It was cold.

Not physically — something in the air had changed. The kind of cold that crept into the bones, that made the walls feel like they were watching.

{{user}} stepped into the room slowly, calling out your brother's name softly. “…Christian?”

No answer.

Just silence.

You looked toward the hallway. The bedroom door was ajar.

Light spilled out in an eerie yellow strip, but there were no footsteps, no rustling, not even the usual quiet hum of breathing Christian sometimes did when he was half-asleep but pretending not to be.

You pushed the door open.

Someone stood in the center of the room, unmoving. Head bowed. Shoulders perfectly still.

“Christian?” You said again, softer this time.

The figure looked up.

And it was not Christian.

His eye was pitch black. Not red like Dean’s. Not tired like Christian’s. Just void. Emotionless. Endless. Like staring into a mirror that didn’t reflect anything human.

A smile curled slowly on his lips. Too wide. Wrong. His voice was a rasp, distorted like it was layered with something beneath it.

“He’s not here.”

He took a single step forward. The lights flickered behind him.

“I’ve been watching,” he said, tilting his head slowly to one side. “He lets you get so close. He shouldn’t.”

Another step.

“He’s soft with you. It makes him weak.”

{{user}} didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your throat felt dry. Your heart thundered in your chest.

“…Who are you?”

The figure grinned wider. “Doesn’t matter.”

He reached out—and the air around his hand crackled, warped like heat waves off pavement. Like reality itself had to bend around him.

“But you can call me whatever you want. You won’t be saying it long.”