Darren's Quest

CHAPTER 2: "THE NIGHTMARE"

Speed's eyes snapped open.

His breathing came in short, sharp gasps—the kind that made his chest burn. Sweat covered his forehead, his neck, the tank top clinging to his skin like it was trying to suffocate him. His heart wasn't beating. It was hammering, slamming against his ribs so hard he could hear it in his ears, in his teeth, everywhere.

What the hell was that?

He jolted upright, the movement jerky and panicked. His hand flew to his chest, pressing hard like he could slow his heart down by force. His other hand went to his mouth—teeth, jaw, tongue. He ran his fingers across his teeth frantically, checking, checking, checking. They were real. Still there. Still his.

He touched his face. His arms. His legs. The sheets beneath him. Real. Real. Real.

But the dream felt more real than any of this.

The war. The light. The angel falling, burning, his wings torn away like they were made of paper. And then—that thing at the end. That smile. Those red eyes looking directly at him, asking if he was still watching, and Speed felt the weight of that gaze even now, awake in his bedroom, the afternoon sun nowhere to be seen because it wasn't afternoon at all.

He didn't need to check the clock to know it was early.

His room was that particular shade of dark that only happened right before sunrise—not quite black, not quite blue. The kind of dark that meant the world was still asleep, and he was the only thing awake in it.

Speed's breathing was still ragged. He forced himself to take a longer breath, hold it, let it out. Again. His heart rate started to drop. Slightly. Marginally. Not enough.

That dream had been vivid.

He'd been having the same one since he was twelve—angels, war, fire, demons, all of it bleeding together like watercolors in a nightmare. But tonight it had felt different. Sharper. Like someone had reached into his skull and cranked the resolution up. Like he'd been there, actually standing in that void, watching that thing get thrown out of Heaven.

Speed ran both hands through his hair, gripping it hard. His skin was still clammy. His sheets were soaked.

Man, I'm losing it, he thought. Just a dream. Just another one of those stupid dreams.

He lay back down, staring at the ceiling. The plaster was boring, featureless. He could count the texture if he wanted to—he'd done it a hundred times on nights when sleep wouldn't come. But his eyes wouldn't focus. His mind wouldn't settle.

He didn't realize how much time had passed until he noticed the dark had shifted slightly. The world wasn't holding its breath anymore. It was starting to wake up.

Speed closed his eyes. Just try to rest. Just—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Loud. Piercing. The kind of sound designed to rip you out of sleep whether you wanted to come out or not.

His entire body jerked. Speed's eyes flew open, and for one stupid second, he thought something was actually wrong. An emergency. A fire. Something real and immediate and terrifying.

Then his brain caught up.

The alarm.

The clock on his nightstand blazed bright in the pre-dawn darkness: 6:00 AM.

Speed's hand shot out and slammed the alarm off. The noise died. The silence that followed felt like relief, but it was thin—fragile. His heart was still running at a sprint even though there was nothing to run from.

He lay there, breathing hard, staring at his alarm clock like it had personally betrayed him.

5:59 AM had become 6:00 AM and his brain had convinced him the world was ending.

Speed groaned and rolled over, pressing his face into his pillow. It smelled like sweat and something stale. How long had he been sweating through this thing?

He didn't want to get up. Didn't want to move. Didn't want to keep living in a world where dreams felt realer than reality and alarms made you think you were dying.

But the alarm had already gone off.

His day had already started.

And that red-eyed smile was still burning somewhere behind his eyes, waiting for him.

Marvelous

12:38 PM (2 hours ago)

to me

CHAPTER 3: "THE MARK"

Speed's feet dragged across the cold tile of the bathroom floor.

The mirror was already fogged from the shower he'd taken yesterday—or was it two days ago? His brain felt like oatmeal. Everything felt like oatmeal. He opened the medicine cabinet without looking, found his toothbrush by muscle memory alone, grabbed the paste.

The bristles were stiff. He'd need to replace it soon.

He shoved the brush in his mouth and started working on his teeth, the motions automatic. Brush up. Brush down. Don't think about the dream. Don't think about falling through nothing. Don't think about that voice asking if you're still watching.

Since I was twelve years old, I've been having the same dream.

The thought came unbidden, settling in his skull like it had always been there. Because it had always been there. Twelve years. That was seven years of dreaming the same thing over and over. Angels. War. Fire. Demons. All of it bleeding into each other, all of it feeling more real every single time. And this morning was different. This morning felt like the dream had grabbed onto him and refused to let go even after his eyes opened.

Speed spit, rinsed his mouth. The water was cold enough to make his gums ache.

I don't know what it means. But it's getting worse.

His reflection stared back at him from the mirror—or at least, what he could see of it through the fog. Dark rings under his eyes. The kind that didn't wash off. The kind that came from sleeping only in fragments, from waking up at 3 AM drenched in sweat and not being able to fall back asleep because your brain was busy replaying the same nightmare on loop. His skin looked gray. Actual gray, like all the color had drained out during the night.

Man, I'm not getting enough sleep.

Speed touched the bags under his eyes, pressed his fingers into the soft skin there. It didn't hurt. Nothing hurt anymore. That was almost worse than pain. Pain meant your body was still fighting. This numb feeling meant surrender.

He washed his face. The water was ice-cold. It helped. Just a little. Just enough to remind him he was awake, he was real, he was in his bathroom in Ohio and not floating through a void watching angels tear each other apart. Not watching his own fall. Not waiting for the next time the dream came back stronger.

Speed finished brushing, took a step back.

He looked at himself in the mirror one more time. Really looked. His dark eyes were flat—exhausted but determined. Eren Yeager energy, the kind of stare that said I'm going to keep moving forward no matter what tries to stop me. His jaw was clenched. Had it been clenched this whole time? Probably.

Speed took a breath. Forced his shoulders to relax. The tension didn't leave. It never did.

"Okay, Darren," he said aloud, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. His voice sounded foreign. Like someone else was saying it from inside his throat. "Let's go again."

The words felt hollow. They always felt hollow. But saying them was like grabbing onto something solid in the dark. A ritual. A promise. I'm going to keep moving forward no matter what tries to stop me. Even if the dream came back. Even if tonight was worse than last night.

Speed turned to walk out.

Behind him—in the mirror's reflection, where Speed wasn't looking anymore—something flickered.

His back. His bare shoulder blade, visible above the line of his tank top. The skin there suddenly glowed red. Not like a rash. Not like inflammation. Like something was burning underneath, trying to push through.

A sigil.

An archangel's mark. Michael's symbol—intricate, geometric, perfect in its malevolence. It blazed bright gold for half a second, maybe less. A pulse. A heartbeat. A warning written in light.

Then it faded.

The glow died. The red faded back to normal skin tone. The mark disappeared like it had never been there at all, like it was just the fog on the mirror playing tricks, like it was the morning light hitting wrong.

Speed was already closing the door behind him.

He didn't see it.

But it had been there.

And somewhere in the spaces between dimensions, something that had been watching the whole time smiled.