Notes: Alright, buckle up buttercups, because before we dive into the delightful chaos below, a word from our magnificent author!
Hey awesome readers!
So, you might've noticed a bit of a radio silence lately. Fear not, your regularly scheduled weirdness is still on its way! School's been throwing all sorts of final-boss level exams and assignments my way (wish me luck!), but that doesn't mean the story's been gathering dust.
Actually, quite the opposite! I've been locked in my writing cave, not just surviving academia, but also giving this whole book a serious glow-up. Turns out, in my initial excitement, things zoomed along faster than a caffeinated squirrel. Now, I'm taking my sweet time to expand chapters, add delicious new details, and generally make the whole reading experience even more gloriously unhinged.
If you're craving even more of this beautiful madness (and let's be honest, who isn't?), you can sneak a peek behind the curtain (and snag some cool extras!) over at my Patreon: Tomuyi. There you'll find character designs that'll make your eyeballs happy, audio versions perfect for listening on the go, downloadable formats for your reading pleasure, and even gasp bonus chapters that haven't graced these pages yet. Trust me, the weirdness only intensifies!
Also, mark your calendars! Our official weekly dose of awesome will now be dropping every Thursday. Get ready to have your Thursdays thoroughly weirdified.
Thanks for sticking around, your patience is legendary, and trust me – the story is about to get even better. Now, without further ado... let the fun begin!
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Mommy Issues (and Tentacle Tongues?), a Dream Within a Scream Within a Very Weird Awakening, and Sawyer's Descent into the Truly Bizarre.
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Author Note: Well, that took a dark turn faster than a tongue can lick an eyeball. Sawyer's not having a good time, reality is questionable, and the welcoming committee is… unusual. Buckle up, buttercups, because the rules of normal just got thrown out the window.
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Tears streamed uncontrollably down Sawyer's face, each one carving a hot, burning path down his cheeks. He didn't try to stop them. They fell in steady waves, soaking into the collar of his shirt, mixing with the shallow gasps of his breath as he sobbed—loud and broken. The sound echoed in the empty room, raw and echoing, like the cry of someone drowning without water.
His whole body trembled, and his shoulders hunched forward as if the weight of the world had finally settled there and refused to lift. Every breath he drew came with a fresh surge of pain, not the physical kind, but the sharp, gnawing ache of grief that lived deep in his chest. It twisted and clawed inside him, wild and unforgiving.
He had made a promise.
In the cold, quiet days that followed his mother's accident—the kind of silence that wrapped around a house like a shroud—he had whispered a vow to himself in the dark. He wouldn't cry anymore. He would be strong. He would not make things harder for his anyone, or for himself.
Crying, he had convinced himself, made it real. And if he could hold it all in, maybe… maybe it wouldn't be.
But now, here—this moment of strange stillness where time felt suspended—his promise cracked, then shattered completely. Like a glass dropped on tile, it could never be pieced back together.
"Sweetheart, remember what Mummy always says…"
The voice floated to him, soft and warm.
It wrapped around his ears like a lullaby, delicate and familiar, yet startling in its clarity.
His breath hitched.
He froze.
That voice.
It was hers.
His mother's voice—gentle and loving, with that unique lilt that had once soothed his worst childhood fears—rang through the air like sunlight breaking through clouds. He hadn't heard it in years. Not in dreams. Not in memories. Not like this.
It was real.
Sawyer slowly lifted his head, blinking through the blur of tears that clung stubbornly to his lashes. His vision trembled with moisture, but through it, a figure began to take shape. A familiar silhouette in the dim light.
And then—there she was.
His mother.
She stood before him, radiant in a way that made his heart ache. She was smiling—soft and kind—the same way she used to smile at him after a scraped knee, or when she handed him a warm mug of cocoa on stormy nights. Her hair glowed like sunlight, her eyes alive with the same warmth that once made every room feel like home.
For a long, trembling moment, Sawyer didn't move. He just stared.
The memories hit him all at once, like waves crashing over a fragile dam.
He was ten again, small and fragile, always clinging to the hem of her white lab coat as she moved through the hospital corridors. He remembered the faint, clean scent of antiseptic she carried—strangely comforting—and the sound of her laugh when he asked too many questions.
She had been his anchor. His light.
And then—gone.
That loss had carved something permanent into him, a hollow space that nothing had ever managed to fill.
Now, seeing her again—even if he didn't understand how—brought back not just the grief, but the longing. A deep, physical ache, like a wound that had never healed, now pressed raw and exposed.
Sawyer took a small, shaky step forward.
"Mum…?" he whispered, his voice hoarse and barely audible, as if saying her name out loud might make her disappear.
Without a second thought—no hesitation, no pause—Sawyer launched himself toward her, propelled by a force deeper than instinct. His small legs moved clumsily, the suddenness of motion fueled not by coordination, but by a childlike urgency that defied logic or explanation. The room around him blurred as he crossed the space between them, driven by an aching need that had lived dormant in his chest for too long.
He collided with her, not hard, but with the desperate energy of someone who had feared this moment would never come. His arms wrapped tightly around her waist, trembling with intensity, his face buried in the softness of her shirt. The familiar scent—light, floral, and clean—flooded his senses, and something inside him cracked open completely.
He sobbed. Deep, guttural sobs that came from a place no longer protected by time or age. His body felt smaller now, noticeably so. He could feel the shift—his limbs shorter, the way his oversized clothes now sagged on him comically, like costumes stolen from an older sibling. The hallway, the ceiling, her figure—they all looked bigger. He was a boy again, lost in the arms of someone who once made everything feel safe.
"I missed you so much, Mom," he choked out, his voice breaking on the last word. The sentence was uneven, gasped out between waves of tears that refused to be tamed. They weren't just words—they were years of silence, of longing, of birthdays passed and milestones missed. Every syllable was laced with pain, with love, and with that old, quiet hope that she'd somehow come back.
"Yes, my sweet boy," she said softly, her voice warm, like a lullaby sung in the dark. "I know… and I missed you too."
Her hands moved with careful grace, stroking his hair, smoothing it back from his damp forehead the same way she used to when he had nightmares as a child. Her fingers were gentle, familiar—soothing in a way that nothing else had been since the day she left.
The feel of her was perfect. The same cadence in her voice, the rhythm of her breath, the kindness in her touch. For a moment, he was convinced the world had reset. That perhaps reality had bent just for him—to bring her back.
"You're all grown up now," she whispered, and though her tone was proud, there was something else layered within it—an ache, a sadness maybe, or acceptance.
Sawyer's breath hitched again. As she spoke, he felt something strange stir in his body. There was a quiet shift, like waking slowly from a dream.
He blinked, and with each breath, his limbs grew longer, stronger. His shoulders filled out, his frame reformed. He was bigger again—taller, older. The clothes no longer draped like blankets but fit snug around his form. His gaze lifted, and the room seemed smaller again, as if it were realigning itself to fit the man he had become.
But even then, even with the return of adulthood, he didn't let go. His arms remained locked around her, as if holding on could stop time. He was scared that if he released her, the moment would slip through his fingers like smoke.
He looked up at her, wanting to memorize every inch of her face—how her smile curved gently and her eyes, a vibrant blue, shimmered with love and something unspoken. They were his eyes too, once bright, once full of hope, before the grief had taken their shine.
He didn't want to blink. Didn't want to forget. Not this time.
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"I'm sorry, honey, but I can't stay long," she said softly, her voice a gentle breeze in the quiet room. Her fingers traced his cheek with a lightness that made his breath catch, the warmth of her touch both soothing and unbearable. A flicker of sadness danced in her blue eyes, that same ocean gaze that used to calm him when storms—both literal and emotional—raged around them.
"The longer I stay," she continued, her hand now resting against his face like an anchor, "the harder it will be for you to return. You have to go back, sweetheart. Your path... it lies there now."
Sawyer's lips trembled as he shook his head, the weight of her words settling like cold stone in his stomach. "Mom, please," he whispered, and then louder, "please, I don't want to go back."
The words came out cracked and raw, stripped of any pride or pretense. He clung to her voice, to her presence, to the illusion of warmth in a world that had grown so painfully cold. He wanted this moment to stretch on forever, this fragile pocket of comfort where the pain didn't reach and time seemed to hesitate.
"I just… I just want to stay here with you," he added, his voice hitching as his throat tightened, the ache in his chest growing sharper with every beat. "Away from all of it—the pain, the fear, the noise."
He didn't care if this wasn't real. He didn't care if the world outside kept spinning without him. Here, in this dream, she was alive, and that was all that mattered.
"No, my darling boy, you have to," she said, and though her tone remained soft, there was a quiet steel behind it—a certainty that couldn't be argued with. Her hands gently cupped his face, firm yet loving, like they had when he was young and she needed to make him listen.
Her blue eyes held his gaze with unflinching intensity, and in them, he saw the truth—an unspoken understanding that this was more than a goodbye. It was a passing of something greater.
"Everything," she whispered, her thumb brushing away a stray tear on his cheek, "the fate of everything depends on you now, Sawyer."
He shook his head again, weakly this time, as if the motion could will away the rising tide of panic swelling in his chest. "But I don't want to," he said, voice breaking, childlike and afraid.
"I want to stay here with you, Mom," he continued, clinging to her like a lifeline. "It's safe here… with you. Out there—it's dark, it's cold, and I don't know what to do."
His words spilled out faster now, each one a crack in the dam holding back years of grief and uncertainty. "I'm scared, Mom. I don't know how to be brave without you."
And in that moment, he wasn't the young man shaped by pain or the boy shattered by loss. He was just a son—torn between the warmth of the past and the burden of the future. Reaching for the only comfort he had ever truly known.
"Yes, sweetheart, it's okay to be afraid," she whispered, her voice a lullaby wrapped in tenderness, steadying the fragile storm inside him. Her thumbs moved in soft circles against his tear-streaked cheeks, gently wiping away the fresh tears that continued to fall, one after the other like rain on a windowpane. There was no judgment in her expression, only understanding—the kind only a mother could give.
"Fear is a natural part of life," she said, her words deliberate, every syllable pressed into his memory like a seal. "It means you understand the stakes. It means you care… about what's at risk, about the people you love, about the path ahead."
Sawyer clung to her words, breathing them in like oxygen, even as doubt gnawed at his insides. His hands gripped her sleeves tightly, grounding himself in the only reality that made sense in that moment—her presence.
"But remember what I always told you," she continued, her gaze never leaving his, calm and unwavering as the earth beneath him trembled. "A little fear won't kill you, my brave boy."
She paused, letting the words sink into his bones.
"Courage," she said, "isn't the absence of fear. It's standing tall despite it. It's moving forward while your heart races, while your legs tremble and your thoughts scream at you to turn back. Courage is doing what needs to be done because you're afraid—not in spite of it."
Sawyer felt the weight of her hand as it came to rest over his chest, right above his racing heart. The warmth of her palm, her belief in him, was more real than anything he had felt in a long time. For a second, the ache of everything—of loss, of confusion, of growing up too fast—lessened beneath her touch.
"Find your father, Sawyer," she said then, her tone shifting—firmer now, edged with urgency. "He will tell you everything you need to know. He holds the answers you seek."
"My father?" Sawyer repeated, the words catching in his throat like thorns. His brows furrowed in confusion, and an inexplicable dread crawled up his spine. That name, that idea… father—it had always been a distant shadow, a figure that belonged more to storybooks than reality.
The sudden mention of him didn't bring comfort. It brought questions. It brought fear.
"Yes. Find him," she urged, a flicker of something—strain, pain, maybe even fear—passing briefly across her face. Her voice, too, had changed—softer, but strained now, as if being pushed through a narrow, tightening space. "He lives where the sun sleeps. That's all I can tell you."
She glanced around, her eyes darting to the corners of the room like she could see beyond this fragile space, beyond the veil of whatever was keeping them here. "They're listening," she whispered, her tone almost panicked now, hushed with urgency. "They already know you're still alive… and they will be looking for you."
Her hands gripped his tighter now, and for the first time since she appeared, he could feel the fear in her too. It lived behind her brave eyes, simmering just beneath the surface.
"I can't protect you anymore, my precious boy," she admitted, her voice trembling for the first time, a crack in the armor she had so carefully worn for him. "But that doesn't mean you're alone. Remember my words, Sawyer. You have to be strong."
Her hands moved to his shoulders, holding him like she was trying to will her strength into him. "There is a strength inside you," she said, slower now, her tone softening again, "a strength you haven't even begun to understand yet. But it's there. It's always been there."
She leaned in, kissed his forehead with aching tenderness, and whispered, "And when the time comes, you'll know what to do."
"Now go, my brave one. Go and save the world," she said softly, her voice trembling with a weight of emotions too vast for one heart to bear. There was love in it—raw, unconditional love—the kind only a mother could give. There was pride too, and beneath it, a fierce, unshakable determination. But threaded through every word was a sorrow that clung like mist: she knew this goodbye would shatter them both.
"No, Mom… please," Sawyer whimpered, his grip tightening around her as if the strength of his arms could somehow anchor her here with him. His voice cracked under the strain of desperation. "I don't want to lose you again."
His knees buckled under the weight of grief as he clung tighter, burying his face into her shoulder. Her scent—the faintest trace of lavender and home—threatened to break him further. The thought of being separated again, of returning to that hollow, motherless silence, was too much. It wasn't just sadness—it was agony, raw and relentless.
"Sawyer," she said, her hands trembling slightly as they stroked his hair, "you have to go." Her voice was still soft, but now there was something else there—an urgency wrapped in heartbreak. "There's no more time."
And then… the world around them began to change.
The ethereal white walls of the space they stood in—so bright, so warm—began to dim. A creeping darkness slithered in from every edge, swallowing the light like ink in water. It moved slowly, almost deliberately, like it was savoring each inch it consumed.
"No… please…" Sawyer's voice cracked again, barely above a whisper. He felt the change like a cold wind across his soul. "Don't leave me again… not like this…"
She knelt in front of him, her hands framing his face with an almost desperate tenderness. "Sawyer. Sawyer, look at me," she urged, her voice firm, trying to ground him.
He hesitated, his chest heaving with shallow breaths, his body trembling from the inside out. Then, slowly, he lifted his tear-drenched face and looked into her eyes—searching for her warmth, her comfort, her light.
But it was gone.
What stood before him was no longer his mother. The beautiful woman who had held him just moments ago had vanished, her features twisted into something beyond nightmare.
Her face had decayed in a matter of seconds—flesh hanging loosely in patches, mottled and dark. The skin peeled away from her cheeks, exposing yellowed bone beneath. Empty eye sockets stared back at him, dark and gaping, and from those sockets, grotesque worms writhed and squirmed, crawling over her decomposing face.
Some of them—thick, cold, and slick—dropped onto his face. The feeling was sickening. Their slimy bodies slithered down his cheek and into the folds of his shirt. The stench of rot filled his nostrils, sharp and inescapable.
Sawyer stumbled back, his breath caught in his throat. Panic exploded inside him, flooding every vein, every nerve. A scream clawed its way out of his chest—high, raw, and feral.
And then—
He jolted awake.
His body lurched forward, drenched in sweat. His hands clawed at the bedsheets, his heart pounding so violently it felt like it might burst. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The room was too dark. Too silent. Too real.
And she was gone.
Sawyer's heart slammed against his ribs, each beat like a hammer striking iron—loud, relentless, and terrifying. His chest rose and fell in short, uneven bursts as he struggled to breathe, his lungs feeling as if they were caught in a vice. Sweat clung to his skin, icy and cold despite the stifling warmth of the air. The scream that had torn from his throat still echoed faintly in his ears, a haunting reminder of the nightmare he had just escaped.
His eyes darted around the room, wide and wild with panic, seeking something—anything—that could ground him in reality. But the space offered no comfort. It was stark, unfamiliar, and coldly practical. A narrow bed, its metal frame chipped and worn, anchored one side of the room. A single upright chair sat directly across from it, casting a stretched, crooked shadow under the dim overhead bulb. The walls, dull and gray, seemed to press in slightly, like the room itself was holding its breath.
And then he saw her.
A figure was sitting silently in the chair—still, unmoving, and watching. The presence alone was enough to send a jolt of dread coursing down his spine. He hadn't noticed her before, and the realization unsettled him to the core. Had she been sitting there the whole time?
"Man, do you talk in your sleep," a voice finally said, slicing through the thick silence like a blade. The tone was casual, almost amused, but something about it was off—too light, too relaxed for the context. It sent a shiver crawling up his neck.
Sawyer's head turned slowly, as though his body instinctively knew that whatever he was about to see would not make sense—and would not be safe.
The woman in the chair was young. Maybe in her early twenties. Her short black hair was chopped unevenly, as if she'd cut it herself without much care. She lounged back with unsettling ease, legs crossed, fingers drumming faintly against the armrest. But it wasn't her posture or her strange sense of calm that made Sawyer's stomach twist—it was what she did next.
Without breaking eye contact, she tilted her head slightly to one side and slowly extended her tongue. But this wasn't just a quirk of personality—this tongue was long. Far too long. Unnaturally flexible, like it had no bones or limits. With a languid motion, she brought it up and—deliberately, disturbingly—licked her own eyeball.
The sound was faint but sickening. A wet, slick noise followed by the slow drag of tongue against cornea. Her expression didn't change. No wince. No blink. Just a casual act, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Sawyer recoiled instinctively, nausea bubbling up in his gut.
"What the actual fuck?" he blurted, voice hoarse but sharp. The fear that had gripped him like chains only moments ago twisted now into something else—revulsion, disbelief, and a rapidly growing sense of confusion.
The surreal horror of the nightmare had followed him into the waking world, but this… this was worse. It was real.
And he didn't know which was more terrifying.
Just then, the door to the room burst open with a loud crash, the metal handle slamming against the wall. The sharp bang echoed through the tight space like a gunshot, jolting the atmosphere into a new level of chaos.
Joe stood framed in the doorway, his body tensed and breathing uneven. His chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat dotting his brow, as though he'd run full-speed to get there. For a brief moment, he was frozen in place, unable to comprehend the scene before him. His eyes, wide with disbelief, darted between the figures tangled on the bed. It took him a second to fully register what he was seeing—and even then, it made no sense.
Sawyer was sprawled on the narrow mattress, his limbs flailing in frantic defense. Panic contorted his face, his teeth clenched in terror, his fists striking out without rhythm or direction. He looked like a man drowning in dry air, desperate, cornered, wild.
And above him—straddling him like some twisted predator—was Sarah. The same young woman from before. Her short black hair fell in damp clumps across her forehead, her body crouched low, muscles taut and poised to strike. But it wasn't just her position that disturbed Joe—it was the way she moved. Her motions were too fluid, too fast, like a snake coiling for a fatal bite.
Her face was inches from Sawyer's neck, her lips parted slightly as if drawn by some primal instinct. The hunger in her eyes wasn't metaphorical—it was real, tangible, as though something ancient and unspeakable stirred just beneath her skin. The way she lunged for him wasn't an act of violence; it was a ritual, a routine she had performed before.
The scene resembled some grotesque parody of a wrestling match—except there was no sport, no playful aggression. Just desperation and fear. Prey and hunter. Victim and something else entirely.
"Sarah!" Joe's voice cracked through the madness, sharp and commanding like a whip. It didn't just interrupt the moment—it shattered it.
Both heads snapped toward him instantly, their movements eerily synchronized, as though jerked by the same invisible thread. The sudden silence that followed was deafening.
Their expressions, however, were not what Joe expected.
Instead of fear or guilt, both Sarah and Sawyer stared at him with equal parts surprise and exasperation—like teenagers caught in the middle of a stupid prank gone wrong. Their faces, flushed and breathing heavy, mirrored a shared annoyance rather than the horror that clung to the room.
"What?" they both barked in unison, their voices sharp, irritated—almost theatrical in their frustration. The absurdity of the moment struck Joe squarely in the chest.
His jaw tightened, still trying to reconcile the storm of images that had just slammed into his brain. He staggered forward a step, his hand catching the doorframe for balance as his lungs worked hard to keep up. The look on his face was one of pure confusion—bordering on disbelief.
"What the hell is going on in here?" he demanded, his voice hoarse but firm. His gaze moved from the red mark forming on Sawyer's neck to the way Sarah's fingers still curled like claws. He didn't know what disturbed him more—the scene itself, or the fact that neither of them looked particularly bothered by it.
"She tried to bite me!" Sawyer blurted out, his voice still shaky and laced with residual panic. His finger shot out toward Sarah in pure reflex, trembling slightly as he pointed. His eyes, still wide and wild, darted between Joe and Sarah, desperate for validation, for someone to see what he had just experienced.
He wasn't overreacting. The memory was still fresh—her face inches from his, the way her mouth had opened, teeth too sharp, too eager, the sheer weight of her body pressing him down. It hadn't felt like a misunderstanding. It had felt like an attack. His heart was still racing from the adrenaline dump, and a cold sweat clung to the back of his neck.
"She tried to bite me," he repeated, more softly now, almost in disbelief himself—as if saying it aloud might help him make sense of it.
Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically and threw her arms across her chest with a huff, her entire posture shifting from predator to petulant child. "He called me the 'IT' word!" she snapped, her tone indignant, but layered with a trace of genuine hurt. Her earlier, unsettling demeanor—the casual grotesqueness, the licking of her own eye—was gone now, replaced with the sulky energy of someone who felt wronged.
She glared daggers at Sawyer, her golden eyes practically glowing with accusation. "I'm not a thing, you jerk," she muttered under her breath, just loud enough to make sure everyone in the room heard it.
Joe let out a long, drawn-out sigh, the kind that seemed to come from the soles of his feet. It was a sigh of a man too tired for this nonsense, a man who'd been pulled out of more messes than he could count and knew another was already forming in front of him.
He raised his hand to his forehead, gently massaging his temples with his thumb and forefinger. The pressure behind his eyes was growing—tension piling up in small, ridiculous layers that had become all too familiar lately.
"Sawyer," he said finally, his voice low and measured, colored by a tired patience that suggested this wasn't the first time he'd been a reluctant referee, "please… apologize to Sarah."
He glanced at her with a subtle tilt of his head, then looked back to Sawyer. "She's not an it or a thing. She's a person. A unique and—dare I say it—rather beautiful person at that."
Joe's lips lifted slightly into a soft, conciliatory smile aimed at Sarah, the kind of smile that spoke of habitual diplomacy, of someone who knew how to defuse volatile emotions with a few carefully chosen words.
Sarah's posture loosened almost instantly, her pout melting into a mischievous smirk. She leaned forward slightly, her arms now relaxed by her sides, her eyes twinkling with amusement rather than anger.
"Yes. A girl," she added, her voice playful and almost musical, leaning into the moment with theatrical flair. The corner of her mouth curled upward in a teasing grin as she gave Sawyer a quick once-over. "And you should mostdefinitely treat me like one."
There was a knowing lilt in her voice, the kind that made it hard to tell whether she was serious or simply enjoying how uncomfortable Sawyer was. Probably both.
Sawyer groaned inwardly, unsure of which emotion to prioritize—annoyance, guilt, or confusion. Either way, it was clear to him that whatever weirdness this place held, it had only just begun.
Before Sawyer could even begin to formulate a response—much less defend himself with words—Sarah moved with a startling, unsettling fluidity. There was something in the way her body shifted that didn't quite align with human movement. It was graceful, yes, but with a kind of eerie precision that made his skin prickle.
She rolled off him with the slow, deliberate grace of a snake uncoiling after tightening its grip. One moment she was straddling him like a predator mid-hunt, her weight heavy and oppressive, and the next she was beside Joe—upright, poised, and disturbingly composed.
Her posture was impeccable, like she hadn't just attempted to bite someone moments ago. Her arms rested casually by her sides, but there was a calculated confidence to the way she stood—almost like a performance, like she knew exactly how she looked and what effect it had. Her golden eyes stayed locked on Sawyer, filled with something unreadable. Mischief. Amusement. Perhaps even something darker, less playful.
Finally free from her bizarre, suffocating assault, Sawyer sucked in a breath and pushed himself up with effort, his arms shaky as he leaned back against the cold metal headboard of the narrow bed. His heart was still beating erratically in his chest, the shock of the whole encounter lingering like a ghost clinging to his spine.
Now that he wasn't consumed by panic, he could actually see her—really see her. And what he saw made his stomach twist, not entirely out of fear, but confusion and a reluctant kind of awe. The harsh, flickering fluorescent light overhead cast pale illumination across her face, revealing features that were far too flawless to be human.
Her short black hair, sharp and meticulously trimmed, framed a face that was all sharp angles and quiet allure. But it wasn't her beauty that caught his attention—it was the subtle, shimmering layer of green beneath her skin. Not makeup. Not reflection. Scales. Fine, iridescent patterns of delicate green scales traced across her neck and the curve of her cheekbones like nature's own jewelry. They shimmered when she moved, catching the light like oil on water.
Her eyes were the most striking part. Wide, feline, and brilliant gold, with vertical slits for pupils. They didn't just look at him—they studied him. Like a puzzle. Like prey. There was curiosity there, yes, but it was edged with something primal.
Sawyer suppressed a shiver.
He'd always thought monsters were supposed to be obvious—ugly, snarling things that lived under beds or in horror films. But Sarah was beautiful in a way that unsettled him. She blurred the line between threat and fascination. And that made her all the more dangerous.
Her outfit was nothing like what Sawyer had expected—though, if he were honest, he hadn't known what to expect from someone who had just tried to bite his neck like it was a casual afternoon snack. Still, the contrast between her surreal appearance and the cheerfully mundane nature of her clothing threw him off more than anything else so far.
She wore a snug, white T-shirt, the kind you'd find in a gift shop or a vintage thrift store. A vivid green trim edged the short sleeves and neckline, the color bright enough to pop against the pale fabric. Plastered boldly across her chest were the words "CROCODILE POWER!" printed in chunky, cartoonish letters, just beneath a goofy illustration of a grinning crocodile mid-chomp, its teeth exaggerated to an absurd size.
The image was so absurdly cheerful—so normal—that it took Sawyer a moment to realize his mouth had fallen open in disbelief. Paired with the shirt was a snug, brown denim mini skirt, the rough texture emphasizing the smooth sheen of her unusual skin. The skirt hugged her hips and stopped just short of scandalous, showing off her long legs, which were sleek and toned and ended in a pair of tall, black boots that laced tightly up to her knees. The boots gleamed faintly in the overhead light, polished to an immaculate shine.
There was something bizarrely captivating about the whole ensemble. It was part playground mischief, part wild creature in disguise. An odd, enticing contradiction. A walking paradox. Playful innocence wrapped around something ancient and untamed.
Sawyer cleared his throat, his voice barely rising above a mumble as he forced the words out. "My apologies, Sarah."
The sentence felt hollow even as he said it—small and weak compared to the intensity of what had just happened. Still, it was all he could manage. His eyes dropped to the floor, unable to meet hers. He felt the heat creeping up the back of his neck, flushing across his cheeks in a slow wave of embarrassment. His earlier fear now felt childish, like an overreaction he couldn't quite justify.
Before he could wallow too long in the awkward silence that followed, he felt her move.
Sarah was beside him again, fast but quiet—almost too quiet. He flinched slightly at first, but she didn't make any sudden movements this time. Instead, she reached out and gave his shoulder a light pat.
Her hand was cool to the touch, the scales beneath her skin faint but textured, like an intricate mosaic designed by nature. The gesture was brief and unsure, more of an echo of comfort than a genuine expression of it, but something about it caught him off guard.
She was shorter than he was, by at least a couple of inches, which made the angle of the gesture slightly awkward. Yet, there was an oddly tender sincerity in the way she touched him—an unspoken attempt at making amends or perhaps at easing the tension between them.
And somehow, despite everything—the nightmare, the eyeball licking, the almost-biting—Sawyer found the gesture… endearing. Disturbing, yes. But also strangely human.
"Well, at least you're finally awake and, judging by the lack of immediate expiration, not currently dying," Joe interjected from his position leaning against the doorframe, his tone laced with his characteristic sarcasm, but with an underlying note of genuine relief that Sawyer had regained consciousness.
Joe's eyes, however, quickly narrowed, his attention shifting from Sawyer's general state to a specific detail. He gestured towards Sawyer's left arm with a subtle tilt of his head. "What's that peculiar marking on your arm, Sawyer?"
Sawyer's gaze followed Joe's gesture, and he glanced down at his left hand. His eyes widened in surprise and a flicker of unease as he noticed a peculiar symbol etched into his skin. It was a ring-like marking, resembling a tattoo, but the intricate lines formed text in a language he couldn't decipher, a series of elegant curves and sharp angles that held no meaning for him.
"'Qui ab Igne Benedictus,'" Joe read aloud, his voice low and thoughtful, his gaze fixed intently on the strange inscription adorning Sawyer's arm. "He who is blessed by fire. It's a sigil, Sawyer. A magical marking of some kind."
"What? You just got here, and you already have a sigil?" Sarah called out, her golden eyes widening in surprise, her voice tinged with a noticeable shade of jealousy. She stepped closer, peering intently at Sawyer's arm, her reptilian pupils narrowing slightly in curiosity.
"What's a sigil?" Sawyer asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. The cryptic words from his dream, his mother's warnings, and now this strange marking were all swirling in his mind, creating a growing sense of bewilderment.
Joe smirked, a familiar knowing glint in his eyes. "I'll explain everything, kid, or at least as much as I currently understand. But perhaps," he added, his gaze sweeping pointedly down Sawyer's bare torso, "you should put some clothes on first. Wouldn't want to cause Sarah any further… uh… distress."
Sawyer blinked, his cheeks flushing even hotter as he belatedly glanced down, realizing with a jolt that he was still clad in nothing but his black underwear. His face turned a deep crimson, and he quickly averted his gaze, a fresh wave of embarrassment washing over him.
"Oh, I like what I see just fine!" Sarah teased, punctuating her playful remark with a low, appreciative whistle and a wide, mischievous grin. Unfortunately, the grin revealed a set of elongated canines, sharp and wickedly pointed, each glistening with what looked suspiciously like a bead of viscous, clear fluid – venom.
Sawyer swallowed hard, his earlier embarrassment quickly replaced by a renewed sense of unease. The casual display of her predatory features was a stark reminder that Sarah was anything but ordinary. Joe, sensing Sawyer's discomfort, gently but firmly ushered Sarah out of the small room, offering Sawyer a reassuring nod as he followed her.
"Don't mind Sarah," Joe said, shaking his head with a wry smile as they walked down the sterile, brightly lit hallway. "She's… well, she's a total crackhead. Harmless, mostly, but definitely a bit eccentric."
Now fully dressed in a simple black hoodie that felt a size too big, comfortable dark brown cargo pants, and a pair of slightly worn sneakers that had materialized seemingly out of nowhere, Sawyer trailed behind Joe. He held a large cup of bubble tea in one hand, its sweet, milky aroma a small comfort in the unfamiliar surroundings, taking occasional tentative sips as he followed Joe and Zara, Joe's surprisingly clumsy secretary, whose name he had only just managed to commit to memory.
For someone in such a professional role, Zara possessed a remarkable lack of coordination. She seemed perpetually on the verge of a minor disaster, tripping over her own feet with surprising regularity and constantly swaying precariously, as if battling an invisible force that threatened to send her tumbling. Sawyer observed her with a mixture of mild curiosity and concern, noticing the intense concentration etched on her face as she focused intently on the simple act of walking, seemingly to prevent herself from floating a few inches off the polished floor – a peculiar quirk that appeared to be both amusing and profoundly inconvenient for daily tasks.
Joe, seemingly oblivious to Zara's near-constant stumbles, led Sawyer through various sections of the sprawling facility. He gestured animatedly as they passed the bustling mechanics sector, filled with the clang of tools and the hiss of pneumatics, the sterile environment of the high-tech institute, where screens glowed with complex equations and intricate schematics, and even the surprisingly intense atmosphere of the training camps, where individuals engaged in rigorous combat drills. At each stop, Joe narrated the purpose and function of the area with an infectious enthusiasm, his tone suggesting a genuine hope and expectation that Sawyer would become a permanent fixture within these walls.
"Wait a minute," Sawyer interjected, his voice cutting through Joe's enthusiastic explanation about some ancient, magically imbued sword discovered in a dusty tomb in the far-off land of Clivria. The constant stream of information and the implied expectation that he would simply absorb and accept this new reality were beginning to overwhelm him. "I'm not… I'm not actually staying here, am I?" The question hung in the air, a fragile plea for a return to some semblance of normalcy.
Joe stopped in his tracks, turning to face Sawyer with a genuinely puzzled expression etched on his features. "What do you mean, 'not staying here'?" He glanced pointedly at Zara, who, true to form, had once again lost her battle with gravity and was now floating a few inches above the polished floor, her delicate, transparent wings buzzing softly with a barely audible hum. "And Zara, for goodness sake, come down before you bump into something else."
"I mean," Sawyer pressed, his voice gaining a note of urgency, "you're just going to, you know, patch me up, maybe explain some of this crazy stuff, and then… let me go, right? Back to my own life?" The thought of being confined to this strange facility, surrounded by individuals who licked their own eyeballs and floated in hallways, was deeply unsettling.
Joe opened his mouth as if to offer an immediate, reassuring answer, but then quickly snapped it shut, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. He clearly reconsidered his initial response, his gaze fixed on Sawyer with a newfound intensity. For a few long, uncomfortable moments, he simply stared at the teenager, his expression unreadable, a complex mix of consideration and perhaps a hint of reluctant understanding. Finally, he slid his hands into the pockets of his impeccably tailored trousers and released a long, weary sigh.
"How about we… how about we have a more private chat about all of this in my office?" he said at last, his voice calm but carrying a weight of unspoken implications, breaking the tense silence that had settled between them. The change in tone and the suggestion of a private discussion did little to ease Sawyer's growing apprehension.
******
Notes: The Department of Mental Health would like to remind all individuals that while vivid dreams can be distressing, the appearance of abnormally long tongues and eyeball-licking individuals upon waking is not a typical symptom of sleep deprivation. Please seek immediate assistance if this occurs.