Someone seemed to be in a bad mood.
The voice slithered softly from the empty wall behind him, its tone stretched thin like a mocking echo. It wasn't alive—not in the way humans were, at least. His parents called it an illusion, a figment of his "overactive mind." But Xenon knew better.
No illusion could sound that real.
He froze mid-motion, eyes fixed on the faint shadow curling at the corner of the room. The sunlight streaming in from the window trembled slightly—as though afraid to touch that part of the wall.
He didn't answer. Not at first. He'd learned long ago that silence made it lose interest faster.
But not today.
"I wonder how Mom's doing," the voice rasped, its tone playful, scraping along his thoughts like metal against glass.
Xenon frowned. "Stop that," he muttered.
There was a pause—a heartbeat of silence—before the voice chuckled, low and knowing.
"Well, that got you talking."
He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet the shape forming on the wall. It wasn't a proper shadow. It moved on its own, stretching and curling like smoke trying to remember what form it once had.
"Haven't seen you in a while," he said. His voice came out steadier than he felt.
"I just thought you should spend time with your… human companions." The last two words dripped with sarcasm, each one slightly drawn out as if it wanted to taste them.
He rolled his eyes. "You're jealous."
The thing laughed—a strange, hollow sound that made the air vibrate. "Jealous? Of what? Dirt games and dull laughter?"
He didn't reply. He didn't need to. They both knew the answer.
The voice had always been there, at least for as long as he could remember. Sometimes soft, sometimes sharp, sometimes whispering things he didn't understand. But it was his voice—or maybe of him. He had stopped trying to figure out which.
It was the only thing that ever made the silence less heavy.
---
"Feels stuffed in here," it murmured after a moment. "Why don't we go out?"
He ignored it, flipping through the pages of his sketchbook again, though he wasn't really looking. The eyes on the last page—the ones he called Pupils—seemed to stare through him.
"How long do you think we'll stay here?" the voice asked again, tone light, conversational.
"Don't know," Xenon said finally. "Maybe a month more. Dad said he's going to enroll me in Elysium."
The shadow twitched. "Elysium?"
"Yeah. Or some other academy. Art school or whatever." He tried to sound indifferent, but his voice cracked at the end.
The shadow hummed lowly. "He seems rather eager to get rid of you."
That stung more than he wanted to admit.
Rubbing his face with both hands, Xenon let out a tired breath. His father's expression flashed across his mind—wary, distant, and heavy with something unspoken. The way he had looked at him before sending him here… it wasn't anger. It was fear.
Mom had said it was just a "holiday." A little time away with Aunt. "You'll like it there," she'd said, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
He'd known she was lying.
People lied to protect others. Or to protect themselves.
He still didn't know which one applied to him.
---
The voice drifted closer—its tone soft now, almost comforting.
"You think they're afraid of you."
He didn't answer.
"You're wrong," it whispered. "They're afraid of me."
The words made him tense. He looked up sharply, heart thudding in his chest. The shadow's outline shimmered faintly, the edges trembling like ripples in dark water.
"What do you mean, you?" he asked.
But the voice only laughed again, softer this time, like a secret shared with the wind.
"You wouldn't understand. Not yet."
He clenched his fists. "Then make me."
"You're not ready."
"I am!" His voice cracked through the air, startling even himself. He felt that faint pull again—the cold stirring in his chest, the emptiness flexing like a muscle beneath his ribs.
The room darkened slightly. The light through the window dimmed though no cloud passed.
The shadow's laughter filled the silence once more. "Careful, little one. You'll let me out if you keep shouting."
He froze, breath catching in his throat. The temperature dropped—subtle but enough for goosebumps to rise on his arms.
Slowly, he exhaled and forced the feeling down, just like before. The warmth crept back into the room, but his heartbeat didn't slow.
"…You shouldn't say things like that," he muttered, trying to sound casual.
"Why not?"
"Because…" He hesitated, struggling for words. "Because you're not real."
The shadow tilted its head—or rather, the shape of it did. "And yet, you're talking to me."
That silenced him again.
The air between them felt thicker, filled with something unspoken.
Finally, the voice sighed—a strangely human sound. "Don't worry, Xenon. When the time comes, you'll understand. And when you do…"
Its tone softened to a whisper.
"You won't be afraid anymore."
The boy blinked, unsure whether that was meant as a comfort or a warning.
He turned away, crawling onto his bed. "You talk too much."
"And you listen too much."
He couldn't help but smirk. "Maybe."
---
The room fell silent again, but the quiet wasn't peaceful. It was expectant.
The shadow lingered faintly against the wall, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat—slow, patient, watching.
He tried to ignore it, staring at the ceiling, counting the faint lines and cracks until his eyelids grew heavy.
Sleep hovered close, but not close enough.
The last thing he heard before drifting off was the whisper, faint as breath:
> "Elysium, huh… Let's see if they can keep you there."