It was Christmas time, but the word itself stirred no warmth inside me. Outside was filled with lights. The colors were too bright, the sounds too close—everything was just a little more than it should have been.That excess gathered inside my chest like pressure. People's laughter, the lights reflecting off glass, the hum rising from the street—everything collapsed onto me at once.
The Christmas sweater I was wearing was soft. Too soft. The red fabric felt as if it were clinging to my skin. Something that should have been comforting was tightening my breath instead. The texture of the fabric weighed on my shoulders, as if someone were holding me in place—not gently, but insistently.
I noticed immediately when my breathing became irregular. My chest wouldn't expand enough. The air I took in felt insufficient. I knew this feeling. I knew it far too well. It was always like this before an attack. First the world came too close, then my body stopped feeling like it belonged to me.
The lights in the room were too much. The sounds were too much. Everything was too much. I felt a faint numbness at the tips of my fingers. My heart was racing, but its rhythm was uneven. I had to make sure no one noticed.
No one here should see me.
Especially not like this.
I tilted my head slightly and tried to take a deep breath, but my lungs wouldn't obey. I tried to fix my gaze on a single point—the small crack in the corner of the wall.
They once told me that if I focused, it would pass. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. This time, I could feel that it wouldn't.
I needed to get to my room.
The moment that thought became clear in my mind, I moved. I had to pass through the crowd. I kept my steps slow—if I hurried, I'd draw attention. I didn't want anyone looking at me. The Christmas sweater made that easier.
Harmless.
Normal.
Ordinary.
When I reached the hallway, the lights dimmed slightly, but the noise still followed me. The floor beneath my feet felt as though it were rippling. The walls seemed closer than they really were. I unconsciously pulled my shoulders inward. My body was trying to protect itself.
Breathe in.
One more step.
I realized my fingers were clenched into fists. My palms were sweaty. The sound of my heartbeat echoed in my ears. It was too loud. Too loud. As if everyone could hear it.
When I reached the stairs, my knees trembled. I touched the railing to steady myself. The moment the cold metal met my palm, I came back to myself for an instant. The cold was real. The cold was mine. More real than the soft sweater.
As I climbed higher, the sounds faded. Each step brought me a little closer to myself. But the attack hadn't passed yet. My chest was tight. There was a knot in my throat. Swallowing was difficult.
The hallway was dark. Thankfully, it was dark.
When my room door came into view, I felt a weak sense of relief. I wasn't completely safe yet, but I was close. My hands trembled as I tried to pull the key from my pocket.
I thought the metal key might fall. I clenched my teeth so hard I felt the pain I thought I wouldn't feel ever in my life.
The moment I opened the door, I stepped inside and closed it behind me.
The sound of the lock turning almost made me cry. That sound was a boundary. Between outside and inside.
I leaned my back against the door. My knees finally gave out, and I slid slowly to the floor. My breathing was still uneven, but no one could see me now. I rested my hands on my knees and lowered my head.
The room was dark. Silent. Safe. Like it should be for a monster like me.
The Christmas sweater was still on me, but I no longer had the strength to be angry at it. The only thing that mattered now was making sure the attack didn't swallow me completely. I closed my eyes and let the darkness wrap around me.
There was no one here.
There was only me…
So I turned toward my memories.
"Remember. Remember, you pathetic brain."
As faint whispers slowly guided him back into his memories, the man smiled. The smile on his face twisted into that of a monster, and with the sentence that came to his mind, the young man straightened up from the floor.
—The previous day—
It had been a long time since his dark heart had lost its place within his being—the young monster's.
His soulless face was filled with a small smile made up of nothing more than a few illusions. His wife lay beside him, sleeping with her head resting on a pillow.
The television was off, and the woman's forgotten coffee sat on the kitchen counter, as if giving him a look that said, You forgot me.
The young man looked at the glass mug they had received as a wedding gift and smiled slowly. "How beautiful," he muttered softly while looking at the woman's curly, free hair. "Free…" he said, and his hands slowly moved toward her face—but just as he was about to touch her, he pulled them back.
"I shouldn't stain it," he muttered to himself, nodding in approval of his own thought as he let out a shaky breath.
The room, once warm, suddenly felt as if it had frozen over. It was unclear whether his hands were trembling from the cold or from unhappiness.
That annoying light was making that cursed, shrill sound again, and that damned frequency changed every second, as if it were trying to drive him insane.
Despite all this, the man was normal—at least for now. His mind was telling him why they were here and why he had to experience these things.
He wasn't with this woman because he loved her, but because he needed her.
It had been a long time since he lost his heart in this black, dark, hatred-filled world… in this hell. Even if his heart—his real heart—were to beat, it wouldn't beat for someone else. It wouldn't even beat for himself.
He was a monster. One no one understood. Everyone's nightmare. A creature whose true face was unknown. A face that belonged to nothing in this cold, dark world.
That true face no one knew.
The news had found the man's latest victim. They were talking about what he had done. With their annoying, soulless, heartless voices, they flailed about as if they had hearts of their own.
The man slowly pushed the woman's head deeper into the couch cushion, snapping out of his dazed state, and stood up.
"What matters is not being noticed, not going insane, and not dying."
His voice came out breathless, yet pale. It was as if his soul—aware of his loneliness in this endless hell, or how close he was to being discovered—had borrowed his voice and forced a few words he didn't want to say out of his mouth.
Idiot, the young man thought. The one in front of us is human. What if she understands and reports us? They'll come for us. There will be so many unnecessary alphas.
He muttered to his soul, but his soul—already accustomed to the man's soulless, selfish, lone-wolf image—chose silence instead of responding or escalating the situation.
When the young man's feet carried him into the kitchen, he looked at his wife's glass and laughed inwardly. Because he knew that if he laughed out loud, even if the woman were asleep, she would wake up—and he would probably be punished.
Not literally, of course. He would just end up sleeping on the couch for a few days for mocking her. That was all.
You've grown attached.
At the end of those words, the man slammed his hand down so hard that the glass on the table shook and fell, shattering.
Even though his hand turned bright red, the young man didn't care. He didn't care even as his feet were cut by the shards—because he had committed a sin he never should have.
He was cursed. How could he break the curse? He couldn't. It was impossible.
The young man quickly gathered the glass. The woman hadn't woken up. That relieved him. After throwing the shards away, he cleaned the blood from the floor and moved to his study. The news on the phone was still talking about him, but he didn't care. He walked there slowly—confident, aware of his hatred, fearless.
After all, every story had an ending. And it seemed that this woman's story had ended a long time ago.