Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wasn’t the first time, and he doubted it would be the last. His palms slapped cold stone, his breath left him in a ragged cough, and the dull ache in his ribs spread like something alive beneath his skin.

“Up,” Dream said.

The word came out smooth and low, the kind of tone that would almost sound kind if you didn’t know what came after. Tommy did. He knew too well.

He forced himself to his knees, fingers trembling against the concrete. “Dream, I—”

The kick caught him in the stomach before he could finish. His body folded, breath cut off sharp. He hit the wall, vision swimming, blood in his mouth again.

Dream crouched, long fingers curling around Tommy’s jaw. “You never learn,” he murmured, voice soft and dangerous. “You know better than to keep secrets from me, Hex.”

Tommy flinched at the name. He hated it—Hex—a title Dream had given him, one that sounded too much like ownership.

“I didn’t,” Tommy rasped. “Didn’t keep anything—”

“Don’t lie.” Dream’s grip tightened until Tommy felt his pulse beat against Dream’s fingers. “You think I wouldn’t hear about you letting that stray get away last night?”

“He was a kid,” Tommy croaked. “A newborn. He didn’t even bite anyone yet, I just—”

Dream slammed him into the wall.

The impact rattled his teeth, sent bright stars through his vision.

“This is your lesson,” Dream said, tone still calm, still awful. “You don’t decide. You follow orders. You hunt when I tell you to hunt, and you kill when I tell you to kill. You don’t get to play savior, Tommy. You’re mine.”

The word mine lodged in Tommy’s ribs like glass.

Dream’s hand closed around his throat, pressing until the edges of the world went soft and distant. His voice was a low murmur against the rushing in Tommy’s ears. “Say it back.”

Tommy wanted to scream. He wanted to fight, to sink his nails into that smug, ageless face and tear something that would bleed. But the moment stretched too long, and the oxygen slipped too thin, and all he could do was choke out—

“I’m yours.”

“Good boy,” Dream whispered, and released him.

Tommy dropped like a puppet with cut strings. The world swayed, blurred. He heard Dream’s footsteps fade away, his voice trailing like smoke. “Clean yourself up before the others see. You look pathetic.”

And then the door clicked shut.

 

Tommy stayed where he was for a while, just breathing. The stone beneath him was cold, the air smelled faintly of iron and bleach. He flexed his fingers. They hurt. Everything hurt.

Eventually, when the trembling dulled, he pushed himself upright. The small mirror on the far wall reflected a pale face spattered with blood. His eyes—blue and too bright—looked like someone else’s.

He washed up in silence, using the cracked sink in the corner of the safehouse bathroom. Water ran pink into the drain.

“You’re mine.”

He hated that his hands still shook.

Tommy pressed his palms flat to the sink and tried to breathe through it. He told himself it was fine—that Dream was right, that he deserved it for hesitating, for letting that kid go. Hunters didn’t hesitate. Hunters didn’t feel bad for monsters.

He told himself he wasn’t scared.

He told himself a lot of things.

When the clock on the wall hit seven, he changed into his other clothes—the plain black button-down, the sleeves long enough to hide the bruises. His apron was already waiting at the orphanage’s tiny laundry room. He grabbed it, forced a smile for the kids still awake in the hall, and left.

 

The orphanage wasn’t much. A converted tenement building with flaking paint and flickering hallway lights, run by people who were too tired to notice a seventeen-year-old sneaking in at dawn and out again by nightfall.

Tommy had been there since he was thirteen, and no one had adopted him since. He’d stopped hoping they would.

The other kids thought he was lucky because he had a job. They didn’t know about Dream, or the hunts, or what it meant to be “Hex.” They just knew he sometimes came home bruised and that he made good pancakes when the kitchen ran short on staff.

He didn’t correct them. It was easier that way.

 

The bar was already half-full when he arrived.

Quackity glanced up from behind the counter and grinned. “You’re late.”

“Bus was slow,” Tommy lied, hanging his coat up.

“You’re lucky you make the best drinks in this city or I’d have fired you already,” Quackity said, tossing him a clean rag. “Come on, superstar. We’ve got the dinner crowd rolling in.”

Tommy caught the rag easily, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’d never fire me. Who else is gonna charm the drunks into tipping?”

“You’re not wrong,” Quackity admitted. “Still underage, though.”

“Yeah, but you’re letting me stay,” Tommy said, already ducking behind the bar.

Quackity snorted. “Don’t remind me.”

The bar had a warm glow to it—dim lights, red booths, faint jazz from the corner speaker. It smelled like citrus and smoke and comfort. Tommy liked it. Here, he wasn’t Hex. He wasn’t a weapon. Just Tommy, the weirdly good teenage bartender who could flip a bottle like nobody’s business.

He kept his sleeves rolled down, careful not to show the mottled purple blooming beneath his skin.

 

It was sometime after eight when they walked in.

Three men—well, two men and one man who looked like he could lift a car. The big one had pale hair tied back and eyes like a glacier. The tall one beside him, thinner, more animated, wore a half-smile that didn’t quite hide the sharpness underneath. And the older man between them—silver hair, gentle eyes, a quiet steadiness that somehow filled the room.

Phil. Wilbur. Techno.

Tommy didn’t know them. Not yet.

“Evening,” Phil said as they took a seat at the bar. His voice had a lilt—soft, polite, something old-world about it. “You serving?”

“Always,” Tommy said, flipping the rag over his shoulder. “What can I get you?”

Wilbur leaned forward, squinting a little at him. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“Don’t think so,” Tommy said, forcing a grin. “I’d remember if I served someone that tall.”

Phil chuckled quietly. “He gets that a lot.”

Tommy smiled, though it tugged at a split lip. He hoped they didn’t notice.

Wilbur tapped the counter. “Three drinks. Surprise us, bartender.”

“Risky,” Tommy said, grabbing bottles. “You don’t even know if I’m good.”

Wilbur raised a brow. “You sound confident.”

“That’s ‘cause I am.”

Phil watched him work, something thoughtful in his expression. “You’re young for this job.”

Tommy shrugged. “Boss makes exceptions. Says I’ve got talent.”

Wilbur grinned. “Orphanage kid with talent—sounds like a story in the making.”

Tommy went still for half a second before replying. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Phil’s eyes softened. “You live nearby?”

Tommy nodded. “Couple streets over.”

“That place near the old chapel?”

“Yeah.”

Phil hummed. “Used to live near there, long time ago. Rough neighborhood.”

“Not that bad if you keep your head down.”

“Wise words for someone your age.”

Tommy laughed weakly. “Yeah, well. I’ve had practice.”

Wilbur watched him curiously, then glanced between Tommy and Phil. “Wait, hang on—Dad, look at him.”

Phil blinked. “What?”

“If he wasn’t my dad,” Wilbur said with mock seriousness, “I’d assume he was your son. I mean, come on! Look at the hair. The nose. Even the glare.”

Phil flushed faintly. “Wilbur.”

“I’m just saying!” Wilbur grinned. “You’re sure you haven’t got a secret kid running around? Because if so, he’s making cocktails.”

Tommy snorted. “Nah. My parents are dead.”

The words landed heavier than he meant. For a moment, the air went quiet.

Phil’s expression softened, grief flickering across his face like an echo. “I’m sorry, lad.”

“Not your fault,” Tommy said quickly. “Was a long time ago.”

Phil studied him for a beat longer, then smiled gently. “Still. No one should have to grow up alone.”

“Tell me about it,” Tommy muttered, wiping the counter.

Phil didn’t push. He just nodded, that soft kind of nod adults gave when they saw you, really saw you, but didn’t want to make it worse by saying something wrong. It was… disarming.

Tommy wasn’t used to that kind of quiet understanding. Dream’s version of “care” was control; Quackity’s was jokes. Phil’s was something else entirely.

And Wilbur, for all his teasing, didn’t feel unkind either. There was something magnetic about him, the way he filled silence like he’d been born to talk. Tommy half-listened as the three of them fell into easy conversation — teasing, complaining about work, laughing. Normal things. Things Tommy had only ever watched from the outside.

He found himself wishing the shift would never end.

 

“Here you go,” Tommy said, sliding three glasses toward them.

Wilbur took a sip and let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell. That’s incredible.”

“Told you I was good,” Tommy said, smirking despite the ache in his jaw.

“You’re better than good,” Phil said, his tone warm. “Where’d you learn?”

Tommy shrugged. “Online videos. Guess I’ve got good hands.”

Something flickered across Phil’s face — brief, sharp. A memory, maybe. Then gone. “You certainly do,” he said quietly.

Tommy didn’t notice the way Techno’s gaze had narrowed slightly. He was too focused on trying to look casual while standing straight. His ribs hurt too much to lean forward.

“You all together?” Tommy asked, trying to make conversation.

Wilbur nodded. “Family business.”

“Oh yeah? What kinda business?”

Phil smiled, a little too easily. “Night work, mostly.”

Tommy raised a brow. “Sounds shady.”

Phil laughed softly. “We keep to ourselves. But it can be dangerous sometimes. You should be careful walking home this late.”

Tommy shrugged. “Dangerous doesn’t scare me.”

Wilbur grinned. “That sounds like something someone terrified would say.”

Tommy opened his mouth to retort, then caught sight of the clock. “Shit—uh, sorry, I mean shoot. I’ve gotta grab something from the back. You three need refills?”

Phil waved him off. “We’re good, son.”

The word son hit him like a bruise pressed too hard — tender and startling all at once. He nodded mutely and disappeared into the back room.

 

The storage closet was small, the hum of the fridge masking the faint ringing in his ears. Tommy pressed his palms to his face, dragging in a shaky breath.

Son.

Why did that get to him so much?

He wasn’t anyone’s son. Not anymore.

Not Dream’s. Not anyone’s.

He took another breath, shoved his sleeves higher, and stared down at the pattern of bruises blooming across his arms. Some darkened to purple, others fading yellow. Like he was a canvas someone couldn’t stop painting over.

He touched one near his shoulder and winced.

Dream would call him weak for even thinking about it.

But sometimes Tommy wasn’t sure if he cared about Dream’s opinion anymore.

Sometimes, he just wanted to be free.

 

When he came back out, Phil’s eyes flicked immediately to the edge of his sleeve where the cuff had slipped. Tommy caught it and tugged it back down, pretending not to notice.

Phil didn’t comment. But his jaw tightened faintly.

“You alright, lad?” he asked after a beat.

“Yeah,” Tommy said automatically. “Just tired. Long day.”

Wilbur glanced between them, clearly catching something unsaid. “You work other jobs?”

Tommy hesitated. “Sort of.”

Wilbur raised an eyebrow. “Sort of?”

Tommy tried to smile. “Yeah. Not really something I can talk about. Just… side gigs, I guess.”

Phil hummed softly, studying him with an expression that looked almost protective. “Well, don’t work yourself into the ground. No job’s worth that.”

Tommy didn’t know how to answer that, so he busied himself with cleaning glasses instead.

 

The bar started to thin out around ten. A few stragglers lingered, their laughter blurring into background noise. Wilbur and Techno were arguing about music; Phil was watching the way Tommy leaned against the counter, exhaustion written in every line of him.

“You need a ride home?” Phil asked when Tommy started closing out tabs.

Tommy shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. Bus’ll be by soon.”

“It’s late.”

“I’ve walked worse streets.”

Phil frowned, but didn’t argue. “Alright. Just… be careful, yeah?”

Tommy smirked. “You sound like my dad.”

Wilbur snorted. “If he wasn’t my dad, I still think he’d be yours.”

Tommy rolled his eyes, but the warmth that bubbled under his ribs caught him off guard.

He didn’t know what it was — the softness in Phil’s voice, the easy teasing, or the way the light caught the gold edges in Phil’s hair that almost matched his own — but for the first time in months, he didn’t feel completely alone.

He wasn’t sure what to do with that.

 

Outside, the air was sharp and cold. The streetlights flickered.

Tommy zipped up his jacket and shoved his hands into his pockets, replaying the night in his head. He didn’t even realize he was smiling until the expression started to ache.

Then his phone buzzed.

He froze. The name on the screen made his stomach twist.

“Dream”.

Tommy stared for a long moment before swiping the notification away. He couldn’t deal with him right now. Not tonight.

The phone buzzed again.

And again.

Finally, a message flashed across the screen:

“Hex. Now.”

The smile vanished. His stomach dropped.

For a moment, he looked back toward the bar — the warm glow spilling out onto the street, laughter faint through the glass, a fragment of a life he could never have.

Then he turned away and walked into the dark.

 

Back at the safehouse, Dream was waiting.

“You ignored me,” Dream said, voice low and dangerous.

Tommy didn’t bother with excuses. “Was working.”

Dream’s hand struck before he even finished the sentence.

The sting burned down his cheek. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t react. That only made it worse.

“You don’t ignore me, Hex.”

“I wasn’t—”

Another hit.

Tommy’s vision swam. He tasted blood again.

Dream sighed, almost theatrically. “Why do you make me do this? Why can’t you just be obedient?”

Tommy bit down hard enough on his tongue to stop himself from saying what he wanted to say.

Dream leaned close. His breath was cold. “You think you can hide from me in that little bar of yours? You think they’d help you if they knew what you really were?”

Tommy’s heart stuttered. “You don’t—”

“I know everything, Hex,” Dream whispered. “Don’t forget that.”

Then he smiled, all teeth and no warmth. “Now clean up. We have work.”

 

By the time Dream left, Tommy could barely stand. He slid down the wall again, staring at the floor until his eyes unfocused.

He didn’t cry. He never did.

But his chest hurt in a way that no bruise could explain.

 

At the bar, long after closing, Phil sat in silence.

He hadn’t meant to stay so late, but something about that boy had stuck in his head. The bruises he’d tried to hide, the careful way he’d smiled, the spark of something painfully familiar in his eyes.

Wilbur yawned beside him. “You’re thinking too hard again.”

“Maybe,” Phil admitted.

“He’s a good kid,” Wilbur said softly. “We should come by again.”

Phil smiled faintly. “Yeah. I think we should.”

He didn’t know why, but part of him already knew he’d see the boy again.

He also knew, with an ache deep in his chest, that when he did… it would be because Tommy needed saving.

Chapter Text

The morning came too quickly. It always did.

 

Tommy woke to the sound of a door slamming somewhere down the hall and the shuffle of boots on tile. His shoulder still ached from last night’s job, the bruise blooming dark beneath his sleeve. He’d learned not to touch it—Dream hated when he came back looking weak.

 

He dragged himself upright. The dorm light flickered overhead, casting that same dull green that made everything look sick. A few of the other recruits were already gone, their bunks stripped and empty. The ones left avoided his eyes.

 

Dream had said something about “thinning the ranks.” Tommy didn’t ask what that meant. He wasn’t stupid.

 

By the time he made it down to the training floor, Dream was already waiting. The man stood by the window, sunlight pooling against his boots, but somehow never really touching him. He didn’t turn when Tommy entered.

 

“You’re late,” Dream said.

 

“Didn’t realize we were still pretending sleep mattered.”

 

The words slipped out before he could stop them. A crack of defiance. Dream’s head tilted, slow and deliberate, like a cat deciding if the mouse was worth the trouble.

 

“Watch that mouth, kid.”

 

Tommy bit back whatever he wanted to say next. Dream finally turned. His mask was off—Tommy hated that most of all. The too-smooth smile, the kind that never reached his eyes.

 

“Another job tonight,” Dream said. “You did well yesterday, but you need to learn what happens when you hesitate.”

 

Tommy swallowed hard. “Wasn’t hesitation. The guy just—he wasn’t a threat.”

 

“Everyone’s a threat,” Dream interrupted. “That’s lesson number one. You hesitate again, and next time I’ll show you what it costs.”

 

He didn’t raise his voice. He never had to.

 

Dream stepped closer, hand heavy on Tommy’s shoulder. “You’re learning, though. You’re getting better. Keep at it, and maybe you’ll live long enough to matter.”

 

The words were meant as encouragement. They felt like a chain tightening.

 

By evening, the city had swallowed the sunlight whole.

 

Tommy was out again, gear strapped tight, orders echoing in his head. He moved through the alleys with that numb focus Dream drilled into him—stay quiet, stay sharp, don’t think.

 

His target was simple, supposedly. A report of “unregistered movement” near the old district. Maybe a stray, maybe nothing. Dream always made it sound casual, but Tommy knew the rules: even if you find nothing, you don’t come back empty-handed.

 

He cut through the back streets, past shuttered windows and the smell of rain. The world felt heavier here—quieter, like it was holding its breath.

 

A sound broke it. Not footsteps. A shuffle, then a thud.

 

Tommy froze. Hand went to his weapon. He crept closer until he saw—

 

—not a monster. Not anything close.

 

Just a man slumped against a brick wall, blood trailing from his temple. Looked older than Dream, maybe mid-forties. Too still to be sleeping, too pale to be drunk.

 

Tommy’s breath hitched. For a second, his mind flashed back to the kid he’d spared last week—the one Dream had found out about later.

 

He’d survived that mistake once.

 

“Shit,” Tommy whispered, crouching beside the man. “You’re not supposed to be here, old man.”

 

The man groaned, half-conscious. His accent was rougher, northern. “Didn’t… plan to be.”

 

Tommy hesitated. The man’s pulse fluttered weakly against his throat. No weapons in sight. No threat.

 

Dream’s voice still echoed in his skull: Everyone’s a threat.

 

He should report it. Call it in, wait for backup. But he didn’t. Instead, Tommy tore a strip from his sleeve and pressed it to the man’s wound.

 

The man blinked blearily at him, eyes blue and unfocused. “You’re just a kid.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Tommy muttered, “you’re just bleeding on the sidewalk.”

 

That earned the faintest chuckle. “Fair enough.”

 

Tommy stayed until the bleeding slowed. Then he left him there—alive, breathing. And for the second time that week, he broke Dream’s rule.

 

Phil found the boy’s handiwork later.

 

He’d been out walking because the city felt wrong tonight, the way it did before a storm. When he turned the corner and saw the blood on the cobblestones, his chest went tight.

 

The injured man—one of his regulars—was sitting up now, pale but alive.

 

“Who did this?” Phil asked quietly, crouching beside him.

 

“Kid,” the man said. “Didn’t give his name. Blond hair, quick hands. Saved my damn life, though I think he didn’t want me knowing that.”

 

Phil’s stomach dropped. Blond hair. Young. Same kid from the market.

 

He didn’t show his worry. Just helped the man to his feet, walked him home, and let the thought settle like a thorn in his mind.

 

If that boy was running jobs for Dream—if Dream was training kids—then things were worse than he’d realized.

 

Phil had tried to stay out of it. He wasn’t the type to get involved in other people’s messes anymore. But he couldn’t shake that image: a too-young kid trying to carry someone else’s blood on his hands.

 

The storm he’d felt in the air wasn’t weather. It was something creeping closer.

 

And Phil had the sinking feeling that when it broke, the boy would be standing right in the middle of it.

 

Tommy made it back before curfew. Dream was waiting, as always.

 

“How was it?”

 

Tommy lied easily. “Nothing there. Just a false lead.”

 

Dream watched him too long. “You sure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

A pause. Then Dream smiled again. “Good work. You’re learning to see the world clearly.”

 

Tommy forced a grin back. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

 

But later, lying in his bunk, he couldn’t stop seeing the man’s face. The blood. The faint gratitude in his voice.

 

He’d saved someone tonight. He should’ve felt proud. Instead, all he could think about was how Dream would’ve smiled while breaking that man’s neck.

 

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky, long and low.

 

Somewhere in the city, Phil sat awake by the window, tracing the storm’s edge with his eyes and thinking about the boy who didn’t yet know what kind of monsters he was hunting.

 

And in the dark between them, something shifted. Something old and waiting.

 

It wouldn’t be long now.

 

The city had a way of swallowing sound at night. Tommy could feel it in his chest as he stepped onto the slick streets, rain still dampening the alleys, neon signs humming faintly above him. Every step echoed too sharply in the narrow passages, every shadow seemed to flicker just a moment too long.

 

He didn’t like it. Not really. But he’d learned to ignore that feeling—it didn’t matter what he felt. Only what Dream expected of him.

 

And tonight, Dream expected obedience.

 

The first target was easy: a small “stray,” nothing more than a boy half Tommy’s age, trembling under the eaves of a burnt-out building. The kid had probably run from something worse than he would ever know, and for a second, Tommy’s gut clenched.

 

Dream’s words had been clear: You hesitate, you fail.

 

Tommy moved closer, knife drawn, muscles tense. The kid flinched, eyes wide.

 

“Please,” he whispered.

 

Tommy froze. He’d done this before—once, twice. But every time he let mercy creep in, Dream punished him. He glanced up, half-expecting the familiar green eyes to appear in the shadows. Not tonight.

 

Still, the caution clung to him like ice.

 

“Move,” he muttered, voice rough.

 

The boy obeyed, stumbling. Tommy’s hand shook as he followed. Part of him wanted to stop. Another part wanted to run.

 

Then the air shifted.

 

A sharp whisper. A cold brush along his neck. Not wind. Not the stray.

 

Something watched.

 

Tommy’s pulse stuttered. He spun, knife raised, and caught the flash of pale movement from across the street—a figure, too fast, too quiet, vanishing before he could blink.

 

He shook his head. Dream?

 

No. Dream wasn’t here.

 

The stray led him to the corner, shivering. “I… I didn’t—”

 

“Save it,” Tommy said. But even as the words left his mouth, he felt the unease coil tighter in his chest.

 

By the time Tommy returned to the safehouse, he smelled faintly of blood and fear.

 

Dream was already there, waiting, hands clasped behind his back like he hadn’t just been gone all night. “You’re late.”

 

“I—” Tommy paused. Lies were instinct. “Traffic.”

 

Dream’s smile was slow, sharp. “Did you get it done?”

 

Tommy’s hand brushed the knife under his jacket. “Yes.”

 

“You hesitate?”

 

“No.”

 

“You’re lying,” Dream said simply, stepping closer. Tommy could feel the heat from his presence even in the dim light of the safehouse. “I can smell it.”

 

Tommy swallowed hard. He knew better than to deny. He flinched. Dream’s gaze flicked toward the corner, where the shadows pooled. “This isn’t a game, Hex. Every mistake costs someone something.”

 

Tommy didn’t answer.

 

Dream’s hand brushed his shoulder—light, almost casual, but the weight behind it pressed into him. “You’re learning,” he said finally, almost too softly. “Keep at it.”

 

And then he was gone, leaving the echo of his words—and the threat—behind.

 

Outside, the streets had begun to empty, though a faint fog had started to rise from the gutters. Tommy moved cautiously, every sense sharpened. He tried to shake the feeling of eyes on him, but the memory of that pale figure lingered, stubborn as smoke.

 

The stray from earlier appeared again—not by chance. Tommy didn’t know how, but the boy was there, huddled against a wall, eyes wide and glimmering with something he didn’t recognize.

 

“You…” Tommy started. “You shouldn’t—”

 

The kid flinched. “I had to… I didn’t know where else to go.”

 

Tommy’s gut twisted. He knew that look. He’d seen it on himself, long ago. Afraid of the world, afraid of the hunter. Afraid of Dream.

 

Before he could say anything, a sound behind them made him freeze. Heavy boots. A low hum in the air, vibrating just beneath the skin.

 

Tommy spun. The pale figure had returned. Its eyes gleamed faintly in the fog—human, but not quite. Something about it radiated the cold certainty of predators who didn’t need to think to kill.

 

Tommy swallowed. The kid whimpered behind him.

 

“Run,” he whispered.

 

Phil watched from a distance. He’d followed the faint trail from the bar, noting patterns, sightings. Always Phil stayed far enough that he wasn’t seen, but close enough to notice.

 

The city at night was quiet, except for the occasional splash of boots on wet pavement and the distant hum of vehicles. But tonight, something felt wrong, more than usual.

 

He’d seen the boy before—the bartender. Blond, pale, hands too quick for someone his age. Always nervous, always alert. Too many bruises for someone who wasn’t in a fight constantly.

 

Phil’s jaw tightened. That boy was involved in things no one his age should ever touch. And if the whispers about hunters were true… the boy was already in too deep.

 

He had to do something, but careful. Not enough to scare him, not enough to attract Dream.

 

Something cold brushed his spine—a presence that didn’t belong to the city. Phil turned, gaze narrowing. There, a shadow that moved wrong, too fluid, too silent. A warning in the darkness.

 

He didn’t flinch. Not yet.

 

But he knew one thing: this night was only the beginning.

 

Tommy led the kid through the alleys, moving fast. His hands ached from gripping his weapon, and every nerve screamed that something was wrong.

 

Then a low hiss cut the air behind them.

 

Tommy spun. Empty street.

 

A flicker of movement. Something pale, too fast, too precise.

 

The kid screamed. Tommy grabbed him and ducked into a side street. Heart hammering, he realized—Dream hadn’t sent this. Whatever it was, it wasn’t one of theirs.

 

The predator waited in the fog. Watching.

 

Tommy knew, deep in his chest, that this was only the start of things he couldn’t control.

 

And for the first time in a long while, he wondered if anyone could save him—before Dream, before the city, before whatever was waiting in the dark.