The power goes out halfway through the storm.

Not unusual by itself. The weather’s been bad for hours already, rain hammering against the windows hard enough to shake the glass every few minutes. What is unusual is the timing.

The lights die immediately after another loud crack of thunder from somewhere overhead.

And downstairs, something in the kitchen shatters.

You’re moving before fully thinking about it, feet carrying you quickly through the dark apartment while the storm rattles the walls around you. Another flash of lightning briefly illuminates the hallway just enough for you to see fractured shadows stretching across the floor.

“Bob?”

No answer.

The air feels wrong.

Heavy.

Not physically heavier exactly, but charged somehow, like the atmosphere itself is straining under pressure. Static crawls faintly across your skin the closer you get to the kitchen, and by the time another flash of lightning cuts through the apartment windows, you finally see him sitting on the floor beside the cabinets.

For one terrifying second, he almost doesn’t look human.

Just a silhouette curled inward in the dark while pale unstable light flickers faintly beneath his skin like something trying very hard to stay contained.

Then the lightning fades.

And there’s just Bob.

Hands shaking violently enough to rattle against the cabinet doors behind him. Breathing uneven. Hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over trembling fingers like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. One of the kitchen light fixtures hangs cracked overhead, glass scattered across the tile floor around him.

His eyes lift toward you immediately when you step closer.

And god, he looks scared.

Not angry.

Not dangerous.

Scared.

“You should probably stay away from me tonight,” Bob says quietly, voice rough enough that it sounds like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

Another flicker pulses through the apartment lights even though the power’s still technically out.

You glance briefly toward the shattered glass before looking back at him. “Bob..”

“I mean it.” His breathing catches unevenly for a second, hands tightening hard enough against themselves that another cabinet trembles faintly beside him. “I can’t really..” He stops abruptly, swallowing hard. “Things get bad sometimes.”

The storm outside crashes louder against the windows.

Inside the kitchen, Bob won’t fully look at you anymore.

Like he already expects fear once you finally see enough.

“You should go upstairs,” he says softer this time. “Before I accidentally..”

You move closer instead.

Immediately, his entire body stills.

The static pressure in the room shifts strangely around you both, not disappearing entirely but weakening enough that the air no longer feels quite so unbearable to breathe through. Bob stares at you approaching like he genuinely can’t understand what you’re doing.

“Hey,” you say quietly once you’re close enough to kneel beside him. “Look at me.”

His eyes lift slowly.

There’s so much fear in them it almost hurts to see.

Not fear of you.

Fear for you.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he admits finally, voice barely above the sound of rain against the windows.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part of all this.

The man capable of terrifying things is still sitting on a dark kitchen floor shaking apart over the possibility of becoming one.