The cold has teeth now. Real ones. It gnaws deeper with every second, chewing through skin and muscle until it sinks right into the bone. Aster curls tighter against the wall of the alley, shivering so hard his ribs ache, newspaper crumpled over him like it could make a damn difference. He’s been chased off three doorways tonight—landlord first, then strangers with more righteous anger than he expected. Turns out there’s no shelter when you’re nobody.

  The rain drums harder, as if the whole sky is determined to wash him down the nearest storm drain.

  His fingers are numb. His thoughts are going the same way—sluggish, slipping sideways. He knows what this is. Hypothermia. It doesn’t kill you by making you feel like you're freezing; it kills you by making you feel warm first. By making oblivion sound like a damn fine idea.

  Aster breathes out slowly, feels the pull. Feels how easy it would be to just... let go. Drift. Sleep.

  His mind, bless its shrivelled heart, still screams at him to stay awake. But the voice is distant now, like someone shouting through a wall.

  And then.

  Colours flicker at the edges of his vision—soft blues, lurid pinks, periwinkle, shades no sane weather pattern should hold.

  Mist starts creeping in. The alley walls warp like a heat haze.

  Of course it does.

  Aster watches, hollow-eyed, as the world tilts off its axis.

  No fear this time. No panic. Just that detached, tired awe.

  Well. Looks like we’re back here again.

  The shapes shift, breathing in the neon fog. It’s pretty, in that way hallucinations are—pretty and completely insane.

  A hand clamps hard on his shoulder, yanking him out of the warm slide toward death.

  Aster jerks, heart exploding in his chest as he scrambles sideways, half slipping in the rain-slick grime. He spins, pulse a frantic drumbeat.

  And there he is.

  The man.

  The same robed figure with those cyan eyes that cut through the mist like razors. The one from the store. The one who pushed him out of the way of the taxi. The one who shouldn’t exist.

  “You can see me,” the man says. Calm. Too calm. Like he’s been waiting for Aster to hit rock bottom before bothering to show up.

  Aster’s throat is dry, words scraping their way out.

  “Oh, I see you, all right.” His laugh comes out cracked and bitter. “I’m the only one who can see you—that’s usually how hallucinations work.”

  The man doesn’t even flinch. His eyes glimmer, some mix of frustration and, disturbingly, relief.

  “I’m not a hallucination.”

  Aster barks a wet, joyless laugh. “Sure you’re not. Monsters, fairies, Santa Claus—pick your delusion. Which stage of psychosis is this, by the way? Early? Mid? Or the grand finale where I start hoarding my own excrement? I’d need a house for that first!”

  Lightning flashes overhead—green this time, sharp and violent—cutting jagged streaks through the sky. Shapes writhe in the clouds, too big, too fluid, shifting like shadows refusing to settle into anything sane.

  The ground shifts under him. Feels soft. Wrong. The pavement crawls with roots now, slick and pulsing like veins. Plants push up through the cracks, their colors too bright, too hungry.

  Aster swallows thickly. “Yeah. This is fine. Totally normal. Tell me, which level of brain rot makes you think you’ve stumbled into Avatar with bonus LSD effects?”

  The man steps in closer, eyes flashing. “Listen to me. I know it’s hard to accept, but you’re not crazy. I’m real. And I’m here to help you.”

  Aster stares at him, the bitter edge coming back sharp. “Help me? Sure. You and the tooth fairy gonna tag-team my rent next? Or maybe Santa will spot me a job application while you two slay the monster under my bed?”

  His voice cracks. He hates that it cracks.

  The man’s face tightens, something like urgency bleeding through his practiced calm. “If you don’t listen, you’re going to die here. Tonight. You’re standing on the edge, and if you let go, that’s it. Game over.”

  Aster’s laugh collapses in on itself, strangled and raw.

  “Oh, and what if I do listen? What then? You finally convince me this is real, and next thing I know I’m knifing mall Santas because you told me they’re demonic spies? Is that where this trip ends?”

  The slap rings out sharp and clean, cutting through the rain like a gunshot as Aster’s world explodes sideways.

  His head snaps to the side, cheek stinging hot against the cold. The world freezes. Even the rain seems to pause mid-air.

  And then, the man’s voice—harder now, stripped of the soft sell. “I was a friend of your father’s. Howard. He made me promise I’d help you when the time came. And that time is now.”

  His cyan eyes bore into Aster, making sure every word hits home. “I’m here to save you. But I need you to believe me. Right now. Or you’re done.”

  Aster stands there, breathing hard, cheek burning where the slap landed.

  Stolen story; please report.

  His brain short-circuits.

  Howard.

  His father.

  No one says that name. No one even remembers.

  His heart stutters. He wants to shout, wants to call bullshit, but the slap is still there, stinging like it has something to prove, and his knees feel like they might buckle. And hell, hallucinations don’t usually know your dead father’s name. They usually have the decency to screw with your head by being your father—not just casually name-dropping him from some cyan-eyed stranger in a cloak.

  The man just watches him, breathing steadily, like he’s been expecting Aster’s reaction.

  “You’re in the Astral Plane,” he says, voice smoothing out again. “It’s real. It’s right here, wrapped around your world. Most people can’t see it. Currently, you can.”

  Aster’s lips twist around a laugh that doesn’t have the strength to get out. “Astral Plane. Sure. The thing hippies talk about between shroom trips and tarot readings. That Astral Plane?”

  “Exactly.” The man’s face doesn’t change. His eyes just lock tighter onto Aster, like he’s finally seeing a crack he can wedge open.

  And that’s when something inside Aster wobbles.

  Because if this is madness, it’s putting on a hell of a performance.

  He drags a hand down his face, palm scraping over the sting of the slap—real, burning, physical.

  His voice comes out hoarse. “So… what? This is my near-death experience? My DMT trip before I flatline in some alley puddle?”

  The man says nothing. His silence is heavy, pressing.

  Then Aster blinks and mutters, almost to himself,

  “God, I’m actually considering this. That’s where I’m at. Slapped by a ghost and now I’m taking advice from it.”

  The man’s shoulders drop just a fraction, less tense now, like he knows he’s got a foothold.

  “Aster. You’re slipping. Fast. If you don’t act now, this is your last stop. I can’t force you. But I’m offering you a way through. You just have to trust me.”

  Aster’s eyes squeeze shut. His hands tremble at his sides. Everything in him is screaming to call this what it is—hallucination, psychosis, brain death. But there’s that whisper under it. That nasty, clawing voice that says: But what if?

  What if this is real?

  What if this is the first goddamn hand stretched out to him in years?

  The slap stings.

  The rain keeps falling.

  And his own voice comes out wrecked, bitter, but still standing.

  “I’m listening,” Aster mutters, though every inch of him wants to bolt. “But I swear to God, if you tell me to sacrifice a goat or join a cult…”

  The man lets out a breath that might almost be a laugh. Almost.

  “No goats. No cults.”

  His cyan eyes sharpen. “Just a choice. And you have to make it. Now.”

  The man talks right through Aster’s scoffing, like he has no time for sarcasm.

  “You’re on the Astral Plane. This world—it’s got more influence on yours than I can explain right now. Just know this: you’ve been infected. A parasite, feeding off you, dragging you toward death. And it’s set to finish the job on your twenty-first birthday. Three weeks from now.”

  Aster blinks. “Great. Add tapeworm to the list. What’s it feed on? My self-esteem?”

  The man ignores his sarcasm, making sure the hook sinks in before continuing.

  “I’ve been shielding you, keeping the worst of it off. But it’s getting stronger. And I can’t hold it back much longer. If you want to survive—really survive—you’ll need to find me.”

  The words come fast now, sharp, like he’s racing a clock.

  “There’s a house. Three blocks from here. Number 7, Heart Lane. Keys are under the third brick on the fourth step. I won’t be able to reach you again after this—you’ll be on your own.”

  Aster’s head is spinning, but the man barrels on.

  “I’ve left instructions there. A recipe for an elixir to help you cross over properly. Supplies, help—enough to get you started. If you gather the ingredients and follow what I left, I can explain the rest. But right now,” his voice sharpens like a blade, “wake up.”

  The alley starts to blur around him, colours smearing into each other like wet paint. The world tilts, slipping sideways.

  Aster blinks. Once. Twice—and he’s back.

  Flat on the ground. The cold bites so deep it feels like it’s gnawing his bones. The warmth from before? Gone. Nothing left but bitter, wet chill and the heavy weight pressing down on his chest.

  His thoughts are sludge, but somewhere deep, in that old, rotten place where instincts live, something stirs. Something ugly and primal that whispers: Don’t ignore this.

  He lies there, dazed, too sluggish to move. The fog in his brain pulls at him, trying to drag him back under, back into that dangerous, warm half-sleep that feels too close to dying.

  But the man’s words are still there, coiled like smoke in his ears.

  Cross over. Find me.

  He instantly dismisses it. It’s insane. Delusional. He knows that.

  His eyes slip closed, exhaustion rolling back over him like a black wave. Sweet, sweet surrender, just a breath away.

  “What a strange dream,” he mutters, voice thin and cracked as his mind slips again, already reaching for sleep.

  And then—

  Another slap.

  Sharp. Cracking. Real.

  His eyes snap open wide, breath stuttering in his throat. The alley’s still here. No mist now. Just the wet stink of garbage and the too-loud rush of rain. But the sting on his face?

  That’s real.

  Too real.

  With a groan, Aster pushes himself upright, limbs heavy and trembling. The cold digs deeper, but his heart is pounding hard enough now to remind him he’s still breathing.

  Aster rubs at his cheek. It still burns.

  And that’s the thing. The slap wasn’t in his head.

  His laugh comes out cracked and too close to a sob. He doesn’t know if he should scream or curl up and finally let go. The line between real and not real has officially given up and gone home.

  But his body is already moving before his mind catches up. He staggers to his feet—cold and sore and stupidly, stubbornly still standing.

  He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the last flicker of sanity. Maybe it’s just desperation’s last twitch.

  But those words are still echoing.

  Cross over. Find me.

  His voice is hoarse as he mutters it out loud, like saying it will anchor him.

  “I’m not crazy.”

  But even his own ears catch the wobble in the words.

  His feet move anyway. Like they’re not his. Like something is nudging him forward.

  So, he walks. Toward the unknown. Toward something. Toward anything that might make sense of this.

  And maybe, just maybe, toward something real.