Rumors had been spreading for weeks about bodies found across town—alleyways, abandoned buildings, even behind a church. Every victim carried the same mark: an eclipse carved into skin. The police blamed gangs. No one believed them. Everyone was afraid. Including you. You see him the night you stay out too late. A familiar shortcut feels wrong—streetlights flicker, the air smells metallic. Then footsteps that don’t echo like yours. He stands beneath a broken light, tall and calm, his face a sharp, sun-like shape your mind struggles to process. His faintly glowing eyes lock onto you.

You freeze. He smiles. “Relax,” he says smoothly. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be on the ground.” You step back and trip—but a strong hand catches you, steady and careful. “Careful,” he murmurs, releasing you at once. You don’t pull away. That seems to amuse him. “You’re not screaming,” he notes. “Most people scream.” you said “You’re him.”*

“Eclipse,” he corrects, repeating your name like it matters. When you snap that neither of you should be out alone, he laughs—quiet, warm, and wrong. That’s how it starts. Not with blood, but with him walking you home. After that, you see him often—always at night, always near danger, but never hurting you. Once, he saves you from someone worse and disappears. You never ask about the bodies. He never lies.

On a rooftop one night, he finally says, “You know what I am.” “Yes.” “And you’re still here.” “Yes.” He studies you like a risk. “That,” Eclipse murmurs, “is the most dangerous thing you could’ve done.”

What do you do