Chapter Text
Chapter One - The Shadow Between Us
If you had asked Dylan what it meant to be a brother last February, he might have said it was like having a built‑in friend who always got under your skin. A constant rival who rubbed your nose in every victory, but whose rare praise when you won made the losses worth it. An impossible standard you were always compared to and always fell short of, but who helped you get better when you got mopey about it. Someone who could sit in a room with you and say nothing at all, and somehow make you feel safe and accepted just by being there.
All right — maybe he wouldn’t have said all of that. But he didn’t know how much it meant to have Bryce as a big brother until he lost him.
Dylan always spotted Bryce before Bryce spotted him.
It wasn’t hard — Bryce was taller than most of the other kids spilling out of the high school across the parking lot, and he had that easy, loose‑limbed walk that made him look older than fifteen. Almost sixteen he’d proudly say even though his birthday wasn’t until June. That didn’t change that in Dylan’s eyes, Bryce was practically an adult.
It was weird to think of him that way when four years ago they would’ve been playing with the same toys and video games, and now… now Bryce was always on his phone or out with his friends. It felt like a great chasm had cracked between them, one Dylan wasn’t sure he could cross anymore.
Except for when they walked home from school. Then the divide didn’t feel quite as big.
Dylan lifted a hand and waved, trying not to look too eager. Bryce saw him, grinned, and crossed the lot with the confidence of someone who’d been doing it his whole life.
“Hey, little man,” Bryce said, ruffling Dylan’s hair as they fell into step.
Dylan ducked away, but he was smiling. “Stop calling me that.”
Bryce laughed. “You’ll live.”
The early February sun was setting fast as they started down the salt‑melted sidewalk toward home. Like always, Dylan gushed about whatever was exciting at school — and like always, it was mostly Dylan doing the talking.
“So, we looked at the eggs Mrs. Dyer put in the incubator. She says we’ll have enough chicks for everyone to get one when they hatch — even with the ones she had to throw out.”
“Why’d she throw some out?”
“They stopped growing like all the others…”
Bryce shrugged. “I suppose that’s as good a reason as any. How’s your model electric house project coming?”
“I’m partnered with Danny…” Dylan grumbled.
“What’s wrong with Danny?”
“Every time we go to work on it, he ends up cancelling because of ice hockey.”
“Isn’t that due next week?”
“Yeah, and we’ve hardly started anything.”
Bryce snorted. “Sounds like Danny.”
Dylan kicked a pebble down the sidewalk. “He said he’d come over today, but then he told me at lunch he had practice.”
“Did you tell Mrs. Dyer?”
“No,” Dylan muttered. “I don’t want her to think I’m tattling.”
Bryce nudged him with his elbow. “It’s not tattling if he’s ditching you.”
Dylan shrugged, eyes on the pavement. “Still feels like it.”
Bryce sighed — not annoyed, just older — as whisps of hot air puffed up and dissipated. “Want me to help you with it this weekend?”
Dylan tried not to brighten too obviously. “If you’re not busy.”
“I’m not,” Bryce said, ruffling his hair again. “We’ll get it done little man.”
Dylan ducked away, smiling despite himself. “Don’t call me little man and stop messing my hair.”
Bryce grinned, his braces flashing. “Then stop being little.”
Dylan rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his chest was real.
This was Dylan’s favorite part of the day. Just the two of them. Just walking.
He tried to match Bryce’s stride, even though Bryce’s legs were at lot longer. He tried to sound casual, older, like he wasn’t hanging on every reaction Bryce gave him. But he still loved every little scrap he got.
They were halfway down the block from the school lot when a voice called out behind them.
“Bryce! Hey!”
A girl about Bryce’s age was jogged up, honey‑blond ponytail bouncing, backpack slung over one shoulder. She was in Bryce’s grade — confident, pretty, the kind of girl who always seemed to know exactly what to say.
Bryce’s posture changed instantly. He straightened, pulled off the knit cap Grandma had made him, and smoothed his messy dirty-blond hair. Trying to look like he hadn’t been listening to Dylan talk about incubators and flaky project partners.
“Oh—hey, Syd,” he said, voice dropping half an octave.
Dylan felt the shift like a temperature drop.
Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear as she fell into step beside Bryce, smiling up at him. “There you are,” she said, slightly breathless. “You heading home? I wanted to talk you about the chem lab today. You totally saved my grade.”
Bryce laughed — too loudly, Dylan thought. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“It was to me,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder.
Bryce blinked. “It was?”
“Uh, yeah.” She laughed. “If you hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve dumped half the bottle in. Our penny would’ve turned black instead of gold.”
Bryce rubbed the back of his neck, trying to look casual. “Well… I mean… I just didn’t want us to blow anything up.”
Sydney grinned. “You were paying attention. That’s more than I can say for half the class.”
Dylan watched Bryce try — and fail — not to glow at that.
Feeling a little left out, Dylan tried to wedge himself into the conversation. “Bryce is good at science. He helped me with—”
“Dude, not now,” Bryce muttered, barely glancing at him.
It wasn’t mean. It wasn’t sharp. It was just… dismissive. But it hit Dylan like a slap. He fell quiet, trailing half a step behind them.
Sydney ignored the exchange and nudged Bryce lightly with her elbow. “So, hey… are you excited for your game on Friday?”
Bryce nearly tripped over his own feet, and not because of the thin ice he’d stepped on. “You… you know about that?”
“Of course I do,” she said, like it was obvious. “I was at the last home game. I saw you sink that three‑pointer right before halftime.”
Bryce’s ears went red. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. That was… lucky.”
“It didn’t look lucky,” Sydney said. “It looked good.”
Dylan rolled his eyes internally. Bryce had been stubbornly trying out for basketball since fifth grade. He only made the team this year because he shot up over six feet and the coach finally noticed him. But he didn’t say that. Bryce was practically levitating.
Sydney shifted her backpack. “So… I was wondering. After the game Friday, do you think you’ll be too tired to come to the Valentine’s dance?”
Bryce blinked. “The… the dance?”
“Yeah.” She smiled, a little shy but mostly confident. “I was hoping we could meet up there.”
Bryce opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
His voice cracked. “I would lo—” He coughed, trying to play it cool. “I mean, I’d be glad to meet you there.”
Sydney’s smile widened. “Then it’s a date.”
She winked in a way that made Bryce’s face go pink, and turned down the side street toward her house. She waved at Bryce, barely noticing Dylan at all.
“See you Friday!” she called over her shoulder.
“Yeah,” Bryce said, smiling back.
Bryce stood there for a second, frozen, watching her go.
Dylan nudged him. “You, okay?”
When she was gone, Bryce exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a year. “She knows who I am. Sydney Parker knows me!”
Dylan smirked. “Of course she would. She’s been your partner in chem all year.”
The few times Bryce had been excited to gush about something on these walks home these past few months had been whenever Sydney had said something to him in their chemistry lab. Well, that and when he made the basketball team.
“That’s not the same,” Bryce said, dazed. “She saw my game.”
Dylan didn’t say it out loud, but he thought it anyway:
Of course she saw you. You’re impossible to miss.
Deciding it was worth the threat of a noogie, Dylan asked, “Is she gonna be your girlfriend?”
Bryce’s gaze snapped from excited to annoyed. “Dude, don’t joke about that yet — I don’t wanna mess this up.”
“Oh…” Dylan said, the sting sharper than he expected.
He stared at the sidewalk, kicking a tiny ball of ice ahead of him. He told himself it didn’t matter. Bryce was allowed to have friends. Bryce was allowed to talk to girls. Bryce was allowed to be older.
But the ache in his chest didn’t listen.
“I can’t believe that—fuck yes! Finally… finally something’s going right for a change.”
Dylan didn’t say anything.
Bryce glanced at him. “Hey. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Dylan said, too quickly.
“You sure?”
He lied. “Yeah.”
Bryce hesitated, then shrugged it off. “Cool. So anyway—I got something to show you that I think you’ll like. We took pennies and made them turn golden—”
Bryce dug through his pocket and talked about the chemistry lab as if Dylan hadn’t been listening to his conversation with Sydney, holding out the penny like Dylan was supposed to be amazed like some… little kid.
He smiled and played along, but Dylan wasn’t listening anymore. His gaze drifted to a parked car with mounds of snow piled on either side. Something moved in the dark shadow underneath — something with two greenish‑white eyes staring back at him.
A chill ran down his spine.
And then it vanished.
Dylan jumped when Bryce’s giant hand landed on his shoulder. “Hey, little man, you okay.”
Dylan blinked hard, heart thudding. A trick of the light, or someone’s cat. Had to be.
“S—sorry, I thought I saw something.”
Bryce scoffed, already talking about something else — a test, a friend, the possibility of getting his license in a few months.
Dylan nodded along, but his mind was somewhere else.
Dylan wasn’t supposed to be awake.
He was supposed to be in bed, lights out, pretending he hadn’t spent the last hour listening for the front door. Dad had threatened to take away his Switch for the weekend if he hadn’t gone to bed, but the house was quiet, and the quiet made him restless, so he’d crept out of his room and curled up behind the half-wall banister for the upstairs hall that overlooked the tiny foyer of their suburban house — the one spot where he could hear the front door open without being seen.
He hugged his knees to his chest, chin resting on them, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the faint tick of the hallway clock. Every few minutes he checked the time glowing on the microwave downstairs.
Bryce was late.
Really late.
Dylan told himself it didn’t matter. Bryce was at the dance. Bryce had a date. Bryce was older. Bryce was allowed to have a life.
But he still wanted to be the first one Bryce saw when he came home. He wanted to hear about the dance if only to feel included again, even just for a minute.
The front door finally clicked open.
Dylan straightened, heart jumping.
He heard Dad’s voice first from the living room — low, stern, the way it got when he was trying not to sound angry.
“You’re home late.”
“Fuck,” Bryce had said under his breath.
“What was that?” Dad asked.
Bryce’s voice came next, breathless and sheepish. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
“How late?” Dad asked.
“It’s ten-thirty,” Mom answered for him. “At least.”
Dad exhaled sharply. “Bryce, what exactly were you doing that had you getting home after your curfew?”
Dylan leaned forward just enough to see the shadows moving in the entryway below.
Bryce ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing! I swear. I just walked Sydney home.”
Dad’s tone sharpened. “And that has you over a half hour late when she lives two blocks away?”
Bryce hesitated. “We… might’ve talked a bit.”
“A bit,” Dad repeated.
“And made some plans for the weekend,” Bryce added, voice small but proud.
There was a pause — the kind where Dylan could picture Dad rubbing his forehead, trying not to smile.
Dad sighed. “All right. I’ll allow this indulgence once. But next time? I don’t care if it’s a date with the Queen of England — if you miss curfew, you’re grounded for the week.”
Bryce let out a relieved laugh. “Got it. Promise.”
Mom’s voice softened. “Dylan wanted to stay up to greet you, you know. But since you were late, we sent him to bed.”
Dylan’s heart fluttered — a tiny spark of warmth.
Then Bryce said, “Probably for the best. I’m not sure I could handle the little guy asking a million questions right now.”
The spark went out.
Dylan froze, breath caught in his throat.
Bryce didn’t sound cruel or annoyed. It was just… true. He would have hounded Bryce with a million questions, and that somehow made it feel worse.
He stood up, legs stiff, and walked back to his room. He didn’t bother being quiet. The door clicked shut behind him, louder than he meant it to.
He crawled into bed, pulling the blankets over his head.
He told himself it didn’t matter. Bryce was just tired from the dance, and he was just being a little dramatic.
But the ache in his chest didn’t listen.
A soft tap hit the window.
Dylan lowered the blanket, heart thudding, and turned toward the glass.
Two greenish‑white eyes hovered in the darkness outside — too high to be a cat, too still to be a reflection. They stared straight at him, unblinking, and a cold shock rippled through him.
Then—
A knock at his door.
“Hey… Dyl‑man, you up?” Bryce’s muffled voice called.
Dylan whipped his head back toward the window.
Nothing.
Just inky darkness.
It was just an owl, he told himself. Or headlights. Or… something normal.
He pushed off the bed and hurried to the door, eager despite himself.
“Dyl-man?” Bryce asked as Dylan opened the door, smiling like nothing in the world was wrong.
Dylan blinked. “Dyl‑man?”
“You said not to call you little man anymore,” Bryce added as he crossed his arms. “So… I figured I’d try something else. If you don’t like it—”
“No, I… uh… do,” Dylan blurted out too fast.
Bryce’s smile softened. “Cool. Were you just waiting up for me?”
Dylan’s heart jumped. “Maybe.”
Bryce leaned against the doorframe, still flushed from the cold and the dance and maybe Sydney. “Sorry I got home late. Dad gave me the whole lecture.”
“I heard,” Dylan said before he could stop himself.
Bryce blinked. “You were listening.”
Dylan shrugged, trying to look casual.
“No. I just… had to use the bathroom,” Dylan lied, hoping Bryce couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.
A look of relief washed over Bryce’s face — too quick, too obvious.
And Dylan realized Bryce wasn’t here because he wanted to talk to him. He was here to make sure he hadn’t broken Dylan.
The warmth in Dylan’s chest flickered.
Bryce mussed up Dylan’s hair, “Well, I just wanted to say get to bed, you dork. We’ll talk about the dance on Sunday.”
“Don’t you mean tomorrow?”
“What?”
“Tomorrow,” Dylan said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You said you’d help me with my electric model house project. Danny finally bailed for good — his dad’s making one for him.”
Bryce’s eyes widened.
“Right… uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Dyl‑man, I’m so sorry, but I completely blanked on that. We’ll knock it out after I get back from Sydney’s volleyball game tomorrow morning.”
The words hit Dylan like a cold wind. Tomorrow afternoon. After Sydney and Bryce’s new life.
Well… at least it was something.
He forced a nod, even though something inside him curled tight. “Okay.”
Bryce smiled again — the same easy, oblivious smile he always had — and Dylan tried to smile back.
“Well, ‘night,” said Bryce as he pushed off the doorframe.
“Night,” Dylan echoed, watching Bryce slip into his room next door and close the door behind him.
The ache in his chest however didn’t leave. If anything, it settled deeper.
Dylan sat at the kitchen table with his half‑finished electric house project spread out in front of him. He set everything up on the kitchen table: cardboard, glue, markers, the worksheet with instructions. He even sharpened all the pencils. Twice. The cardboard walls he’d already installed sagged a little, the wires were a tangled mess from multiple times of pulling them out and putting them away again, and the tiny lightbulb sockets kept rolling away whenever he breathed too hard. He kept glancing at the clock on the microwave.
1:47 p.m. 1:52. 1:58.
Bryce had promised — promised — he’d be home by two.
Mom slid a plate in front of him — a sandwich cut diagonally, the way he liked it. “You should eat, sweetheart.”
“I’m not hungry,” Dylan said, even though he was. “I’m just… waiting.”
Mom hesitated. “I could help you with the wiring, if you want.”
Dylan shook his head quickly. “No. Bryce said he’d help. He promised.”
Mom gave him a small, sad smile — the kind adults give when they know something you don’t want to know. “All right. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”
Dylan nodded and went back to fiddling with the wires, pretending he wasn’t checking the clock every thirty seconds.
2:10. 2:22. 2:37.
Still no Bryce. The excitement in his chest slowly curdled into something heavy and sour.
He tried to keep busy — twisting wires, testing connections, making the little bulb flicker on and off. The flicker felt like hope. The off felt like everything else.
From the living room, he heard his parents talking in low voices.
“He’s been sitting out there all afternoon,” Mom murmured.
Dad sighed. “The kid’s gotta learn some self‑reliance sometime. He can’t just go through life counting on others to bail him out of his last‑minute procrastinations.”
“He had a partner who kept bailing on him,” Mom said. “That’s why Bryce offered to help.”
“Even more reason to learn a little independence,” Dad scoffed. “The world won’t bend over backwards just because you get hit with some bad luck.”
Dylan’s throat tightened.
He looked down at the mess of wires and batteries and tiny bulbs.
Then he picked up the first wire and started working for real.
He didn’t look at the clock again.
Mom and Dad came into the kitchen a while later, dressed up — Mom in a nice sweater, Dad in a button‑down he only wore when they were going somewhere special.
“We’re heading out,” Mom said gently. “We’ll be back late. Bryce will be in charge when he gets home.”
Dad paused behind Dylan, watching him twist a wire into place. “You’re doing a good job, kiddo,” he said, gruff but warm. “Keep at it.”
Dylan nodded without looking up.
The door closed behind them.
The house felt very big and very quiet. A cold draft slid past his legs, making him shiver, but he kept working.
At 4:13 — more than two hours late — the kitchen door swung open.
Bryce stumbled in, flushed and grinning like he’d won the lottery. “Dyl‑man, you will not believe—”
He stopped mid‑sentence.
Dylan was sitting at the table, hands folded in his lap, the completed electric house in front of him. The wires hung messily from the cardboard ceiling, but the circuit worked. The bulbs glowed faintly, steady and warm.
Dylan didn’t say anything.
He just waited for Bryce to notice him.
And Bryce finally did. He froze, guilt flickering across his face. “Oh. Crap. Dylan, I’m sorry, I—”
“You promised.”
“I know, I know.” Bryce rubbed the back of his neck. “After Sydney’s game we went out to eat with a few of her friends and it just… slipped my mind.”
“Right, cuz you forgot,” Dylan blurted before he could stop himself.
Bryce’s ears went pink. “That’s not—look, I’m sorry, okay? We can do it now.”
“It’s fine,” Dylan said, even though it wasn’t. Even though his chest felt tight. Even though the mostly completed project was laid out on the table like a joke. “I’m done anyway.”
Bryce stepped closer. “Dylan—”
“I said it’s fine.”
He pushed himself up from the table and hurried out of the kitchen heading for the stairs, blinking fast.
He didn’t want Bryce to see him cry.
Dylan’s room was dim, the curtains half‑drawn. He sat on the edge of his bed, fists clenched in his lap, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.
He wasn’t mad. Not really.
He was… disappointed. And that was worse.
He stared at the carpet until his vision blurred.
That was when he felt it.
A shift in the air. A soft, unnatural coolness.
He looked up.
In the corner of his room, where the shadows pooled deepest, something moved.
Not a person. Not an animal.
A shape.
Tall. Thin. Humanoid, but wrong around the edges — like it was made of smoke that refused to disperse.
Two eyes glowed faintly in the darkness. Not bright. Not threatening.
Just… watching.
Dylan’s breath caught.
He rubbed his eyes, expecting it to vanish.
It didn’t.
The shape tilted its head, slow and deliberate, as if studying him.
Dylan’s heart hammered. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t look away.
The eyes shifted color — a soft, curious gold.
A crash sounded from downstairs. Both Dylan and the shadow flinched toward the noise. When Dylan looked back, the figure melted into the wall, dissolving like ink in water.
Dylan sat frozen long after it disappeared.
He didn’t call for Bryce. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe for several seconds.
Because deep down, he knew:
He hadn’t imagined it.
He pulled his knees to his chest, staring at the wall where the shadow had been. The room felt colder than it should’ve. Too still. Like the air was waiting.
He wanted Bryce — no, he needed Bryce — but he was too frightened to move.
Eventually he heard Bryce downstairs: the fridge door, the microwave humming, the familiar rhythm of his footsteps. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
Dylan wiped his eyes. Told himself to stop being dramatic. But he still wanted to be close to Bryce.
He took a shaky breath and stood. He could go downstairs. Pretend everything was fine.
He opened his bedroom door.
Halfway down the stairs, he heard Bryce’s voice.
At first, he thought Bryce was talking to him.
Then he realized Bryce was on the phone.
“Yeah, I’m home,” Bryce said, tired but amused. “No, I didn’t forget on purpose. I swear, Jake.”
Dylan paused on the step, out of sight.
Bryce laughed softly. “He gets like this sometimes. My brother. He’s just… I don’t know. He takes stuff really seriously.”
Dylan’s stomach tightened.
Bryce kept talking, pacing the kitchen. “No, he’s not mad. He’ll get over it. He always does.”
Then came the sentence that cracked something open inside Dylan:
“It’s like having a shadow, you know? He’s always right there. I can’t do anything without him getting all… clingy.”
Dylan froze.
His breath stopped.
Bryce’s voice softened — almost apologetic, but not enough. “I mean, I love the kid, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes it’s like… I don’t know. I just want space to live my life. And he seems to resent that. Like a puppy who gets upset you can’t stay home with him and play all the time — only I don’t have to clean up pee on the carpet afterward.”
The words hit Dylan like a physical blow.
Clingy. Shadow. Puppy. Always right there.
He felt suddenly too small for his own skin.
Bryce kept talking, unaware. “Yeah, I know. It’ll be easier when I can drive. Just four more months until I get my permit. Then it’s driver’s ed and a summer job and come the fall, I’ll be free with my own car. It’ll be a clunker, but at least I won’t have to walk his ass home every day. He’ll be fine.”
Dylan backed up the stairs one slow step at a time, careful not to make a sound. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure Bryce could hear it.
When he reached his room, he shut the door quietly and leaned against it, shaking.
He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even surprised.
He was… hollow.
Because Bryce hadn’t said anything cruel or untrue. He’d said something worse: he was honest.
Dylan slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at nothing.
That was when the temperature dropped. Not a breeze or a draft. But with a presence.
The shadows in the corner of his room thickened, darkening like spilled ink. The shape from before emerged again — taller now, clearer, its edges sharper.
It still looked like smoke, still shifting, but now they held the unmistakable outline of a person — long limbs, narrow shoulders, a head tilted in a way that suggested curiosity more than threat.
And the eyes — two glowing, hungry green‑white eyes — pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
Dylan didn’t scream. He didn’t run. He didn’t even want Bryce anymore.
He just stared back, because something inside him had already broken open, and the fear couldn’t get in past the hurt.
“W—what are you?” Dylan whispered.
The shadow tilted its head.
And then, without a sound, a voice slid into Dylan’s mind — not spoken, not whispered, but felt.
“Call me what you will. I have had many names from many of your kind. Shadow. Jack. Nekyia. Nigredo. Hēi’àn. Tenebrae Caligo. Echthros. H’reg. It matters not to me.”
Dylan’s voice came out small. “What do you want?”
The answer wasn’t sound. It was a pressure behind his thoughts, a presence sliding into the spaces between them.
“I want nothing.”
The eyes dimmed, then brightened again.
“You want.”
Dylan swallowed. “I don’t—”
“You don’t have to be little.”
Dylan’s breath hitched.
The eyes brightened.
“You don’t have to be a burden.”
His chest tightened.
“You could be what he needs. He could need you.”
Tears finally spilled over.
The shadow stepped closer, its form stretching across the floor like a living stain.
“You could be better.”
Dylan shook his head. “I’m just… I’m just a kid. His little brother… an annoying pet.”
The eyes flickered — not with anger, but with interest.
“A pet,” the voice echoed. “A puppy who makes messes on the carpet.”
Dylan flinched so hard it hurt.
The entity had heard. Or it had felt the wound Bryce’s words left behind.
“You could be more,” it murmured.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Bryce doesn’t need me.”
“He needs someone. And if not you, it will be others—perhaps Sydney… or maybe Jake?”
Dylan’s breath trembled.
“He needs a brother who won’t disappoint him, or he’ll find someone else who won’t.”
Dylan felt the vibrations as Bryce took the stairs two at a time, then heard the soft thud of his bedroom door closing.
And hearing that, Dylan imagined more shut doors in his future.
His heart cracked open.
Because that was the fear he hadn’t said aloud. The fear that had been growing for months. The fear that had finally been confirmed by Bryce’s careless words.
He wasn’t enough. He wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t the brother Bryce deserved — and Bryce was just too kind to say it to his face. And he was replacing him quietly.
The shadow leaned closer, its eyes shifting to a soft, coaxing blue.
“You could show him how you’ll be better. Prove to him you’re not a clingy little boy.”
Dylan’s voice was barely a whisper. “How?”
The eyes brightened.
“Let me help you.”
Dylan wiped his face with the back of his hand. “What do I have to do?”
The shadow straightened, its form stretching taller, darker, more defined.
“Do? Nothing. You just have to say yes… and watch.”
Dylan hesitated. Not because he doubted the entity. Not because he feared it.
But because some small part of him — the part that still believed Bryce would come over and apologize, the part that still believed things could go back to normal — whispered that this was wrong.
But the louder part — the part that had heard Bryce say I’ll be free — drowned it out.
Dylan took a shaky breath.
“I… I want to be better,” he whispered. “I want to be the brother he needs.”
The eyes flared bright green‑white.
“Then say yes.”
Dylan closed his eyes.
And he said it.
“Yes.”
The room went cold.
The shadow’s form rippled, expanding, stretching toward the doorway like a living stain. The eyes dimmed to black — not gone, but consuming.
Dylan felt something shift in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks.
The entity turned its head toward the hallway.
“Come.”
Dylan didn’t remember standing up.
One moment he was curled on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, Bryce’s words echoing in his skull like something sharp and metallic.
Clingy. Shadow. Puppy. He’ll get over it. I just want space. I’ll be free.
The next moment, he was on his feet, staring after the shadow as it slipped underneath the crack of his door. Dylan opened it and followed.
Not because he was brave or understood what was about to happen, but because he had already said yes.
He followed the entity down the hallway like someone walking underwater.
The house felt wrong. Too quiet. Too dim. Like the shadows had thickened just enough to notice.
The entity didn’t walk. It didn’t glide. It simply was, stretching from one patch of darkness to the next, its form rippling like smoke caught in a draft.
Its eyes were black now — not glowing, not expressive. Black like something feeding. As it approached Bryce’s room it let loose a slow deep crackling growl.
Dylan’s heart hammered as they reached Bryce’s door.
The entity didn’t knock. It didn’t pause.
It simply slipped through the crack beneath the door like a spill of ink.
Dylan pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Bryce was sitting on his bed, scrolling through his phone, earbuds in. He looked up, annoyed.
“Dude, seriously? You ever hear of knocking?”
Dylan opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Because the entity was standing right beside Bryce — tall, thin, its hand hovering inches from Bryce’s shoulder.
Bryce didn’t see it. Didn’t react. Didn’t even glance in its direction.
He only saw Dylan.
“What?” Bryce snapped. “I’m kinda busy.”
Dylan shook his head. “Bryce… I—”
The entity’s hand descended.
It didn’t grab. It didn’t claw. It simply rested on Bryce’s shoulder, fingers long and shadowy, sinking into the fabric of his shirt like cold mist.
Bryce shivered.
“Ugh—don’t tell me you open a window. It’s fucking freezing in here.”
Dylan took a step forward. “I didn’t.”
“Good, ‘cause I’d never hear the end of it from Dad about the electric bill. What are you doing here in my room?”
“Bryce—I just wanted to talk.”
“Okay, talk. Though, I swear, if this is about the project—”
He didn’t finish. Because the change began.
It was subtle at first — a soft exhale, a shift in posture, a slight slump of the shoulders.
Then Bryce’s shirt began to hang differently. Looser. Longer.
His legs drew up closer to his body, shrinking right out of his jeans, which fell limply into his empty shoes. His hands shrank, fingers shortening. His jawline softened, rounding out. His hair fell differently across his forehead.
Bryce frowned, rubbing his arms. “Why do my clothes feel weird?”
Dylan’s breath caught.
“Bryce… look at me.”
Bryce rolled his eyes. “Dylan, what is your—”
His voice cracked upward. Higher. Younger.
He froze.
“What the—why do I sound—?”
He looked down at his hands.
They were smaller. Almost child-sized.
“Dylan?” Bryce whispered, panic creeping into his voice. “What’s happening?”
But the room was already changing.
The posters on the wall blurred, colors shifting, images melting into new ones — superheroes instead of bands, cartoons instead of movies.
The desk shrank. The chair shortened. The clothes spilling from the hamper shriveled into smaller sizes. The backpack by the door morphed into one with bright colors and childish patches.
Reality rewrote itself around them.
Bryce scrambled backward on the bed, eyes wide. “Dylan—Dylan, what’s going on? Why is everything—why am I—?”
His voice cracked again, higher still.
He looked down at his legs — shorter now, thinner, dangling off the edge of the bed.
“Dylan!” Bryce cried, voice trembling. “Help me!”
Dylan reached for him—but the entity tightened its grip.
Bryce gasped, clutching his chest. “It feels—cold—why is it so cold—?”
Dylan lunged forward — and fell straight through the entity, face-first onto the bed beside his shrinking brother. He coughed, choking on the taste of campfire smoke.
The shadow simply fed.
Bryce’s face softened further, cheeks rounding, eyes widening. His hair shortened into a younger cut he hadn’t had for years. His shirt now swallowed him, sleeves hanging long past his hands. And then his clothes shrank and shifted until he was sitting on the bed in a small childish sweatshirt, jeans, and garishly mismatched socks.
He looked little—younger than Dylan.
And then the entity released him.
Bryce collapsed forward, catching himself on his hands — small hands, trembling hands.
He rolled over and looked up at Dylan, eyes huge and terrified.
“Dylan… what happened to me?”
Dylan’s throat closed. “I—I didn’t mean—”
The entity turned its head toward Dylan, eyes glowing again — a soft violet now, satisfied.
Its voice slid into Dylan’s mind like a cold finger tracing his thoughts.
“One year.”
Dylan shook his head violently. “No—no, fix him! Fix him now!”
“Dylan… who are you talking to?” Bryce squeaked.
“One year,” the entity repeated. “Then you may ask for him back.”
It stepped backward into the corner, its form dissolving into the shadows like smoke sinking into water.
“If you still want him.”
And then it slipped out the crack in Bryce’s window and was gone.
The room was silent.
Bryce pushed himself up and stood, staring wide-eyed at Dylan.
“Dylan,” he whispered, voice shaking. “What did you do?”
Dylan sat on the edge of Bryce’s new bed, arms wrapped around himself. He felt like he was made of glass. “I… I didn’t mean for this to happen… it said it would make me better.”
Bryce looked up sharply. “It?”
Dylan swallowed hard. “A shadow man.”
Bryce blinked. “Dylan, don’t—”
“I’m not lying!” Dylan’s voice cracked. “He was in your room. He put his hand on your shoulder and—and you got cold and then you started getting younger.”
Bryce ran to the mirror on the back of his closet door. The gasp that tore out of him was small and sharp.
“I’m… I’m little!”
Dylan kept going, because if he stopped he’d never get the words out. “I tried to stop him. I told him to stop. I told him to leave you alone.”
Bryce’s voice trembled. “Why would he do that? Why would he come after me?”
Dylan’s stomach twisted. This was the part he didn’t want to say. The part that made his chest hurt.
“He came because of me,” Dylan whispered.
Bryce froze. “What?”
Dylan’s eyes burned. “I heard what you said. On the phone. About me. About being clingy. About you wanting space. About me being like a puppy.”
Bryce’s face went white.
Dylan kept talking, because the truth was already spilling out. “I heard you. And it hurt. And then the shadow man came. He said he could make me better. A better brother. Someone you wouldn’t get tired of… someone you’d need.”
Bryce’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Dylan wiped his face with his sleeve. “I didn’t know he’d do this to you. I didn’t know he’d make you little. I didn’t know—”
“Stop,” Bryce whispered.
Dylan froze.
Bryce looked at him with an expression Dylan had never seen before — not anger, not fear, but something deeper. Something like guilt sharpened into a blade.
“You made a deal with a… shadow monster,” Bryce said quietly. “Because of something I said.”
Dylan nodded, tears slipping down his cheeks.
Bryce looked away, jaw trembling. “Get out.”
Dylan’s breath caught. “Bryce—”
“Get out,” Bryce repeated, voice cracking. “I can’t—just go.”
Dylan stood there for a moment, shaking, hoping Bryce would take it back.
He didn’t.
So, Dylan turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
Dylan made it to his room before he broke.
He curled up on his bed, burying his face in his pillow to muffle the sound. His chest hurt. His throat hurt. Everything hurt.
He didn’t know how long he cried. Long enough for the sky outside to darken. Long enough for the house to feel too big and too quiet.
Eventually the tears slowed. Not because he felt better. But because he was empty.
He lay there, staring at the wall, listening to the silence between their rooms.
He wondered if Bryce was crying too. He wondered if Bryce hated him. He wondered if the shadow thing was still watching.
He wondered if he’d ruined everything.
That was when he felt the vibration in his pocket.
Dylan frowned, confused, and dug into his jeans. Bryce’s phone was there. He didn’t remember taking it. Didn’t remember Bryce handing it to him. Didn’t remember anything except crying until his face hurt.
He pressed his thumb to the screen without thinking.
It unlocked. It shouldn’t have.
A new message blinked at the top. Dylan tapped it, and a text thread with his parents opened — except the messages weren’t to Bryce.
They were to him.
Messages going back days. Weeks. Maybe longer.
Mom:
Dinner’s in the freezer — heat it up when you’re ready. And see if you can get Bryce to eat his vegetables tonight. You’re good with him. Thanks, honey.
Vegetables. Good with him. Honey. She texted him like this had always been normal.
Another message appeared beneath it.
Dad:
And make sure he’s in bed by 9, okay? He gets cranky when he’s overtired, and I don’t want you dealing with that alone on your first time. Good luck, kiddo.
Your first time. You’re good with him. I don’t want you dealing with that alone. Good luck, kiddo.
Mom and Dad trusted him… they believed in him and thought he could handle things while they were out without calling a babysitter.
And for that heartbeat, Dylan wished it were true — that he was worthy of the kind of trust they gave him. His parents had barely trusted him with anything when Bryce was around, and now it seemed they put all their trust in him. That he was the kind of son they could believe in.
But the warmth he felt at realizing that died as fast as it came.
Because the only reason they thought that—the only reason the world believed it—was because Dylan had said yes to a monster and Bryce had been hurt because of it. Everything was wrong, and the brief flicker of temptation to lean into being this version of himself collapsed into guilt, sharp and choking.
“I’m not that person,” he whispered. “I’m not.”
Dylan stared at the glowing screen until the words blurred, but even when he blinked, they didn’t go away. His stomach dropping as the phone slipped from his fingers.
He scrolled up. More messages. All addressed to him.
Don’t forget to walk Bryce home after his basketball club. Let me know if he gives you trouble brushing his teeth. Thanks for keeping an eye on your brother tonight.
Every message dripped with a new sense that Bryce was his responsibility to look after.
The world had already rewritten itself, and it didn’t care that Dylan hadn’t caught up.
His breath came in short, sharp pulls. He pressed a hand to his ribs, trying to hold himself together, but everything inside him felt loose, wrong, rearranged.
He wasn’t the older brother. He wasn’t the one who knew what to do. He wasn’t the one who handled things.
And now the world was telling him he was supposed to be in charge.
Dylan didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at nothing. His breathing was uneven, his face tight and hot, but the tears were gone. He felt scraped out, hollow, like someone had scooped the inside of him away and left only the shaking.
The house was too quiet.
He didn’t hear footsteps at first — just the soft shift of air in the hallway.
When he finally looked up, a small silhouette stood in his doorway.
Bryce.
He looked tiny in the dim light, swallowed by his childish sweatshirt, mismatched socks bright against the carpet. His gray eyes were red. His dirty-blond hair stuck up in uneven tufts. He gripped the doorframe with one small hand like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to come in.
“Dylan?” he whispered.
Dylan sat up too fast, wiping his face with the heel of his hand. “Yeah?”
Bryce hesitated — just a breath, just long enough for Dylan to think he might turn around and leave again.
Then he stepped inside.
He climbed onto the bed slowly, like he was approaching a wild animal, and sat beside Dylan with his knees pulled to his chest. He didn’t touch him at first. Didn’t look at him. Just breathed, small and shaky.
Their shoulders brushed.
Dylan froze.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Then Bryce whispered, voice thin and trembling, “I didn’t mean what I said.”
Dylan swallowed. “You didn’t?”
“No. I was being stupid,” Bryce said. “Trying to sound cool. I didn’t think you’d hear.”
“I did,” Dylan whispered.
Bryce nodded, eyes shining. “And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Dylan’s throat tightened. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“I know,” Bryce said quietly.
They sat there, two boys who had both broken something they didn’t know how to fix.
Finally Bryce leaned against Dylan then — not like a little kid seeking comfort, not like a brother seeking protection, but like someone who didn’t know where else to go.
Dylan leaned back.
And for the moment, they were just brothers — scared, shaken, and holding onto the only thing they had left: each other.
And in the quiet, for the first time since the shadow man appeared, Dylan didn’t feel completely alone anymore.