imaginary.
"I wasn't on the phone," Julian said slowly.
Marcus's expression shifted from mild annoyance to confusion. "But I definitely heard you talking to someone. You were pacing back and forth, and there was definitely another voice responding."
The room seemed to tilt around Julian. He remembered fragments of the dreams, remembered feeling more awake and aware than he ever had in his life. But if Marcus had heard conversations, if there had been another voice...
"What did you hear me saying?" Julian asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.
"I couldn't make out the words exactly, but you sounded... different. More confident, I guess? Like you were actually comfortable talking to whoever was there." Marcus paused, studying Julian's face. "I'm happy to hear you interacting with someone, because you've been more withdrawn lately, and that late night storm thing you did last night - what the hell was that? I'm surprised you're not sick right now."
Julian wanted to ask more questions, wanted to understand what exactly Marcus had heard, but the conversation was interrupted by a loud thud from Julian's room.
Marcus jumped. "What was that?"
Julian felt his stomach drop. "I don't know."
They both stared at Julian's closed door for a moment before Marcus stood up. "Probably just something falling. Your window might not be closed all the way - the wind could have knocked something over."
Julian followed Marcus to his room, both of them cautious. When Julian opened the door, they found one of his textbooks lying open on the floor beside his desk, pages fluttering slightly in the breeze from his partially open window.
"See? Just the wind," Marcus said, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as Julian. "You should probably close that window all the way. It's getting cold out there."
Julian nodded and moved to shut the window, but as he did, he knew that book hadn't been anywhere near the edge of his desk when he'd left that morning. And he didn't remember leaving the window open either.
"Thanks," he said to Marcus, who was already heading back to his studying. "Sorry about... all the noise last night."
"No worries, man. Just try to get some sleep tonight, okay? You look exhausted."
After Marcus left, Julian picked up the fallen book and set it back on his desk. As he did, he noticed it had fallen open to a chapter about medieval religious iconography - specifically, a section about protective symbols and their meanings. The marks on his chest seemed to pulse with gentle warmth as he looked at the page.
Probably just his imagination running wild. But as Julian got ready for bed, he found himself reading the chapter anyway, wondering why the symbols on the page looked so much like the ones he had drawn today. And more disturbing still, one of the protective symbols looked almost exactly like the marks on his chest.
Julian pulled up his shirt and stared at the dark red marks over his heart. According to the book, this particular symbol was used to ward off evil spirits and protect the bearer from supernatural harm.
But that raised an even more unsettling question: if someone had marked him with protection symbols, what exactly did they think he needed protection from? And why would they choose to do it while he slept?