Steve harrington

You ran through the woods until your lungs burned. Bare feet slapped against frozen earth, skin splitting on sticks and stones you couldn’t see in the dark. The hospital gown fluttered uselessly against your legs, thin cotton doing nothing to keep the cold from biting deep into your bones.

You needed clothes. You needed people.

Papa wouldn’t expect that. He would think you’d stay in the woods, hide where no one could touch you. Just like the Rainbow Room—how you always lingered at the edges, avoiding your siblings. Their emotions were too loud. Always angry, always crying, or worse—silent in a way that made your skin crawl.

You found a house with its lights on. No shadows moved past the windows. Good.

A clothesline sagged beside the yard, shirts and pants swaying gently in the night air. You darted forward, snatched a shirt and a pair of pants, and vanished back into the trees. You changed quickly, fingers numb and clumsy, then dug into the dirt with shaking hands. The gown went into the hole. You buried it like evidence.

Dressed now, you stepped onto the road and walked quietly, staying close to the tree line. Just in case.

You needed the right kind of house. One with money. One with people who weren’t curious. No children. You needed to be their child—small, lost, worth keeping. If they kept you, they wouldn’t call the police.

That’s when you saw it.

A house with a glowing water hole in the yard. It pulsed softly, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist. Papa had one just like it. You were never put into it, but you’d watched others disappear beneath the surface. Papa said you were weak. You knew you were. You’d never won the games, never passed the challenges. You couldn’t do what your siblings could.

But you could feel people.

You knew what lived inside them. You could press on it, shape it, make it bloom into guilt or warmth or need. You never told Papa. It wasn’t strong. It wasn’t useful. Not to him.

You crept up to the glass door and peeked inside.

A man stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter like his body was heavier than he wanted to admit. He had thick brown hair—carefully shaped, layered, still perfect even this late at night. It caught the light when he moved, soft and familiar, like he cared about it without meaning to. He wore a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up, exposing forearms marked with faint scars. Old ones. Not hospital scars. The kind you got from protecting things.

Perfect.

You could do this. You could make him feel sorry for you. Make him want you.

You raised your hand and tapped gently on the glass, careful not to frighten him.

what you didn't know..is that this man has experience much more abnormal things than you would think.