Felix had arrived at the Motel 6 just past midnight.
The parking lot was half-lit and buzzing with the same broken neon sign that hadn't worked properly since he arrived in Cloverleaf. A couple of familiar faces loitered near the edge.
Prostitutes leaning against rusted railings, a dealer he recognized from two nights ago arguing with someone in a beater car. Nobody looked twice at him.
He pushed through the front door of his room and let it shut behind him with a tired thud.
The place still smelled like stale cigarettes and regret.
He stood in the silence for a second, breathing it in like he was used to it. This was the life he was used to living.
He sighed, peeling off his hoodie, then his shirt, and tossed them onto the chair by the bed.
The mirror over the sink was chipped along the edges. He stepped up to it, his eyes locked on his own reflection.
From his right forearm up across his shoulder and part of his chest, his skin was covered in enochian sigils which were inked and scarred into him like scripture. The lines pulsed faintly, almost like it was breathing.
He stared at his reflection, the marks on his skin, and the exhaustion lingering in his eyes.
So much of his life had been spent in the shadows.
And then, in an instant, he wasn't looking at himself anymore.
A shadow stood in his place. Vague and inky, with jagged edges and glowing red eyes.
Its grin was wide, too wide, and filled with too many teeth.
It looked like him, stripped of everything human.
"Always trying to play the hero, Felix..." the demon said, voice smooth and low, like smoke curling through a locked room.
"But have you forgotten? We are monsters. Demons. The humans hate and fear us!"
Felix's jaw clenched. "You're wrong."
"Am I?" the thing asked, tilting its head in mock innocence.
"They want to lock us away. Burn us. Erase us. You think they'll ever see anything but the demon inside of you?"
The shape in the mirror began to shift.
The inky shadow pulled in on itself and twisted, bone snapping and skin reshaping until it took the form of a woman who was tall, striking, and ethereal. She looked like something painted in soft light and distant grief. Long sandy-brown hair that framed high cheekbones and sharp eyes that shimmered with tears that weren't real.
Felix didn't dare move.
"Don't you remember poor Mommy trying to drown us?" she whispered sweetly, in a voice that didn't belong to her anymore.
"You were only seven," she cooed, stepping closer to the glass. "The bathwater was warm. She told you it was going to be okay. That she just had to 'wash the evil out of us.'"
Felix's breath hitched.
"Or maybe you prefer the other time," she said, tilting her head with a smile too wide.
"When you woke up choking under a pillow and she was crying while she held it down. Whispering apologies while you kicked and clawed like a wild animal."
The laugh that followed was hollow, cracked and cruel, echoing too loud for such a small room.
The woman's form contorted again.
Her skin peeled like paper and reformed into something else. Black robes, pale skin, eyes rolled back in her head. A bloodied nun stood where the mother had been. A silver crucifix dangled from her throat, slick with something dark. Her smile was stitched with mockery.
"But can you blame her?" the demon asked in her voice, gurgling. "Look at what you are. Look at what you've done. All those bodies. All that blood. You don't get to pretend you're clean."
Felix's fists clenched. The sigils along his ribs burned hot.
His eyes flicked red.
Then a pressure erupted from him, violent and immediate. The air trembled as a wave of force rippled through the room, rattling the walls and knocking a lamp off the table. The mirror fractured and spiderweb cracks danced across its surface, distorting the demon's smile into a hundred broken pieces.
But it didn't vanish.
The nun's face leaned closer to the cracks, still smiling.
"You can pretend all you want, Felix," it whispered, voice layered—his mother's, the nun's, the demon's all bleeding together. "But you're only hurting yourself."
"I'm just trying to keep us alive. If you die, then I die, remember? I only have your best interests in mind." It said as it returned to it's regular demonic form.
Felix glared at it, breathing steady now, low and slow like a simmering fire.
"You're not here to protect me," he said. "You're here because you want control over me"
"Semantics," the demon replied, voice all velvet. "I'm the part of you that knows how to survive. The one that kills without asking questions. Without mercy. You think they'll thank you for playing nice?"
He stepped closer to the glass. The demon's reflection moved with him.
"They'll never accept you, Felix. No matter how many monsters you kill, no matter how many humans you save. To them, you'll always be a monster."
"I'm not like you," Felix muttered.
"That's the funny part," the demon said. "I was born with you. We're the same. I'm just honest about my nature."
The sigils on Felix's chest glowed faintly now, heat rolling off his skin.
"You're nothing without me," he said.
The demon leaned forward, meeting its gaze through the cracks.
"No. You're nothing without me."
The red eyes blinked out. The mirror cleared.
Only Felix remained, staring at himself through a fractured reflection.
Felix sighed as he pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds out of his pocket. He had swiped it from Detective Lawley during their first run-in at the precinct.
Only a few sticks were left, flattened slightly from being jammed in his jacket all day.
He slipped one between his lips and raised his pointer finger. A small flame flickered to life at the tip, clean and controlled. He lit the cigarette, took a long drag, and let the smoke roll out of his lungs slowly.
"Why do I even help them?"
The thought came quiet, but heavy.
"He's right. They'll never see me as anything but a monster."
The mirror was still cracked, the air still buzzing faintly from the pressure he had released.
He stared into the web of broken glass a moment longer, then turned away.
The shower knobs screeched as he twisted them on and cranked the water up as hot as it would go.
Steam billowed into the cramped bathroom, fogging the chipped mirror and curling around his body like a second skin. He stepped into the spray without flinching.
It didn't sting.
It couldn't.
Heat didn't bother him. Never had.
For a while, he just stood there, eyes closed, letting the water beat down and the steam soak into his bones.
Eventually, he stepped out, the cheap motel towel barely absorbing the water as he dried off.
He pulled on a fresh shirt, some worn sweats, and threw the damp towel over the back of a chair.
The bed creaked as he dropped into it. Springs groaned beneath him. The ceiling was stained in spots. A dead bug lay curled near the lamp.
He didn't mind.
He stared at the ceiling and let his thoughts drift.
Back to when he was a kid.
Before the screams. Before the fear. Before the prayers and the whispers and the drowning.
Back when his mother still kissed him goodnight.
Back when her hugs were warm and her eyes didn't look at him like he was evil incarnate.
She even used to call him her little miracle.
He didn't even realize when his eyes closed.
The room fell quiet except for the ticking of a leaky pipe and the distant hum of the neon sign outside.
And in that silence, Felix finally slept.
DREAMING
Lily Miller sat on the edge of her bed, curled into herself, silent tears streaking down her face.
The room was dim. Her night light flickered in the shape of a cartoon bear, casting long, warped shadows on the wall.
In her hands, she clutched a wrinkled photo of her father. Ben Miller. Smiling and alive.
Her voice cracked as she whispered, "I miss you, Dad..."
The air shifted.
A sudden chill crept in under the door. Then the whispers came.
Soft at first. Like a breeze behind her ears.
"Why do you cry, child?"
She froze. Her head jerked up.
"Who's there?"
No answer. Just the creak of the walls and the hum of electricity.
"W-who is it?"
"Someone who cares," the voice said. Smooth. Soothing. "Someone who understands."
Lily's eyes darted around the room.
"You're not real."
"Does it matter?" the voice asked. "You're hurting. I can feel it. All that grief. All that loneliness. The others.. They don't see it, do they?"
"...No," she admitted, barely audible.
"But I do. I see you. And I see him too."
She clutched the photo tighter.
"He's gone."
"But he doesn't have to be."
Lily's eyes widened. Her heartbeat quickened.
"What are you saying?"
"You want him back. You'd do anything, wouldn't you? Just to see him again. To hear his voice. One last time."
The shadows in the corners of her room thickened. Her night light flickered once. Then again. Then it died.
Felix's dream shifted once more.
Lily stood in the same room, but it was different now.
Colder. The walls stretched too tall. The windows were gone. The floor beneath her feet pulsed like flesh.
"I didn't agree to this," she whispered. Her voice echoed like a child's inside a cathedral.
"You tricked me. You never said..!"
The voice returned. No longer soft.
"Your father is burning in Hell, remember?"
The shadows surged. The air filled with the sound of fire crackling and horrid screaming.
A voice tore through the darkness.
"LILY!"
It was him. Her father.
"It hurts! Oh God, it hurts. They're tearing my skin off. They never stop. Please.. Please get me out! I didn't mean it. I didn't want to go!"
His voice cracked and twisted into sobs.
She covered her ears. "Stop it! You're lying! This isn't real!"
"You think Heaven took him?" the voice hissed. "You think a man who wrapped a rope around his neck and left his wife and daughter behind went to big blue sky up above?"
"Please..."
"But you can save him. There's still time. Three souls. Three unspoiled lives."
"I can't," Lily sobbed.
"You already promised."
"No!"
"Then he will continue to burn!"
The scream came again. This time worse. Raw and helpless. Her father's voice shrieking, crying for her. Begging.
Lily collapsed to her knees. Her hands trembled.
"Please... just make it stop..."
"Then do what must be done."
She nodded.
The scene shifted again.
Rust surrounded her. Piles of crushed cars. Twisted fences. Oil-stained dirt.
The moon sat high and cold above them.
Lily stood with a knife in her hand.
Harry stood beside her, wide-eyed, breathing like a trapped animal.
In front of them, three girls knelt. All bound. Malnourished. Filthy. Their eyes were sunken and hollow.
"Lily," Harry said. "What is this?"
His voice was small. Afraid.
"We don't have to do this. Please... we can get them help. We can stop now."
The whisper returned. Only she could hear it.
"He's a liability. He'll tell. He'll ruin everything. You can't let him talk."
Lily stared at the knife. Then at the girls.
They whimpered. One tried to crawl away.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
The blade came down. Once. Twice. Blood hit the dirt.
Harry screamed.
He turned to run, but Lily just stood there. Silent. Covered in red.
The voice laughed. Low and pleased.
REALITY
Felix gasped awake.
His breath had caught in his throat. He laid frozen, eyes locked on the stained ceiling, chest rising and falling like he hadn't escaped the dream yet.
The motel room was flooded with harsh daylight, the kind that made everything look worse.
His ears rang and his heart pounded.
He turned his head slowly. The battered alarm clock on the nightstand blinked back at him in glaring red.
12:43 PM.
"...Fuck," he muttered.
"Harry…" he whispered.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood too fast, the sudden rush of motion making his vision blur.
"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck I overslept.." he said, louder this time.
The motel floor creaked under his bare feet as he reached for his hoodie. Time was already running out.
Felix shoved his hand into the pocket of his old crumpled jeans, still lying in a heap near the foot of the bed. His fingers scrambled through dirty lint and old receipts until they found the bent business card tucked deep inside.
Detective Lawley
Cloverleaf PD – Homicide
There was a number scrawled on the back in blue pen. She'd given it to him after their last encounter.
He didn't bother with his cell. The battery was dead, forgotten somewhere on the floor.
Instead, he crossed the room in an instant and picked up the motel landline, its plastic casing yellowed with age. The buttons stuck when he dialed.
It rang once.
Then again.
"Hello, Detective Lawley speaking."
"Yeah, it's Felix," he said, voice tight. "Meet me at the motel. I think Harry was kidnapped."
There was silence. Not hesitation, just shock.
"W-what? I'll be there ASAP."
He hung up before she could ask anything else.
The receiver clicked back into place with a hollow thunk.
Felix stood there a second longer, staring at nothing, jaw and fists clenched tight.
Something was wrong.
And this time, it was real.