I hoisted his left arm over my shoulder, struggling to keep him upright. His body was limp, heavy—like hauling a soaked canvas. The height difference didn't help; his feet dragged behind me, scraping the floor like a marionette with severed strings.
"Ugh," I muttered, adjusting my grip as we staggered toward the apartment elevator.
His legs scraped the floor behind me, barely moving. He hadn't said a word since I picked him up from the car. His skin felt cold, almost clammy. I kept glancing at his face, half-expecting him to snap awake, but he didn't.
"I can do this," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
We reached his apartment door. I shook him gently. "Bzzzz. We're here. Open the door."
No response.
"Bzzzz... come on," I said, tapping his cheek. "Open the door."
Still nothing.
Sighed
I lowered him to the floor. His body slumped like a puppet with its strings cut. I crouched beside him, whispering his name again, careful not to disturb the neighbors. He remained motionless.
I rummaged through his bag. "I'm checking for your keys, okay?" I said aloud, trying to fill the silence.
A low groan escaped him. I froze. Was he waking up?
"Bzzzz?" I leaned in. His eyes stayed shut. Whatever stirred inside him had already faded.
Frustrated, I dumped the contents of his bag onto the floor—books, a pen, a small notebook, and a keychain shaped like an ouroboros. The serpent eating its own tail shimmered faintly in the hallway light.
"There," I breathed, spotting the keys.
I reached for them—then recoiled. A jolt shot through my fingers, like static but sharper. I stared at the keychain, heart thudding.
"What the hell was that?" I muttered, glaring at the serpent.
I grabbed a pen and nudged the keychain. Nothing. No spark. No reaction.
"Weird guy, weird stuff. Perfect match," I said under my breath.
I picked up the keys again. This time, no shock. Just cold metal.
"Alright. Let's get this over with."
The second key worked. The door creaked open, revealing a dim, sterile apartment. No photos. No warmth. Just shadows and silence.
I dragged Bzzzz into his bedroom, muscles burning, breath shallow. With one final heave, I dropped him onto the bed and stood there, panting.
Outside, the night pressed against the window, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. The silence was thick—peaceful, but unsettling. I stared out into it, breathing slowly, trying to steady myself.
"You owe me for this," I muttered, rubbing my sore shoulders, the weight of the night settling in.
The room was unsettling. Too quiet. Too still. My eyes scanned the space—bed, nightstand, shelves of books, and little else. No posters. No clutter. No signs of life.
"Dull and stiff," I murmured.
I wandered to the bookshelf. Psychology. Anatomy. Human behavior. All dense, academic titles.
"This is what he reads? Planning a career change or a personality transplant?" I joked aloud, tracing my fingers across the spines.
One title caught my eye: Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind. I pulled it free and flipped through the pages.
I feel the air shifted.
A sudden chill swept through me, sharp and unnatural, raising goosebumps across my skin. The air thickened. I felt it before I saw it—a shadow stretching across the wall, towering behind me.
I turned, but too late.