Rain hammered the cracked windows of the old warehouse on the edge of Riverbend. Maya pulled her hood tighter, the cheap fabric doing little against the cold. She'd come here every night for weeks, sketching the shadows, hoping to capture something that made her art feel alive.
A deep bass thump started from somewhere deeper inside, shaking the rusted metal doors. Maya felt the beat in her chest and followed it, curiosity outweighing fear. When she reached the massive steel entrance, two huge men stood on each side, eyes flickering amber for a split second before they stepped back, letting her pass.
Inside, neon lights flickered, painting everything in reds and purples. The air smelled sweet, like spiced fruit mixed with a metallic tang. In the middle of the room, a man leaned against a stone bar. His skin was pale, almost white, lips dark as midnight. He turned and looked straight at Maya. A strange pull tightened around her heart.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said, voice smooth, calm, like silk sliding over stone. "But I'm glad you came."
Maya's hand trembled. She always saw a faint glow around people—a thin line of light. Around him, the glow was a deep violet storm, swirling fast. "Who… what are you?" she whispered, though part of her already guessed.
He smiled, a tiny fang flashing at the corner of his mouth. "I'm Damon. You just walked into a world you can't un‑see."
He brushed his thumb over Maya's lower lip. A sudden heat rushed through her, like fire under her skin, and a wave of desire rose inside her, something she'd never felt before. Damon leaned close, breath cold against her ear. "Let me show you what it means to truly feel," he whispered.
Maya tried to speak, but the words stuck. The beat grew louder, the lights flashed faster, and the world seemed to spin. She could hear her own heart pounding, matching the rhythm of the music. A shiver ran down her spine, and she realized she stood on a line between two worlds: the ordinary life she knew and a hidden world of magic and danger.
"What do you want from me?" she finally asked, voice barely louder than the rain outside.
Damon's eyes softened. "I want you, Maya. Not just for a night, but for something that could change both of us forever."
~
Earlier In The Day
Maya put her dirty sneakers on the hallway floor. The art‑building smelled like paint and turpentine, like an old friend. It was week three of her second year at Riverbend State. The studio lights turned on one by one while the sun tried to get through dusty windows.
"Maya, you're on the easel for today's critique," Professor Larkin called. His voice was low, like a rumble. Maya's heart beat a little faster – half excited, half nervous. She loved when Larkin's eyebrows went up at something "alive" on a canvas. She's chased that feeling since she first held a pencil.
She set a blank canvas on a wooden stand. Next to it sat a half‑finished portrait of an old woman, eyes half‑closed, as if waiting for Maya to give her a smile or a sigh.
"Alright, let's see what you've got," Larkin said, tapping his cane. "Think about why you paint, not just how you paint."
Maya breathed in, then started. She brushed a deep violet at the top, letting it melt into gray. Her hand moved fast, drawing a streetlamp she once saw in a rainy alley. She added a thin silver line that seemed to pulse, almost alive.
"Interesting," Larkin whispered, leaning closer. "You're giving us mood, not just a picture. What's the story?"
Maya's chest fluttered. "I see a glow around everything, even when it's dark. It's like a hidden light I can't touch, but I feel it. I want others to feel it too."
A classmate, Jace, laughed. "You're painting ghosts again, Maya."
"Maybe," Maya said. "Or maybe I'm just painting what I see."
Larkin smiled. "Good. Art shows what we can't say. Keep chasing that glow."
After class, Maya stayed a bit, wiping charcoal on a rag. She stared at the half‑finished portrait, then at an empty spot in her sketchbook where she'd drawn a tiny candle. A sudden urge hit her – she needed to catch something real, something that would make that "glow" clear.
She packed her stuff, slung her old satchel over her shoulder, and walked out into the rain‑slick streets. City lights were just starting to blink.
The rain had eased to a soft drizzle, and the streetlights threw their usual amber halos on the wet pavement. Maya turned onto the narrow side‑street she'd walked a hundred times, the same flicker of violet catching her eye—just like the light she always painted on her canvas.
As she passed the tiny café, the glass windows reflected the usual crowd: students hunched over books, a barista pulling espresso, an old man feeding pigeons. Her gaze drifted, and the world settled into its familiar overlay—thin ribbons of light, soft blues, muted oranges, ghostly purples—wreathed each person like a faint halo she'd learned to read like sheet music.
She blinked, half‑amused, half‑wondered. The barista's steady teal pulsed gently with each latte‑art swirl, just as it always did; the old man's warm amber flickered like a candle in a draft, a rhythm she'd memorized; a girl whispering to her friend wore a shy lavender that trembled whenever she laughed—a pattern she'd sketched a dozen times.
"Same lanterns, same spill," Maya murmured to herself, feeling that comfortable flutter in her chest—the one that comes from knowing something magical is always there, even if nobody else sees it. She'd long ago stopped asking why; she just let the lights guide her hand.
She slipped her sketchbook from her satchel, the page already half‑filled with quick strokes of glowing outlines. With a practiced flick of her charcoal, she added another note beneath the latest doodle: "People = light sources. Capture the spill." It was a line she'd written many nights, but each time it felt fresh, because every glow was a new shade, a new story waiting to be painted.
Ever since she could remember, Maya had felt the world humming at a frequency nobody else seemed to hear. As a kid, she'd sit on the cracked porch steps of her grandparents' house, watching the fireflies flicker in the dusk, and swear she could see a faint halo around her mother's hands when she tucked her into bed.
"Mama, your hands glow," she'd whisper, eyes wide. Her mother would smile, brush a stray curl from Maya's forehead, and say, "Maybe you just see the love, baby. It's brighter than any night‑light."
In primary school, art class was the only place where the glows didn't feel weird. When she smeared crayon on paper, the colors seemed to pulse, and the teacher once praised her "vivid, almost luminous" sky. A shy kid, Maya kept the secret to herself, but she started using a tiny, hidden notebook to sketch the auras she saw around classmates—blue for the quiet ones, red for the loud, amber for the old‑soul types.
The habit grew into a silent ritual. By sophomore year at Riverbend, she'd learned to read the hues like a map: teal = calm focus, violet = restless curiosity, amber = steady warmth. It wasn't a gift she could explain, just a constant background soundtrack of light she'd learned to hum along with.
So when she now walks the streets and the ribbons of color drape over strangers, it feels less like a surprise and more like a familiar conversation—her eyes meeting the world's hidden colors, her hand ready to translate them onto canvas. Just then, a soft, pulsing glow—deeper, richer, almost violet‑blue—caught her peripheral vision. It wasn't the gentle halo of a passerby; it was a steady, breathing light spilling from a doorway a few steps ahead, as if someone (or something) was waiting for her there.