Arke stared at the blade hovering in front of him. Its faint red glow pulsed in time with the beeps of the monitor beside his bed—no, not just the monitor. He pressed a hand to his chest. The rhythm matched his heartbeat.
His gaze shifted around the room, half-expecting someone else to see it, then settled back on the dagger. Hesitantly, he raised his left hand—his dominant hand—toward the hilt. When his fingers hovered an inch from the hilt, the blade began to fade, loosening like smoke.
Arke lowered his head, pressing his forehead into his palms. "I think I'm going crazy."
The door clicked open. "Arke… you're awake."
He looked up. His mom stood there, worry etched across her face, and beside her was a doctor.
They crossed the room together. His mom reached him first, wrapping her arms around his shoulders before sinking into the chair by his bed.
"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked, stepping closer to the monitor as if to double-check the readouts.
Arke let out a shaky laugh. "I think I'm losing my mind."
The doctor's brow lifted slightly but stayed calm. "Can you tell me what makes you feel that way?"
"I keep hearing a voice… calling my name. And I keep seeing this dagger."
The doctor nodded slowly, taking a moment before responding. "Your mom told me a little about what happened to you during the Crimson Hour. When someone goes through something that intense, the brain can sometimes react in unusual ways. Hallucinations, vivid dreams, even hearing things that aren't really there. It doesn't mean you're crazy. It just means your mind is still processing what happened."
He glanced at the monitor beside Arke's bed, then back at him. "Physically, you're perfectly healthy. We ran scans and bloodwork. Everything came back normal. There's nothing wrong with your body."
Arke's brow furrowed. "So… it's all in my head?"
"In a sense," the doctor said. "It's psychological, not physical. That's actually good news. It means we can manage it—with the right treatment." He pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket. "I'll prescribe something to help regulate your sleep and reduce the intensity of these episodes. With rest and follow-up care, there's no reason you can't continue recovery at home."
The doctor handed the prescription to Arke's mom. "I'll leave the two of you for now."
"Thank you, Doc," she said.
"You're welcome," he replied, giving Arke a reassuring nod before stepping out of the room.
As the door clicked shut, his mom reached over and took his hand. "What happened, Arke? Why did you go to the school?"
Arke let out a slow breath. "Like I told the doctor… I kept seeing this dagger. At the track." He hesitated, then added, "Earlier I read an article online about a dagger and the Crimson Hour. I got curious, so I went and saw it again, and when I touched it…" His voice trailed off. "I don't even know what happened next."
"I'm sorry, Mom."
Her expression softened. "It's okay. What matters is you're safe now."
"How did you even know I was at the school?"
"Arthe told me you went to the convenience store," she said. "But after an hour, you still weren't back. I got worried and went to check, but you weren't there. I tried calling your phone—you didn't answer. I don't know, maybe it was instinct, but I called the school. They said they'd look into it. A few minutes later, they called me back and said they found you unconscious on the track."
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Promise me you won't do that again."
Arke nodded.
Later that day, they left the hospital and returned home. Arke barely spoke on the ride back, the doctor's words still circling in his head. Once inside, he took the prescribed medication. Maybe the doctor was right, he told himself. Maybe this really was something his mind could work through.
The next morning, he woke up feeling different. Lighter. Maybe it was just the medicine, but for the first time in weeks, he felt more alive.
He slid into his wheelchair, rolled out of his room, and joined his mom and Arthe for breakfast. His mom kept stealing glances at him, her expression softening each time. She didn't say anything, but it was clear she was relieved to see him looking brighter.
Afterward, he wheeled into the living room, powered on the console, and called out, "Arthe, want to play?"
His younger brother peeked over the back of the couch. "So you're back to normal?"
Arke grinned. "Yeah. And you're going to regret it. I'm going to wipe the floor with you."
"Whatever," Arthe said, flopping down beside him and grabbing a controller.
They started playing, and Arke was clearly in the lead, his fingers flying across the buttons. Then, mid-combo, one of the buttons refused to spring back.
He frowned and glanced down. It wasn't just stuck, the plastic was cracked.
For a moment he just stared at it, distracted, while on-screen his character took a beating.
"Wipe the floor, huh?" Arthe said, laughing as his victory sealed.
Arke blinked, then looked up at him. "No, seriously—my controller broke."
"Excuses!" Arthe shot back, grinning.
"Mom's going to kill me," Arke said, but he was laughing too.
The rest of the day passed with an unusual lightness—though not enough to erase the thought that his mom was going to be furious when she found out they needed a new controller.
That night, he took his medication and wheeled over to his bed. As he swung his legs onto the mattress, he caught something out of the corner of his eye: a twitch in his foot. He froze for a second, staring, but then shook his head. Probably just a side effect of the medicine, he told himself.
Sleep pulled him under quickly.
The dream returned. It began the same way—he was on the track, running free, wind slicing past his skin. Then the plaza, the coffee shop, Rizz's empty table… and the dagger waiting for him instead.
But this time, the dream didn't end there.
He stood before the blade, crouched, and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. The dagger dissolved, not vanishing but unraveling into mist, a living red smoke that burrowed into his palm. He felt it surge through him—up his arm, across his chest, into the other hand, and finally down into his legs.
When he looked at his hands, dark red markings snaked across his skin, curling like tattoos.
He raised the hand that had absorbed the dagger, studying his palm.
And woke suddenly, his hand still outstretched like in the dream.
He lowered his gaze.
His feet were flat on the floor.
He wasn't sitting.
He was standing, straight and steady, in front of his bed.
Pale light seeped through the window, tinting the room in the muted colors of early dawn.
He drew a shaky breath and shifted his weight forward. One step. Another. Then another. His legs held.
A half-laugh, half-sob caught in his throat as he quickened his pace, moving through the hallway until he reached the dining room.
His mom sat at the table with a cup of coffee, her hair loosely tied, steam curling from the mug.
"Mom," he said, voice unsteady but clear, standing at the entrance.
"It's still early, Arke. Go back to bed," she replied without looking up.
"Mom!" This time his voice cracked, louder, urgent.
She started to stand, irritation in her movement, but when she turned and saw him, she froze.
The mug slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor, coffee spilling across the tiles, but neither of them seemed to notice.
She still couldn't move. Her expression, a mix of disbelief and a sob.
Then Arke did what he hadn't done in months.
He ran.
He threw his arms around her, nearly knocking her off balance.
For a heartbeat she stood frozen, then her hands clutched him tight, as if afraid he might disappear.
Neither of them said a word. They just cried, the quiet of dawn wrapping around them like a witness to something impossible.