Barney had a way of cutting through tension with a laugh that felt a little too honest. The kind that made teachers roll their eyes and students grin—even when they shouldn't.
That day at school was no different.
"Look, I'm just saying," Barney smirked as he dropped his backpack by the bench, "if ghosts are real and I die young, I'm haunting a spa. Steamy mirrors, towels slipping… I'll go out doing the Lord's creepy work."
Everyone laughed. Even Hale. Sort of.
But inside, something was coiling tighter every day—like a scream that hadn't found its mouth.
The mark on Hale's chest—it wasn't hiding anymore. It had pushed past the curve of his ribs, branching like veins, like roots looking for something. Or someone.
He told himself it was nothing. A rash. A scar. A dream still clinging to the skin.
In the locker room after gym, Barney was the first to notice. Hale had changed fast, turning his back, but not fast enough.
"Whoa—dude," Barney said mid-laugh. "What the hell's that? Did you join some freaky cult?"
He stepped closer, curiosity eclipsing humor. The grin faltered.
"It's… symmetrical," he muttered.
Hale yanked his shirt down. "Nothing. Cut myself shaving."
"On your chest?" Barney tilted his head. "Bro, you good?"
But Hale didn't answer. He was already walking away, the echo of Barney's laugh lingering too long, bending around corners it shouldn't.
That night, the cold wasn't on the skin.
It was in the bones.
Hale turned for the fifth time, the blanket tight like a cocoon. His body ached in places dreams couldn't touch.
The digital clock blinked: 3:11 AM.
The air had changed. Thick—not heavy with heat or chill, but expectant. Like it had stopped breathing to listen.
The fan above twitched.
Once.
Again.
Then—stopped.
The shadows grew teeth. Not by shape, but by presence—reaching across walls, pooling like something conscious.
3:12 AM.
One minute. But it stretched. He felt it tug at him—like time itself didn't want to let go.
A low hum vibrated beneath the bed. Not heard, but felt in the spine.
Then—
The shift.
He didn't sit up. He didn't get out of bed. But suddenly—
He was in the hallway.
No footsteps. No movement. Just there, like he'd been plucked from one frame and dropped into another.
The air buzzed like static behind the eyes.
Hale's breath caught—because Barney was there.
Standing at the end of the hall.
Not alive.
Eyes wide. Mouth agape. Not fear. Something worse.
Despair.
Frozen mid-scream, his hand reaching out toward Hale like he'd been trying to warn him. Like he'd been pulled away mid-sentence.
On Barney's chest, the mark blazed—fully formed, carved into skin like fire branded in silence.
Hale wanted to move. Scream. Run.
He couldn't.
The world tilted.
Sound collapsed inward.
Then—
Darkness.
Total.
He woke gasping, back in bed.
The blanket tangled like a noose around his legs. His body drenched in sweat. His pulse sprinting with no finish line.
He lunged upright.
The clock read:
3:13 AM.
Just one minute.
Sixty seconds that had lasted forever.
He looked down at his chest. The mark hadn't changed.
But he had.
Something inside had been stripped away. Hollowed. A piece of him stolen through time.
And for the first time—
He wasn't just afraid.
He was grieving.
Not for Barney. Not yet.
For himself.
For something he knew he wouldn't get back.
And all he could whisper, trembling into the darkness, was:
"He saw it…