I had disjointed, feverish dreams the rest of the night, a chaotic montage of unsettling images and whispers. Unsurprisingly, my golden-blonde coffee crush made several recurring appearances, his amber eyes and knowing smile adding sparks of light and fleeting moments of warmth in the landscape of my subconscious.
While he never wore the starship commander uniform I’d sketched, a minor disappointment, he did wear other costumes, a sense of déjà vu clinging to each vision. It was a waltz through eras, each step with clothing from another age, a visual feast of historical allure. A diamond-twill woollen tunic, rough and worn, hinting at ancient battles and forgotten kingdoms, wool hosen clinging to his sculpted legs, the leather scent of a narrow belt holding a small, sharp dagger. A Renaissance look, rich with velvet and brocade, built of stuffed upper sleeves, a long doublet that accentuated his shoulders, and puffy trunk hose breeches, the tactile sensation of rich fabrics against my skin. Somehow, to match his Victorian waistcoat, ascot, and high collar—a vision of refined elegance—I imagined him with a passable handlebar mustache, a playful touch that added to his roguish charm. In the Happy Days of the 1950s, he sported slicked-back curls, a leather bomber jacket, and dark denim jeans that accentuated his lean physique—rebel without a cause.
In between these eras, these stolen glimpses into his past, I felt another face trying to emerge, a shadow lurking at the edge of my perception. A voice whispered from behind me, a low, seductive murmur that sent shivers down my spine. A breath brushed against my ear, and blue eyes watched me from the shadows. A cold silver locket touched my lips. And then, a jarring shift, a terrifying interruption of the romantic reverie—glowing red eyes, burning with malevolent intent and pointed teeth, a snarling threat that shattered the illusion of safety.
I was startled awake by the overly cheerful pop song that was my alarm, a jarring transition from a world of suggestive whispers to the harsh reality of morning. My skin was clammy and slick with cold sweat. My bedsheets were twisted and tangled. The faces in my dreams—the alluring strangers and the monstrous intruder—had made me toss and turn all night, a restless cycle of desire and dread.
I rushed through a morning shower, the hot water a welcome sting on my chilled skin, and then got ready for the day. With my miniature sleepwalking episode and dreamscape through time, I felt like I’d been awake all night. I poured myself a heavy cup of coffee; it was the only way I’d make it through the day with my eyes open.
The day that started wrong continued to suck. The universe itself got the memo to add friction to every hour of my day; it was a cosmic conspiracy to test my sanity. It wasn’t horrible—life would go on—but everything moved at a snail’s pace. A train delay disrupted my morning commute. The office WiFi was choppy and slow, stranding even the simplest tasks in limbo. The coffee machine, my mid-morning lifeline, decided to stage a bean-less rebellion just as my sluggish brain was begging for caffeine. A client, clearly auditioning for a reality show titled “How Many Ways Can I Ruin a Designer’s Day?” completely revamped their project, effectively turning my week’s worth of work into digital confetti. The universe, it seemed, was determined to remind me that reality was just as capable of being a nightmare as my dreams.
The only spark of joy in my dim, fluorescent-lit day was a message sent by Heather. She’d shared a coffee cup, the name scribbled on the side hilariously mangled. Good coffee, bad spelling.
I quickly texted back, Your name is Header from now on.
Because I wore a wool hat inside? Protesting to free the forehead, she replied, her digital wit a welcome distraction.
They saw your head sweating. I added an emoji of a hat and a water droplet—because subtly was not in my vocabulary—and set my phone aside.
The system was still processing information at dial-up speed, effectively stealing three years of my life. But there were a few offline things I could tackle. As much as I craved a longer reprieve into the realm of procrastination, I knew I’d be chained to my desk until long after the sun had surrendered to the night.
I rarely stayed late. Most weeks, deadlines were manageable, even if a client suddenly had a last-minute change of heart about the logo design or promo layout. But today was different. It was a necessary sacrifice to appease the gods of deadlines and keep the project from becoming a digital Pompeii. And the snail-paced WiFi had only added fuel to the already raging inferno of my workload. Fortunately, the fire was somewhat extinguished by the afternoon when the internet finally rejoined the 21st century.
The day had been an exhausting marathon of pixel-pushing. But calling it quits early wouldn’t help. I knew I’d be thanking my future self in the morning—when I wasn’t explaining to a client why their launch was delayed. I finally wrapped up at 6:50 PM. A wave of relief washed over me. Layout, colours, and fonts—all updated to accommodate the last-minute edits.
The new issue was the descending darkness outside the window, a discomforting contrast to the brightly lit office. Welcome to late September, when even the sun ends the workday earlier than me.
Home was a 30-minute train ride away. While travelling around dusk often meant a greater chance of securing a free seat, it also came with its own risks. Nothing I wasn’t used to, though. I was a city girl, navigating sketchy transit since my early teens. However, my latest string of strange dreams—coupled with the previous night’s sleepwalking episode—made the dark feel like a trap.
The elevator to the street was quiet, as was the sidewalk outside the building. The usual post-work chatter was replaced by an eerie silence. There was some traffic, mainly the stragglers finally leaving downtown after work, their headlights cutting through the shadows. I kept my laptop bag snug under my arm, my phone in my pocket, and my eyes straight ahead. Downtown was illuminated by city lights, but even the brightest streetlights couldn’t penetrate the deep shadows that clung to alleyways and corners. My mind insisted on being ridiculously paranoid, perceiving every ordinary patch of darkness as a hidden threat.
I was one of the few at the train stop, an unsettling sight even for this hour—it was still downtown, the heart of the city. It was cold, strangely biting cold, maybe the reason for the deserted station, the air thick with a damp chill that seeped into my bones. My weather app hadn’t seen this coming. First week of autumn, and suddenly I could see my breath, ghostly plumes under the streetlights. Sure, the sun was setting, but it was a weirdly severe drop. I curled my fingers, shoving my fists into my pockets, trying to ward off the creeping cold. My trendy jacket was too flimsy, designed for the late September warmth, not this strange wind straight from the Arctic.
I was one of the few souls at the train stop, an unsettling sight even for this hour—it was still downtown, the thrumming, concrete heart of the city. The reason for the deserted station was evident in the air: it was cold, strangely, viciously biting cold, with a damp chill that seeped into my bones. My weather app hadn’t seen this coming; it was probably still cheerfully predicting “mildly warm and breezy.”
It was the first week of autumn, late September, when the air should have been crisp with a lingering summer warmth, not this unnatural, eerie freeze. I could see my breath, ghostly plumes under the streetlights. This sudden drop in temperature felt like a step into another dimension. The unsettling air carried the faintest tang of decay, like wet leaves and old garden compost, quickly swallowed by the city smog.
I curled my fingers, shoving my fists deep into the pockets of my jeans, trying to ward off the creeping cold. My trendy, tailored jacket, a flimsy caramel-coloured faux-leather, was hilariously inadequate, clearly designed for sipping lattes on a sun-drenched patio, not for battling a strange wind straight from the Arctic. Great. Just great. I survived my battle with deadlines only to freeze in a freak weather shift. Thanks a lot, climate change.
The train arrived, and I chose a spot in the corner near the door, a strategic position for a quick escape. I liked having a sense of control in an unpredictable environment. The train wasn’t empty, but it was sparse enough that no one sat in the same section, respecting each other’s individual bubbles of solitude. A few stood by choice, their faces turned towards the windows, their gazes fixed on the passing cityscape. I pulled out my phone and popped in an earbud, selecting a song from my Train & Travel playlist.
I relaxed—or tried to—letting myself forget the creeping unease. Now, the hard part—deciding what to make for dinner. If only I’d had the foresight to leave some leftovers.
The train entered a tunnel, and my song abruptly stuttered, a digital hiccup in the darkness. Unusual, but I didn’t have the song downloaded. When we emerged into the dim, flickering light of the next station, the song resumed as if nothing had happened. The train briefly exchanged passengers, but the train car remained eerily empty. No one sat beside me, and a strange, unspoken agreement seemed to keep everyone huddled on the far side of the car, their faces turned away, their silence heavy.
I closed my tired, strained eyes. I’d hardly taken a break all day, a prisoner of pixelated demands. I’d even eaten lunch at my desk. Not a healthy habit, but at least the task was done. I leaned my shoulder against the cold, vibrating window, feeling the rhythmic sway of the tracks as I was lulled into a state of semi-consciousness. The light flickered again, plunging us into another tunnel. As we picked up speed, the sound of the tracks grew louder and more rickety, a metallic screech that resonated through the empty car. It was a longer tunnel, so I turned up the volume.
The train suddenly screeched to a halt, a jarring jolt that sent me lurching forward. I grabbed the nearby pole, my earbud popping out, the music dying abruptly. I opened my eyes to total darkness. I could hear my heavy breathing, the frantic rhythm echoing in the oppressive silence, but no other sound—no breaths to match mine, no rustling of clothes, no subtle shifts of movement. I fumbled for my phone to tap the flashlight. The screen was blank, a dead, unresponsive mirror. Frantic swiping and tapping, trying to wake the screen, but nothing responded. I held down the power button. I looked around, straining my eyes, waiting for them to adjust. I’d never been one to speak up first, to break the silence, but a little embarrassment was a small price to pay for sanity.
“Hello?” I said weakly.
No answer. I shifted to the edge of the bench seat, my muscles tense, my senses on high alert. “Hello?” I called louder, my voice trembling but firmer.
“Hello?” The voice was small, hoarse, and shrill, a distorted echo of my own, a sound that sent a wave of icy dread through me.
I scanned the dark, searching for any sign of movement, any flicker of light, but I couldn’t see a thing. Not even a reflection of light on the windows, not even the faint glow of a phone screen. But someone—something—was in the train car with me.
Careful to make as little noise as possible, I pulled my legs up on the seat, getting into a low crouch, my body coiled. Could I force the train door open? I wasn’t sure I knew how to work the emergency handle—not in the disorienting darkness, not with the knowledge that something was watching me, waiting.
“Hello?” The voice was louder, closer, still hoarse and shrill, a sound that alerted my nerves like pulling a guitar string too tight.
No way was I waiting to find out if it was just someone else who’d fallen asleep on the train. I held my breath, the stale air thick with the scent of rust, metal, and something else, something acrid and unfamiliar, and forced myself to step down onto the cold floor. No monster is going to grab your ankles, Morgan, so stop panicking. My mental mantra did nothing to slow my racing blood.
I stepped lightly, sneaking in the direction of the door. It wasn’t far, but every inch felt like a mile. I stretched my arm out, trying to reach the door without bumping into it and making more noise. Trembling fingers touched the rough, cold plastic. I searched for the button that usually opened it—but nothing happened. I felt around more, desperate for the emergency latch. My eyes had adjusted a little, enough to make out faint marks on the door, the outline of bench seats and handrails—but not enough to read the emergency instructions.
“Hello?” The voice was closer, a low, guttural rasp that sent a jolt of icy fear through me. It had moved down the train car, not more than a few seats away. It had to be close enough to hear me.
I still couldn’t see anyone else on the train, but I could feel a presence, something hungry. And there was something odd about the seats—like something had taken bites out of the worn vinyl, ragged tears that looked disturbingly like a giant cat scratch. One of the handrails was hanging off, creaking and rusted, like it had aged centuries in seconds.
My throat tightened, my heart slamming against my ribcage like it was trying to escape. I didn’t know any self-defence, and I didn’t have anything useful like pepper spray. At best, I could hit whatever it was with my laptop.
This was the moment of decision. Fight, flight, freeze. I could try to fight blindly in the dark, a desperate, flailing mess. I could try to break out of the door, risking broken bones. I could try waiting, talking, hoping my imagination had run wild and it was just someone else trapped on the train, someone equally terrified. But instinct screamed danger. I knew whatever was waiting in the dark wanted to hurt me.
I swallowed, my throat dry and scratchy, my mouth tasting copper and musty soil. My wide eyes scanned the dark, searching for any sign of movement. The scent of something rotting and putrid filled my nostrils, a cloying stench that made my stomach churn. Cold air brushed my face, a ghostly caress that sent a shiver down my spine. “Hello,” the voice said, right next to me.
I let out a terrified whine and tried to duck away. Long fingers, cold and skeletal, grabbed my arm, tugging me down with unnatural strength. My back slammed on the floor, the impact jarring my teeth. I tried to push it away, but another hand grabbed my wrist with an iron grip. I opened my eyes and saw red eyes glowing in the dark. I screamed.
I could make out the outline of some short, humanoid figure with bone-thin arms, skinny fingers like talons, grisly, matted grey hair, wearing a long, shapeless cap dyed a deep, disturbing red. The redcap from my midnight sketch.
“Hello,” the redcap creature said, its voice a gleeful rasp. It grinned, revealing rows of long, pointed teeth like needles. The full beard was caked in dried red. Its talon fingers grabbed my throat, and its chipped, dirty nails scratched my skin, drawing blood.
“No, no,” I pleaded, my voice strained and small from its tight hold around my neck. I kicked and tried to push it off me, but for something half my height, it had a strength that defied logic. I felt around the floor, desperate for anything to use as a weapon. I felt the cool, smooth surface of my phone screen. I grabbed it and slammed the phone into the redcap’s eye. It made a sickening squish when it poked the red eyeball—enough to distract the creature, its howl of pain a chilling echo. The redcap released my throat to grab its injured eye, its talons leaving bloody scratches on my skin.
I ran past the redcap, adrenaline fueling my desperate flight, to the other end of the train car. Maybe the creature would be surprised enough by my attack to buy me time to open the other door. I slid toward the door and fumbled again to find a latch. It jiggled, but I couldn’t get it to budge. I hoped the cinema hadn’t lied to me and readied to jab my elbow into the narrow window in the door. I slammed and was instantly devastated with pain, a shock that radiated through my arm. It was the funny bone, but intensely worse, a searing agony that made me gasp. I grabbed my elbow and moaned, the pain blinding. The window had wobbled, a slight tremor, but nothing more. I yanked off my shoe and slammed the heel against the window over and over, grunting with effort. The glass slipped from the frame—it wasn’t open yet, but it was something.
“Help!” I shouted, my voice raw and desperate, hoping the gap in the window would let someone hear me, anyone. “Please—there’s something in here!”
The redcap’s skinny talons, like steel claws, grabbed the back of my jacket, tugging me away from the door with terrifying force. Its grip was a vice, its red eyes burning with a feral rage. It tore long, jagged holes in my jacket, its claws shredding the fabric like tissue paper. The stench of sewage and rust, thick and suffocating, filled the train car and made my stomach heave. I threw my remaining shoe at its crimson cap, but it dodged with unnerving speed. It lashed out and grabbed my torn jacket, trapping me.
“Little morsel,” the redcap hissed gleefully. The sound was drawl and clumsy, like a wild animal trying to mimic human speech.
I tore away, leaving behind more mangled swatches of my faux-leather jacket. I braced myself, bringing my arms close to my body, and crashed back into the control room door—another lock between me and safety. I heard the creature’s laughter, a chilling, snarling sound. I couldn’t stop myself from closing my eyes, bracing for the inevitable, agonizing blow.
But the lash never came. Instead, the door exploded inward with a deafening crash, crumpling from a sudden, unseen force, the sound echoing through the train car like a thunderclap. The redcap and I both stared, stunned, at the figure that emerged from the shadows—a large figure that moved with an ethereal, predatory grace. The shadow coalesced into the form of a man and stood between me and the redcap. The creature shrieked, its red eyes wide with terror. There was a flash of silver, a swift, deadly movement, and then the redcap’s head slid off its shoulders, landing with a sickening thud. The man held a gleaming broadsword, the blade dripping with dark liquid, a medieval weapon of deadly elegance wielded with effortless skill.
He barely fit in the narrow aisle, his broad shoulders and imposing frame a stark contrast to the cramped space. Despite his size, he moved with fluid grace, tucking his sword away—hidden beneath his dark peacoat. He knelt before me, his movements deliberate, controlled, every action imbued with a quiet intensity. His deep-set eyes, a pale, piercing blue, searched mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat. He was a dark knight from a gothic fairy tale, a creature of shadow and steel, with pale skin and black hair that framed his face like a living shadow—a dangerous beauty that both terrified and captivated me. His thick, dark brow was furrowed, showing a hint of concern in his otherwise stoic expression.
“You’re safe now,” he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble. Slowly, so as not to startle me, he placed a calloused hand over mine. It’s you.
My lip trembled, tears welling in my eyes, a mix of fear and relief. I felt a sharp ache where my back had slammed the unforgiving floor. My throat was sore, and the sliced skin stung. My vision blurred from tears, a wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm me.
“Wh–who are…?” I stammered. My throat felt raw from where the redcap had squeezed. “Wh–what…?”
“Corvus,” he said.
It was familiar, like a name I’d heard whispered in a dream, a forgotten memory surfacing from the depths of my subconscious. A heaviness crushed my brain, the sudden, weighted pain pushing away any chance of chasing lost memories.
“With your permission, may I take you somewhere safe?” he asked, his voice laced with a gentle command.
He’d saved me, a knight in shining armour, or rather, a dark saviour in a peacoat. That would have been enough reason to accept his help. But I also felt an inexplicable trust in him—a primal instinct that whispered he would protect me at any cost. I held out my arm, a silent plea for his embrace, a desperate need for his touch. He scooped me up like I weighed nothing, his strength a comforting shield. I rested my forehead on his broad shoulder, the scent of stone, leather, and clove filling my senses. I cried, a breathy, snotty release of pent-up fear. Somehow, I cried myself to sleep, trusting him to keep me safe.
I briefly woke once—or maybe I was still trapped in the liminal space between dreams and reality. My vision was bleary and unfocused. I felt disoriented and full-headed like I’d downed a row of shots. My dark knight—Corvus—still had an arm around me, his grip a protective, steady pressure against my side. But through the shimmering veil of fatigue, I thought I saw my golden-haired coffee shop Adonis appear. His presence was a bright, almost luminous contrast to Corvus’s shadows. He reached out and took my free hand, his touch a sudden spark against my skin.
“What happened?” my coffee crush asked, his tone frantic and threatening. His amber eyes were bright, burning like coals on fire even in the dim room.
“Back off, Kay,” Corvus said, his voice a deep, grumbling tone that promised violence, a low rumble of thunder directed at the golden Adonis.
So my coffee crush’s name was Kay—at least, in my dream, anyway. The name felt right.
“What happened to her?” Kay demanded again, his voice sharp with urgency, cutting through the hazy air. His grip on my left hand tightened.
I recognized the room—it was my own bedroom, somehow. But it felt altered, as if a thin veil had covered everything, making everything hazy and dreamlike. It was hard to tell what was familiar or unfamiliar in the middle of a dream. My tired eyes, heavy as lead, slipped closed.
“Redcap,” Corvus answered, his voice a low growl of suppressed rage.
“Damn that rotting witch,” Kay said, his voice laced with venom, his jaw clenched so tightly I could almost hear his teeth grind. His grip on my hand tightened further, almost desperately. He muttered a string of curses, ancient words that sounded both beautiful and dangerous, like poetry woven from thorns and fire. “Let me have her.”
His words were unsettlingly possessive, even for a dream, and so I forced my eyes to squint open, peering through narrowed slits.
Corvus held me firm, his arm a steel band around my waist, unyielding. His icy eyes, sharp as winter moonlight, looked at Kay’s hand like it was an encroaching weed. They were playing tug-of-war with my hands. I closed my heavy eyes again, unable to keep them open, even to see who won the silent, possessive battle for my unconscious body.
Kay rolled his eyes, a flicker of spiteful amusement in his amber eyes, a spark of hotheaded charm breaking through his rage. “Come now, Corvus, we both know healing is my court’s specialty. We can fight later—after I’ve healed her bruises.”
My knight reluctantly loosened his grip, a soft sigh escaping him, a grudging concession. He gently laid my body down on my bed, the familiar soft cover of my duvet and the clean scent of my laundry detergent welcoming me. Corvus kept a hand on my shoulder, still cautious and possessive, but he leaned back, allowing Kay access. I groaned softly, noticing the dull thrum of back pain now that I had finally laid down. My eyes remained mere slits, peering through thick lashes.
Corvus watched Kay’s movements like a wolf, tense and coiled, ready to lunge at the first sign of danger. Kay, ignoring the silent threat, removed a leather glove, revealing golden, slender fingers. His gentle touch sent an immediate wave of intense heat through my skin, an almost painful, scorching sensation—my eyes widening involuntarily at the shock—that quickly transformed into a soothing warmth. The dull ache from the redcap’s clawed grip dulled, then vanished. The sting from its scratches faded, replaced by a gentle heat that hummed beneath my skin. My back no longer felt bruised or battered; the soreness vanished, leaving no trace of the brutal attack. I felt good, too good, a sense of well-being that bordered on euphoria. This dangerous, intoxicating feeling made me question the nature of Kay’s touch.
It made me feel too awake, too alert. I fluttered my bleary eyes, trying to focus, to make sense of the surreal scene before me, and tried to reach out, to touch them both.
“Rest for now,” Corvus said. He placed a cool hand over my eyes, a gentle touch that plunged me back into instant darkness. The intense heat under my skin cooled, the euphoria faded, and exhaustion returned like a heavy weight that pulled me under. I fell asleep feeling each of them holding my hands, warmth on my left and cool on my right.