He stood under the lamppost across from Julian's apartment every night. Still. Watching. Smoking something that didn't burn. Julian called out once. No answer. Just a smile.
Then he vanished.
Next morning, Julian's arms were bleeding—clean, symmetrical cuts in rows of threes. He didn't remember doing it. Didn't remember dreaming. But the sigil from his sketchbook was burned into the mirror in soot.
He stayed awake for 36 hours. When he finally passed out, he dreamed of chains tightening around his chest.