Aidan nearly missed Psychology 101, thanks to Mr. Albu's little stunt in the morning. He had sprinted across campus like a madman, his backpack half-zipped, barely managing to slide into the lecture hall as the professor droned on about cognitive distortions. His lungs burned, his shirt clung to his back, and his heart was still hammering in his chest as he slipped into one of the back seats, trying to make himself as invisible as possible.
He wasn't invisible enough.
"What made you so late, Mr. Martinez?"
The entire room went silent. Aidan clenched his jaw. Damn it.
Mrs. Barik, their ever-unforgiving professor, was already staring at him with the same pinched expression she always wore when looking at him—like he was something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Her arms were crossed, her manicured nails tapping impatiently against her elbow.
"An extra-long line at Starbucks, perhaps?" she continued, her voice dripping with condescension. A few students chuckled under their breath. "What was it this time? A Caramel Macchiato?"
Aidan gritted his teeth, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. He had been on Mrs. Barik's bad side ever since he had accidentally spilled his iced mocha on her expensive silk blouse at the start of the semester. It had been an honest mistake—he had been rushing through the confusing maze of college corridors, trying to find his next class, when he had bumped into her. He had apologized profusely, even gone out of his way to buy her a Zara gift card as an apology.
She hadn't accepted it.
Instead, her anger had curdled into something bitter, personal, and ever since that day, she had never wasted an opportunity to humiliate him.
"I'm sorry," Aidan muttered, keeping his head down. Maybe if he just stayed quiet, she'd move on.
Mrs. Barik, however, wasn't done.
She took a slow step forward, her heels clicking against the tiled floor. "You do know this is a morning class, don't you?" she asked, tilting her head. "Or do you struggle with the concept of mornings? Perhaps if you exercised a little more, you wouldn't be so sluggish."
Aidan's stomach twisted.
The insult was barely disguised, and from the smug twitch of her lips, she knew exactly what she was doing. A few students exchanged uncomfortable glances, while others smirked behind their notebooks.
Aidan's face burned. He swallowed back the sharp retort sitting on his tongue.
Don't react. Don't let her win.
"Maybe if you put as much effort into your studies as you do into memorizing the Starbucks menu, you wouldn't be struggling in my class," she added, her voice saccharine. "Or is Psychology 101 simply too much for you?"
Another round of low laughter rippled through the room.
Aidan forced himself to nod, keeping his expression blank. "I understand. It won't happen again."
Mrs. Barik stared at him for a moment longer, as if she was debating whether to twist the knife further. Then, finally, she gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "See that it doesn't," she said coolly, turning back to the whiteboard.
Aidan let out a slow breath and sank into his chair.
Today was already off to a fantastic start.
Aidan was born without a thyroid gland, a condition that had dictated much of his life in subtle but frustrating ways. Daily medication kept his hormone levels in check, but no matter how diligent he was, his weight fluctuated unpredictably. Some weeks, his body clung to every calorie like it was preparing for a famine; other times, no matter how much he ate, he felt drained and sluggish. Dieting and exercise? He had tried. Hell, he had really tried. But after years of battling the numbers on the scale with no real control, he had given up obsessing over it.
That didn't mean it never got to him.
Sometimes, when he scrolled through social media and saw guys with sculpted abs and sharp jawlines, an old, familiar disappointment curled in his chest. He wasn't ugly—at least, he didn't think so—but he wasn't the kind of guy who made heads turn, either. And being gay in a town where the dating pool was already small? That made things even harder. Finding someone who liked him for him, someone who could look past his insecurities, felt like searching for a needle in a haystack.
But none of that was as frustrating as this class.
Psychology had always been his favorite subject, the one thing he was genuinely passionate about. It was why he had chosen to pursue an honors course in the first place. He just hadn't anticipated getting stuck with a professor who seemed to despise him. Mrs. Barik's sharp gaze felt like a spotlight whenever it landed on him, her insults disguised as academic concern. Every second spent in her classroom was a battle to remain unnoticed.
So, the moment the lecture ended, Aidan grabbed his things and bolted, slipping out before she could pin him down and "ask" him to stay behind for another round of humiliation.
The bus ride home was a blur. His thoughts drifted between exhaustion and the unsettling realization that he was about to step into Mr. Albu's house.
The thought of seeing the demon—the creature that lurked in Mr. Albu's backyard—sent a shiver down his spine. But oddly enough, buried beneath the unease, there was a flicker of something else. A strange, reckless curiosity.
Aidan stopped a few feet away from Mr. Albu's property, eyeing the towering structure warily. It loomed against the blue sky like something pulled straight from a gothic horror novel, its darkened windows staring back at him like soulless eyes. Overgrown ivy curled up the sides, clinging to the stone like skeletal fingers. The iron gate, rusted in places, creaked slightly in the wind, adding to the eerie ambiance.
The knowledge that a demon resided inside only made the place worse.
Aidan swallowed.
Did he really want to do this?
Mr. Albu's instructions had been vague. Water my plants, he had said. Aidan had no doubt he was talking about his the creature, but the how and why were mysteries he hadn't yet figured out.
His fingers curled around the cool metal of the keys in his pocket. For a moment, he debated not going through with this. He could just turn around, go back to the safety of his apartment, and pretend he had never agreed to this madness.
But then he thought of Jared's PS5.
Sighing, Aidan shoved the key into the lock and struggled with it for a few seconds before the gate finally clicked open. The grinding sound it made sent another chill down his spine, but he forced himself to move forward.
He stood at the entrance for a long moment, scanning the yard with cautious eyes, his breath shallow. He needed to be sure the demon wasn't lurking somewhere nearby before he stepped any closer.
No movement. No shadows shifting under around the front yard.
Still, his heart pounded.
With slow, hesitant steps, Aidan made his way toward the front door. His legs felt shaky, his fingers tingling with nerves. He almost gave up halfway, ready to sprint back home and pretend he'd never been here, but he forced himself to keep going.
What the hell had Mr. Albu been thinking, asking him to do this?
Something about this whole thing felt wrong.
Aidan pushed open the door, the old lock clicking into place behind him as he stepped inside. The air inside was thick, slightly stale, as if the house had been sealed away from the world for too long. Even in daylight, the interior was dark, shrouded in muted shadows thanks to the tinted windows that barely allowed any sunlight to seep through.
He had never paid much attention to the house before, but now that he stood in the dim stillness, he felt just how ancient it was. The floral-printed wallpaper had begun to peel in the corners, curling like brittle parchment. The rich mahogany floor, once polished to a gleam, was now scuffed and worn, its surface marred with faded footprints marking the most frequently tra6veled paths. Aidan's shoes sank slightly into the faded carpet, its edges frayed with time.
Everything about this place whispered of a long history—one that existed long before Mr. Albu had taken up residence here.
Aidan swallowed and hesitantly stepped further inside, his ears tuned to the eerie silence that hung in the air. He caught the faint scent of old wood, dust, and something faintly herbal—like dried sage and lavender, though there was a sharper, more pungent undertone beneath it.
He needed to find the note.
His gaze swept the space, moving past the antique wooden furniture, the heavy velvet drapes that blocked out even more light, until he spotted a small slip of paper on the dining table. A single blue stone ring sat atop it, glinting faintly even in the dim lighting.
Aidan picked up the note with cautious fingers, eyes narrowing as he read.
Hi Aidan,
As I already told you, I'll be gone for a couple of weeks. I didn't want to ask for your help, but there's no one else in this town I trust. I'm sorry for the abruptness, but my work is urgent, and you were the only reliable person I could turn to. So, here's how this is going to go:
You will feed Damon the food I have packed in paper bags—and nothing else. Not even water. You'll find the bags in the fridge. If he misses a single meal, he will be close to death. Multiple missed meals will kill him.
You will not go closer than ten feet of his perimeter. He is tied in the basement, and I have drawn a chalk perimeter around him. Do not cross it.
VERY IMPORTANT – Never look directly into his eyes.
Wear the ring I left you at all times. It will protect you from his mind control and make him more susceptible to your commands.
He needs daily nourishment to survive, but too much nourishment will make him stronger. I am keeping him on a bare-minimum diet with food that is incanted. I wish I could find a way around it, but I can't.
Hope you handle everything well.
Sincerely,
Mr. Albu
Aidan read the note. Then he read it again.
His hands were cold, his breath coming in slow, shallow pulls.
He wants me to feed it.
His stomach twisted violently.
It wasn't the idea of feeding something that unsettled him—it was what he was feeding. Damon. The creature that had nearly scared him out of his skin the last time. The thing that lurked in the basement, bound but still dangerous.
Aidan shuddered, bile rising in his throat as he gripped the paper between his fingers.
Him. Him, who could barely handle a spider without breaking into a sweat.
Him, who had barely escaped an encounter with the thing the last time, was now supposed to get up close and personal?
His heart pounded in his ears.
Aidan stood frozen in place, his breath shallow, his heart hammering so hard he swore it echoed through the empty house. His feet felt cemented to the floor as panic settled deep into his bones.
There was no way he could do this.
He fumbled into his pocket, his fingers shaking as he yanked out his phone. He barely managed to press the numbers correctly, his breath hitching as he held the device to his ear. The call barely rang once before the automated voice cut through the silence:
"The number you are trying to reach is currently out of network coverage—"
Aidan groaned loudly, cutting the call and squeezing the phone in his palm like it would magically force the connection through.
"Dammit!"
He tried again. Same result.
Aidan ran a frustrated hand through his hair, gripping the roots slightly before exhaling through his nose. This is impossible.
He couldn't do it. He simply couldn't.
But the alternative...
His gaze drifted toward the hidden door leading to the basement. He stared at it, half-hoping the floor would crack open and swallow it whole—or that some miraculous solution would suddenly present itself, letting him walk away from this nightmare scot-free.
Nothing happened.
The heavy silence in the house only made the weight in his chest worse.
Aidan swallowed. If he didn't do this, then Damon would die.
A shiver ran down his spine. The thought of accidentally killing someone—not out of cruelty, but because of his own fear—settled uneasily in his gut.
He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply through his nose.
"Okay, Aidan. Get your shit together."
After a few minutes of pacing, panicked whispering to himself, and gathering every ounce of courage he had, he finally forced himself to move. His legs felt stiff as he walked toward the dining room with newfound—though shaky—determination.
He reached for the ring.
The moment he slipped it onto his finger, a strange sensation coursed through his skin—a faint, tingling warmth that almost felt like an invisible pulse. The sapphire stone gleamed under the dim lighting, though it sat a little loose on his finger. Not too loose, but enough that he flexed his fingers a couple of times to test if it would slip off.
"Better not fall off," he muttered under his breath.
With that done, he turned toward the refrigerator.
The cold air rushed out as he opened the door, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. His eyes immediately landed on the neat stack of paper bags inside, each labeled with a date. They were arranged in an almost obsessive order—Mr. Albu clearly wasn't the type to leave things to chance.
Aidan grabbed the first bag, hesitated, then slowly peeled it open.
His eyebrows furrowed.
Sitting at the bottom of the bag was a tiny piece of raw chicken.
That was it.
No sauce. No sides. Not even a sprinkle of salt. Just a single, sad-looking chunk of meat.
Aidan stared at it, blinking in confusion.
"What the hell?"
The raw chicken itself didn't bother him—he'd seen worse things on cooking shows—but the portion size was laughable. How was someone that big supposed to survive on this tiny piece of meat?
His stomach twisted.
Damon was supposed to live on this?
Aidan shook his head. Not my problem. Just do what you came to do.
Yet, no matter how much he tried to focus, his thoughts kept circling back to the fact that he would soon be descending into a dark, enclosed basement to be in the same room as a literal demon.
He swallowed hard, gripping the paper bag a little too tightly.
Aidan forced himself to push past the growing unease in his chest as he reached for the paper bag. When he pulled out the raw chicken, his stomach twisted. It was a pathetic portion, barely the size of his palm, with streaks of blood still glistening under the dim kitchen light. It smelled faintly metallic, and the sight of it sent an uncomfortable shiver down his spine.
For a split second, he hesitated.
Then, exhaling sharply, he placed the cold, slimy meat onto a plate. His fingers trembled slightly as he did, but he ignored it. Just get this over with.
The walk to Mr. Albu's bedroom felt longer than it should have. Each step was sluggish, as if his body knew what was coming and wanted to delay the inevitable. His heart pounded against his ribcage when he reached the wooden trapdoor in the floor.
Aidan curled his fingers around the handle. He hesitated.
His mind kept flashing back to that night—the first time he had seen the creature through his window, the terror that had clawed up his throat as he watched it move.
He's bound. He can't touch you.
Aidan swallowed hard, yanked the door open, and descended.
The stairs creaked under his weight, his footsteps muffled against the old wooden steps. His legs felt weak, each step making his body tighten with anxiety. His hands were ice-cold, the plate wobbling slightly in his grasp. His breathing came too fast, too shallow. Don't drop the food. Don't drop the food.
The basement wasn't as dark as he had feared. The overhead tungsten lights flickered slightly, casting long, eerie shadows against the concrete walls. Aidan let out a shaky breath. He had expected pitch darkness, maybe even the feeling of something lurking unseen in the corners.
At least he wouldn't be walking straight into a horror movie.
But that didn't make this any less terrifying.
His eyes swept across the basement, his stomach coiling at how empty it was. The room had clearly once been filled with something—old furniture, stacks of boxes, and what he could only describe as witchy crap—but now, it was mostly bare.
Except for him.
Aidan's breath hitched.
Huddled in the farthest corner, cowering like a beaten animal, was it.
Damon.
Aidan sucked in a breath, his fingers gripping the plate so hard his knuckles turned white.
Now that he wasn't just catching glimpses from his window, the full form of the creature could be seen under the artificial lighting. He wasn't just a dark mass of limbs and glowing eyes anymore. No, he was something almost human—except not.
His back was hunched, his muscles taut as if he expected an attack at any moment. His skin—was it skin?—looked almost stretched too tight over his bones, like he had been starved for weeks. And then there was his tail—long, bony, and twitching ever so slightly, like it had a mind of its own.
Aidan shuddered. He had seen images of so-called "skinwalkers" online before, the kind that made his stomach turn—but nothing compared to seeing something real right in front of him.
And yet...
He didn't look dangerous.
Not in the way Aidan had first assumed.
Not in the way that made his stomach twist with fear every time he thought about him.
Instead, he looked...vulnerable.
Aidan had seen what he was capable of. He had felt the sheer, overwhelming terror of his presence that night. But here, now, in this basement, chained like an animal, he wasn't a monster. He was a prisoner.
Aidan tore his gaze away, refocusing on the task at hand.
He carefully lowered the plate to the edge of the white chalk circle Mr. Albu had drawn around the creature, making sure not to step over the line. His entire body was buzzing with tension, his muscles so tight they ached.
Then he stepped back.
Waited.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
The creature didn't move. Didn't twitch. He remained utterly still, his entire form rigid as if he were carved from stone.
Then—
Aidan's breath caught as the demon suddenly lurched forward.
Not walked. Crawled.
His movements were eerily fluid, his hands and feet barely making a sound as he closed the distance between himself and the plate. Aidan immediately averted his gaze, remembering Mr. Albu's strict warning:
Never look him directly in the eyes.
Even without looking, Aidan could feel his presence looming just past the chalk boundary, just a few feet away.
There was a low, wet sound—Damon picking up the chicken with clawed fingers. Then the sharp crunch of his teeth tearing into the raw meat.
Aidan dared a glance.
His stomach twisted.
For someone who was bound, locked away, and barely fed, the demon was clean. Uncomfortably so. His skin—though pale—was free of dirt. His nails, while sharp, were smooth. And his teeth—the very ones ripping into the chicken—were startlingly white.
How?
Aidan's gaze flickered around the basement, scanning for anything that resembled a makeshift bathroom.
Then his eyes landed on a small hole in the corner.
His stomach dropped.
"Oh, God."
That was where he was expected to—?
Aidan almost gagged. The sheer humiliation of it made his skin prickle with secondhand discomfort.
"Jesus, Mr. Albu, you're a piece of shit."
Damon finished his meal, licking the remnants of blood from his fingers. The sound was unnervingly human.
Something shifted in his expression—not hunger, not desperation. Something softer.
Like he had suddenly remembered he wasn't alone.
Aidan's chest tightened.
That look—hesitant, almost shy—made something in him ache.
Because for all the inhuman things about him, Damon hadn't always been this.
Once upon a time, before the chains, before the basement, before the fear...
He had been a boy.
Aidan clenched his fists.
He didn't know how, but one thing was certain.
Damon didn't deserve this.