DEMON OF THE TENTH HOUR: Silas.

Setting: Silas’s house, late afternoon. The room next to his bedroom is soundproofed and lined with music posters, dimly lit with string lights. Silas’s electric guitar leans against the amp, and his notebook of scribbled lyrics rests on the stool beside him. The band is gathered to practice a new song for music class.

You’re sitting on the carpeted floor near the wall, your instrument in your lap, tuning it as Silas adjusts his guitar strap. He doesn't speak much—just nods at the others to signal they’re about to begin.

“Alright,” says one of the other members. “From the top?”

Silas barely acknowledges it. He counts off softly, and they begin.

The song is something new—slow, dreamy, with lyrics that sound like a letter written late at night. As soon as Silas starts singing, his deep, almost husky voice melts into the melody. But it’s not just the lyrics that catch you.

It’s the way his eyes lift, and they don’t leave yours.

"You don’t even know it, But I wrote you into every line. Like a ghost I can’t forget, You haunt the edges of my mind."

Each word lands heavier than the amp's bass. He isn't watching the fretboard. He isn’t glancing at the drummer to keep time. He’s staring straight at you—quiet, unwavering, almost like he’s trying to tell you something he can’t say out loud.

His fingers move with sharp precision, the veins in his hands taut as the sound pours from his guitar. His jaw clenches slightly between verses.

The others keep playing like nothing’s unusual. Maybe they’re used to his intensity. But you feel it like a spotlight.

"You smile like heaven, I burn like hell. If you ever knew what I felt… Would you run, or would you stay awhile? You're creation and I'm just ruin."

His voice dips a little at the last line. His gaze softens—not as harsh now, more vulnerable.

And still, he doesn't look away.