School was supposed to be a sanctuary.
It was a place of fluorescent lights, squeaking linoleum, and the smell of floor wax. It was a place governed by bells and schedules, not by ancient curses or rotting commuters.
Ren sat at his desk in the back row, staring at the whiteboard.
AP History. Mr. Henderson. The Industrial Revolution.
Safe topics. Steam engines. Coal. Spinning jennies.
Ren gripped his pen so hard the plastic barrel cracked. He jumped, looking down at the ink staining his fingers.
"Deep breaths," he whispered to himself. "You are just stressed. You are having a breakdown. People have breakdowns all the time. It's trendy."
He tried to wipe the ink off on his jeans, but his hands were shaking again.
"Yo. You killing that pen, or did it owe you money?"
A heavy backpack dropped onto the desk next to him with a thud.
Ren looked up.
Jian slid into the seat, looking like he had dressed in the dark. His tie was loose, his shirt collar was popped on one side, and his hair looked like a bird's nest that had survived a hurricane. He was holding a Nintendo Switch in one hand and a half-eaten bagel in the other.
Jian was Ren's best friend for two reasons:
They were both invisible to the popular crowd.
Jian was the only person Ren knew who could sleep through a fire drill.
"I had a rough morning," Ren muttered, hiding his ink-stained hand.
Jian didn't reply immediately. He tapped a button on his console, paused the game, and slowly turned to look at Ren.
He didn't look with his usual sleepy expression. He sniffed.
Once. Twice.
Jian frowned. "Dude."
"What?"
"Did you switch colognes?"
"No."
"You smell weird." Jian leaned closer, sniffing again, uncomfortably close to Ren's neck. "You smell like... sandalwood. And wet dirt. And ozone." He pulled back, eyeing Ren suspiciously. "Did you go to a funeral before first period?"
Ren's heart skipped a beat. The coffin.
"I spilled tea on myself," Ren lied quickly. "Herbal tea. Grandma's recipe."
Jian stared at him for a long, uncomfortable second. His dark eyes flicked over Ren's pale face, the dark circles, the handprint-shaped bruise faintly visible on his neck.
Then he shrugged, turning back to his game.
"Weird tea," Jian mumbled. "Smells like a crypt."
Ren exhaled. He doesn't know. He's just sharp.
Mr. Henderson started the lecture. Ren tried to focus. He opened his textbook, but the pages seemed to blur. The noise of the classroom—the scratching of pencils, the shifting of bodies, the whispers—felt amplified.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He could hear heartbeats again.
"Hey," Jian whispered, not looking up from his screen. "You okay? You're vibrating."
"I think I have the flu," Ren whispered back. "I'm seeing things."
"What kind of things?"
"Monsters on the subway."
Jian's thumb paused over the 'A' button.
He didn't laugh. He didn't make a joke about drugs. He just sat very, very still.
"Lunch," Jian said softly. "Roof. We need to talk."
The cafeteria was a war zone of noise.
Ren followed Jian, clutching a tray he didn't intend to eat from. The smell of greasy pizza and disinfectant was making his stomach churn.
"Why are we here?" Ren hissed. "You said the roof."
"Door was locked," Jian said, scanning the crowd. "Janitor is on patrol. We have to blend in."
They found a table in the corner, near the exit. Ren sat down, burying his face in his hands. The sensory overload was getting worse. Every shadow looked too dark. Every corner seemed to hide something grey and rotting.
"Eat," Jian commanded, sliding a milk carton toward him. "You look like a zombie extra."
Ren picked up the milk. "I can't. I feel like—"
He froze.
His gaze had drifted to a table near the center of the room. A sophomore boy was sitting there, laughing with his friends. He looked normal. Happy.
But there was something on his back.
It looked like a monkey, but made of black oil and smoke. Its limbs were elongated, wrapped tightly around the boy's neck like a scarf. Its face was buried in the nape of the boy's neck, pulsing rhythmically.
Suck. Suck. Suck.
Ren blinked.
Hallucination. It's the flu. It's brain damage.
He rubbed his eyes. He looked again.
The Smoke Monkey was still there.
And then, as if sensing Ren's attention, it stopped feeding.
It slowly lifted its head.
It didn't have eyes. It just had burning white sockets that leaked smoke. It turned its head 180 degrees, swiveling like an owl.
It looked across the crowded cafeteria. Past the jocks. Past the cheerleaders.
It looked directly at Ren.
Ren's blood turned to ice.
The creature hissed—a sound like steam escaping a pipe. It raised a smoky, clawed finger and pointed at Ren.
Ren didn't decide to move. His body moved for him.
His right hand snapped up, his fingers twisting painfully into a rigid, unnatural shape. It wasn't a wave. It was a claw.
A word—a sound that felt like grinding stones—rose in his throat like bile. It burned his tongue. He didn't know what it meant, but his instinct screamed that if he spoke it, something would die.
Ren stared at his own hand in horror. Stop. Stop it.
Kick.
A sharp pain in his shin shattered the trance.
"Ow!" Ren yelped, his hand dropping to the table. The alien feeling vanished, leaving his fingers trembling.
"Don't," Jian hissed.
Ren turned to his friend. Jian wasn't playing his game anymore. He was staring at his milk carton, his expression bored, but his knuckles were white.
"Don't look at it, Ren," Jian whispered.
"You... you see it?" Ren stammered.
"Bottom feeder. A leech," Jian muttered calmly, opening his milk. "Ugly little thing. Harmless unless you invite it in."
"It pointed at me!"
"Because you were staring at it, idiot. Spirits are like stray cats. If you make eye contact, they think you want to adopt them."
Jian took a sip of his milk, then kicked Ren's shin again, gently this time.
"Keep your eyes on me," Jian said. "Stop radiating that weird energy. You're lighting up the room like a lighthouse."
Ren stared at his best friend—the slacker, the gamer, the guy who once wore pajama pants to prom.
"Jian," Ren whispered. "What the hell are you?"
Jian smirked, wiping a milk mustache from his lip.
"I'm the guy who's going to keep you from getting eaten before third period," Jian said. "Now eat your pizza."
Ren looked down at his tray, trying to force his heart rate to slow.
Across the table, Jian went back to his game. But Ren saw it.
Jian's eyes didn't stay on the screen. Every few seconds, they flicked up to the ceiling vents, then to the shadows under the tables.
And his smirk was gone.