Y/n had been having a good night, actually. No paralysis. No shadowy figure lurking in her periphery. No weight pressing down on her chest like someone was sitting on her sternum, watching her struggle to breathe.

Just sleep. Deep, dreamless, blissfully normal sleep.

Until her bladder decided otherwise.

She groaned, rolled over, and peeled herself out of bed with all the grace of a zombie. Her feet padded against the cold hardwood floor. The hallway stretched dark ahead of her, but she knew the way by heart. Bathroom. Second door on the left. Light switch on the wall just inside.

She flipped it on, squinting against the sudden brightness, and went about her business like any normal person at 2:47 AM.

Then she moved to the sink.

Water ran. Hands washed. She glanced up at the mirror to check for any lingering sleep crust in her eyes.

And promptly almost screamed.

Because there was a man standing behind her.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Ash-blond hair messy and spiked like he'd just rolled out of bed or fought something in it. Horns—actual, curved, dark horns—twisting from his scalp. And eyes. Crimson red. Burning like coals that had been left to smolder for centuries.

He was staring at her with an expression that wasn't predatory or murderous.

It was horrified.

They stood there. Frozen. Staring at each other through the mirror like two deer caught in the world's most inconvenient headlights.

Then Y/n whipped around.

Nothing. Just an empty bathroom. Her own reflection. The shower curtain. The hamper in the corner.

She turned back to the mirror.

He was still there. Still frozen. Still wearing that same wide-eyed, caught-in-the-act expression.

The sink faucet dripped. The fridge hummed. And somewhere in the apartment, a floorboard creaked.