The Boy Who Didn't Belong to the Night
The night had always felt familiar to me. Quiet. Honest. Like it understood things people never did.
Until it didn't.
I was walking home from school when the feeling hit—sharp and sudden, like the air had shifted around me. The street was nearly empty, lit by flickering lamps and a thin moon struggling through clouds. My footsteps echoed too loudly, and I slowed without knowing why.
That's when I saw him.
He stood beneath a broken streetlight at the corner of Alder Street, perfectly still. He looked my age—maybe seventeen—but something about him felt wrong in a way I couldn't explain. His hair was pale, almost white, glowing faintly under the moon. His skin was smooth and cold-looking, like marble touched by frost.
But his eyes stopped me cold.
They were calm. Too calm. Silver-gray, deep with a quiet sadness that didn't belong to someone so young.
I took a step closer.
And noticed what was missing.
The light spilled onto the pavement, stretching shadows everywhere—except beneath him.
My heart stuttered.
"You shouldn't be out this late," he said softly.
His voice was low and steady, but beneath it was tension, like something tightly caged.
"I could say the same to you," I replied, clutching my bag strap.
His gaze lingered on me for a moment too long, then drifted away, like he was fighting the urge to look again.
"You need to go home," he said.
"Why?" I asked.
His jaw tightened. "Because this place isn't safe."
A strange scent filled the air then—metallic, warm, unsettling. My head spun slightly, and I pressed my fingers into my palm to steady myself.
He inhaled sharply.
Pain flickered across his face, quick and raw.
"Don't stand so close," he murmured.
"Are you okay?" I asked, before I could stop myself.
He laughed quietly, without humor. "No."
The streetlight buzzed, then flickered out. Darkness rushed in, thick and heavy. Above us, the moon slipped free of the clouds—and glowed red.
Fear finally found me.
"Run," he said, urgency cracking his calm. "Please."
My feet wouldn't move.
His eyes locked onto mine, glowing faintly now, like moonlight trapped behind glass.
"Before I forget how," he whispered.
Something stirred inside me—warm, answering, dangerous. My pulse thundered in my ears, loud enough that I swore he could hear it.
He took a step back, fists clenched at his sides.
"I don't belong in your world," he said, voice tight. "And you don't belong in mine."
A distant sound echoed through the night—low, inhuman.
His head snapped up.
"They're coming," he said.
"Who?" I breathed.
He looked at me one last time, something regretful and gentle in his eyes.
"Monsters," he said softly. "And worse."
The shadows stretched.
The night closed in.
And I realized—too late—that meeting him was never an accident.