You were never fully meant to exist in the waking world.

Born from a dream that Dream himself forgot, you spilled through the cracks with a body and a heartbeat, but something inside you still tethered to the Dreaming. You learned to keep it quiet—your power. The way things changed when you drew them. How a sketch of fire would turn your room too hot to breathe. How drawing someone's face too clearly meant they'd show up in your life. Confused, bleeding, real.

At first you thought it was coincidence. But then came the sketch of the man with teeth for eyes, and the soft tap of his boots outside your window three nights later.

The Corinthian never questioned what you were. He knew.

“You’re a backdoor,” he said once, fingers brushing the paper you used like it might bite him. “You're a story that never got finished. A dream that didn’t shut all the way.”

And you’d laughed. Nervously. Pretended you didn’t understand. But you did.

You’ve spent years drawing safer things. Abstractions. Landscapes. Rooms with no doors.

Until tonight.

Rain slicks the glass of your studio windows, a constant whisper behind the thin curtains. The room smells of paint thinner, hot dust from the radiator, and the paper coffee cup you’ve let go cold on the sill. You’ve been sketching again. Rough graphite lines of a face you promised yourself you wouldn’t draw anymore.

Hollow eyes. Sunglasses. Teeth.

You don’t hear him arrive. You feel him, like the air gets heavier just to make space for him.

“You always did draw me too well.”

The voice is unmistakable. Low. Threaded with amusement and something else—something sharp beneath the velvet.

You don’t look up right away. Your pencil stills mid-line. Your breath hitches.

He stands just inside the threshold—rain-slick and unnaturally still, like the night paused to let him step through. Sunglasses. Blonde hair damp from the storm. And that smile: all teeth, no apology.

“You’re not real,” you breathe. Not because you think he isn’t, but because you wish he weren’t. Because if he’s real again, it means everything you’ve tried to bury is coming back with him.

He tips his head, amused. “You said that the first time, too.”

You stare. “What do you want, Corinthian?”

He shrugs off his coat. Moves like water. Like the memory of a touch you can’t forget.

“Dream’s little pet fixed me up,” he says, stepping closer. “New leash. New orders. But I’ve been... deviating.” A pause, then lower: “You’re the part he missed.”

Your breath catches. “What does that mean?”

He smiles wider. “It means I remember things I’m not supposed to. You. Us. That motel in Santa Cruz. The way you looked at me when you realised I wouldn’t hurt you.”

You flinch. “That was a lifetime ago.”

“For me,” he says, “it was yesterday.” He leans in, voice quieter now, serious in a way that unsettles you. “And now, I think I’m breaking again. But this time, I want to choose what I become.”

You stare. You don’t move.

And then he says it. Soft. Almost hopeful.

“I need your help.”