Under normal circumstances, instinct would've kicked in.
Duck. Shove. Swing back. Do something stupid and stubborn and human.
But when Hao tried to move, something felt wrong.
His limbs were heavier. Slower. Smaller, almost, like the perspective was all off. Like he was wearing a body that didn't quite fit.
Kevin, on the other hand, finally registered at full scale.
Taller. Broader. Built like someone who'd actually liked P.E. his whole life. There was a density to him now, the kind people paid for in gym memberships and protein powder. And in this place, whatever had twisted him clearly hadn't made him weaker.
Cold shot through Hao's veins, fast and clean.
His mind stripped away everything unnecessary.
Run.
He spun and bolted.
The hallway smeared around him, dark walls rushing past as his socks skidded against the floor. His shoulder clipped something he didn't see, sent it crashing down behind him. A picture frame, maybe. Or someone's memory.
He hit the front door at full speed.
It didn't move.
The impact rattled his bones. Wood shuddered. The frame creaked around him. But the door itself didn't budge so much as a millimeter.
Something on the other side pushed back.
Not like a locked latch.
Like a wall.
Heavy. Unyielding. Immovable.
He didn't waste time fighting it.
His shoulder bounced off the wood, and he pivoted, sprinting sideways into the nearest room. He kicked the door closed behind him.
Something slammed into it a heartbeat later.
The entire frame jumped. The knife scraped along the other side with a sick, dragging sound, metal biting deep into the wood and tearing back out in short, angry jerks.
Hao backed away, chest heaving.
The smell hit him.
Metal. Cleaning chemicals. Old grease.
Kitchen.
Moonlight from the single window cut a pale rectangle across counters and cupboards, dividing the room into almost-safe light and thicker dark.
The window itself looked perfect.
Just big enough to crawl through. Just low enough to reach. The outside world glimmered faintly beyond the glass, a slice of forest and sky that suddenly looked like salvation.
He stepped onto the counter, fingers catching the edge to steady himself. His hand reached for the frame.
"Don't."
His own voice spoke in his head again, calmer this time, as if it had been here longer than he had.
Hao froze, fingertips hovering inches from the glass.
His breath fogged the window faintly. The outside looked so close he could almost fall into it.
Before he could argue with himself, the kitchen door flew open.
"Fuck."
He dropped.
The knife carved through the space where his leg had just been, slicing air and empty tile.
He hit the floor on his shoulder, rolled under the table without thinking, palm scraping against cold ceramic.
The knife clanged against a chair leg as Kevin followed, heavy steps pounding.
Hao grabbed the edge of the table and heaved with everything he had.
The table lurched, lifted, and crashed toward Kevin.
Kevin caught it.
Bare hands.
His fingers sank into the wood, muscles bunching as he arrested the table's momentum like it was nothing more than a thrown pillow. The legs slammed back onto the floor with a jolt.
He shoved it aside.
The table skidded across the tiles and smashed into the cabinets, rattling plates and glass behind them.
Hao barely got his arms up before the kick landed.
Pain detonated in his ribs.
The world lurched sideways as the impact tore him off the ground and slammed him back into the counter. His spine met wood, then the back of his head bounced off the corner.
White sparks flared across his vision.
For a few seconds, everything flickered like a bad connection. The kitchen lights from earlier, the party, the smell of vanilla drink, the shy girl's almost-smile, all chopped into stuttering frames.
When the flicker cleared, Kevin was kneeling over him.
The butcher knife raised high above his head.
Hao's hand moved before his brain caught up.
He grabbed the closest thing he could find.
A kitchen drawer.
He ripped it out of its slot with a desperate jerk and hurled it into Kevin's face.
The impact made a thick, ugly sound. Metal spoons, forks, and dull knives exploded outward across the floor, clattering in every direction. Kevin's head snapped to the side as he stumbled, smashing shoulder-first into the cabinets.
Hao didn't pause.
Another drawer.
He tore it free and swung it like a club, smashing it into Kevin's shoulder. Wood splintered. Cutlery sprayed.
A third drawer came free with a screech of warped rails.
He slammed it up into Kevin's throat as the bigger boy tried to rise.
The hit crushed his words into a strangled cough and sent him crashing back down to the tiles.
Silence followed. Not true silence, but the high ringing buzz of adrenaline that made everything else sound distant.
By the time Hao reached for a fourth drawer, there were none left.
The entire counter had been stripped bare.
Kevin lay sprawled on the tiled floor, twitching weakly.
His face was a ruin of blood and swelling. One eye was already closing, the skin around it blooming dark. His lip was split. His teeth were red.
His chest still moved.
The knife lay forgotten at his side.
Hao pressed his back against the lower cabinets, sliding down them until he sat with his knees half-bent, trying to breathe without seeing stars.
"What… is this dream…" he rasped.
Sweat and blood and cleaning fluid stung his nose. Every inhale hurt.
The kitchen looked like a crime scene in the middle of a remodeling disaster. Splintered wood. Drawers askew. Utensils scattered like shrapnel. Blood smeared across doors, handles, cabinets.
He thought of the bodies.
The shredded throat.
The scooped-out chest.
The empty room with blood in broken glass but no one inside.
No clean cuts.
No slices that matched the knife lying next to Kevin's limp hand.
His stomach dropped.
"Those wounds… weren't from a knife," he said, hearing the words out loud, as if sound would somehow make them easier to believe. "Kevin didn't do that."
Something else had.
Something that didn't need a blade.
He staggered to his feet.
His ribs protested. The world tilted a little, then steadied. He stepped over Kevin, careful not to touch him, and pushed out of the kitchen, back into the hall.
As he passed the entrance, something tugged at the back of his mind.
A small, insistent itch.
He stopped.
His hand closed around the front door handle.
He pressed down.
Click.
Swoosh.
The latch released.
The door swung open.
Easily.
No resistance. No invisible weight. No solid wall pushing back. Just empty air and the soft complaint of old hinges.
Cold night air poured over him, washing away some of the warmth and copper stink clinging to his clothes. Pine. Frost. Damp soil. And beneath it, something else he couldn't name, thin and strange and predator-quiet.
He stared out.
The trees stood still.
The clearing lay empty.
The porch boards creaked under his feet as if waiting for him to take one more step.
His skin crawled.
The same door that had refused to move earlier had just opened like it had been unlocked the whole time, just waiting for the right moment.
Or waiting for him.
Hao tightened his grip on the handle.
The rules pulsed at the edges of his mind again, quiet but immovable.
No lights.
Don't go outside.
Survive till sunrise.
He let the cold bite into his lungs once more.
Then he slowly pulled the door shut.