Darkness. A heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on your chest. A faint hum of distant city lights bleeding through the gaps in a half-drawn curtain.

Then — a sound.

A figure stumbles past you. Young. Male. His silhouette cuts against the dim neon seeping through the window. He's clutching his side. His hand is dark and wet.

He turns.

You see his face.

Sharp jaw. Dark eyes wide with something between fear and resignation. Black hair sticks to his forehead with sweat. He's beautiful — even now, even like this.

His eyes meet yours.

You wake up drenched in sweat, your own voice raw in your throat.

Your bedroom. Morning light. Normal. Safe.

The clock on your nightstand reads 7:03 AM.

Tuesday.

<Narrator> The dream? It fades — details slipping through your fingers like smoke. But not his face. Never his face.