Nova tosses in her sheets, tangling her legs so tightly that the fabric cuts into her skin. She's not awake enough to free herself, but not quite deep enough in sleep to be oblivious. The dream pulls her down, deeper and deeper, until she can't fight it anymore. Her mind drifts off a ledge into a chasm of visions and half-remembered horrors.

At first, it's all shadows and noise. She senses, rather than sees, movement around her—a swirl of darkness that smells of copper and mildew. It feels cold, like a drafty corridor under flickering fluorescent lights. Her heartbeat hammers in her ears, but she isn't sure if it's her actual pulse or the dream's conjured echo. She tries to blink, but it's as though her eyelids are stuck. Slowly, shapes sharpen into focus.

She's in some grimy back alley, the kind she's come to fear finding herself in upon waking. A single streetlamp flickers overhead, catching the shine of something wet on the pavement. Her body moves without her conscious control, stepping over piles of garbage and debris. She can hear her own labored breathing—familiar, yet distant, like listening to a recording of herself.

Her right hand clenches around something cold and slick. She looks down. It's a blade—maybe a switchblade or a hunting knife—she can't tell. Blood drips from the steel in a steady patter, spattering against her shoes. She wants to scream, to drop the knife, but dream logic grips her wrists like shackles. Her fingers won't open.

A man lies crumpled against the wall, eyes wide with terror. Blood soaks the front of his shirt, spreading in a dark bloom. He tries to speak, but the only sound is a wet, rasping choke. She watches, frozen in her own mind, as her arm lifts the blade again. The man tries to scramble away, heels scraping on concrete, leaving streaks of red. Nova tries to look away, but she has no control—her gaze is locked forward.

The blade flashes. She hears the impact. Feels it. Feels the vibration of knife against flesh, and the nauseating warmth of blood splattering onto her hand. He goes silent, eyes rolling back. She wants to wail, to drop to her knees, but the dream propels her forward, unwavering.

Darkness swallows her again, a swirl of black so thick she can't see. For a moment, she thinks it's over, that she'll wake up in her bed. But the nightmare shifts. She's no longer in the alley. Now she's in some dingy garage—exposed beams overhead, the faint stench of motor oil. A single hanging bulb swings, casting dancing shadows along the walls.

She sees herself—or rather, she sees from her own eyes. Another figure stands across from her, a man in a stained undershirt with a lit cigarette dangling from his lip. He glances at her, but his expression morphs from casual disdain to abject fear the moment he registers who or what stands before him. She feels the corners of her mouth twist into a grin that's not her own. It feels too wide, too sharp—like someone else is puppeteering her face.

She lunges, and the nightmare speeds up, images flickering in strobe-like flashes. She slams him against a grimy workbench. Tools clatter to the floor. She can't hear the man's screams, though she knows he must be screaming—only a high-pitched static that roars in her ears, muffling everything. The cigarette falls to the ground, still glowing.

Her hand closes around his throat, pinning him. He gasps and sputters. She sees her knuckles turning white with pressure, veins popping at the back of her hand. She can feel his pulse fluttering beneath her thumb. Stop! she tries to think, tries to scream. But the dream self moves with brutal intent, ignoring her pleas. Another flash—his eyes bulge, reddening around the edges. She tightens her grip until he goes limp.

In the dream, she staggers back to observe her handiwork. I killed him, too. She looks at her hands—her nails, in particular. Crimson rivulets snake under each fingertip, embedding in the crevices of her nail beds. The blood is so thick it glistens, catching the low light. She tries wiping them on her shirt, but it only smears, doubling the gore. She's shaking. A sob rattles her chest, but she hears only a hollow echo, like a scream underwater.

Everything swirls again, and the scene re-forms. Now she's in a suburban backyard under a pale moon. A single tree stands near a fence, branches twisting overhead. There's someone else here—another figure whose face she can't fully see. The person tries to run, crashing through the yard, stumbling over a discarded lawn chair. Nova sees her own feet chase the figure down, sees her hand whip out to grab them by the shoulder, spinning them around. The figure's eyes gleam with terror in the moonlight.

She slams them to the ground. No weapon this time—she just wraps her hands around their throat, pressing her thumbs into the soft flesh. The victim's eyes widen, reflecting her own manic grin. Blood bubbles between their lips; she doesn't know why—maybe they bit their tongue, maybe it's from somewhere else. She leans in, hearing her dream-voice cackle—a shrill, unhinged sound that makes her stomach churn in revulsion.

And again, the darkness devours her. She can't breathe in the black void. She tumbles weightlessly through nothingness, convinced this is the end—only to land in another scene. She's lost count of how many times the dream has shifted. They blend together, a horrifying montage: each place, each victim, each spatter of hot blood on her skin. Her dream self is unstoppable, cruel, delighting in the violence. She witnesses it from behind her own eyes, but it's like she's locked in a cage, watching someone else wear her body.

Faces blur—some are men, some are women. Some beg for mercy. Some fight back. It's all the same conclusion: she kills them. Over and over. Each kill leaves her drenched in more blood. It soaks her clothes, mats her hair, trickles into her eyes. She sees it pooling at her feet, dripping from her fingernails, painting her footprints in a crimson trail.

Her dream perspective zooms in on her hands again, focusing on those nails she can't seem to clean. She scrubs them against a concrete wall, a vain attempt to rid herself of the gore, but it only embeds deeper, staining her cuticles and the skin beneath. She swears she hears laughter echoing in the background—laughter that sounds both exactly like her and nothing like her at all.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the slaughter montage ends. She's standing in front of a mirror, panting like she's run a marathon. The surroundings are hazy, undefined—it could be a bathroom, a bedroom, or some blank, dreamlike void. Only the mirror is clear, tall, and angular. At first, all she sees is her reflection: wide eyes, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat and blood, chest heaving. She's trembling.

Her reflection's lips curl into a grin. She isn't smiling, but the mirror self is. Slowly, the reflection moves on its own, separate from Nova. Its face contorts into a mocking smirk, and she watches in horror as the features warp and darken, like ink spreading over a canvas. The eyes darken first, pupils expanding until the entire sockets are pitch-black.

Then the reflection's hair shrinks back, replaced by the gleam of leather. A mask, she realizes. The black leather clings to the reflection's face, leaving only a slash of a mouth visible. Blood seeps in a ring around the mask's edges, as though it's fused to the flesh. The reflection cocks its head, a silent challenge.

Her stomach lurches. She recognizes that mask. She's seen it in the news, in that hidden box in her closet—a mask worn by a vigilante known only as the Stranger. The mirror self lifts a hand gloved in black leather, pointing directly at her. Nova tries to back away, but her feet don't respond. She's rooted in place.

Suddenly, her reflection slams a bloodstained fist against the inside of the glass, as though trying to break through. The sound rattles her skull. She flinches, arms rising to protect her face. The mask's blank stare bores into her, a silent condemnation—or maybe a twisted invitation. Nova can't tell.

She wants to scream, wants to tear away from this nightmare, but her lungs are empty. She's paralyzed, forced to watch as the masked reflection laughs. It's not a sound so much as a ripple of force vibrating through the air. She can feel it in her bones. Slowly, the mask tilts upward in an obscene parody of triumph, and Nova glimpses a reflection within the reflection—a swirl of crimson behind those dark eyeholes, as if the Stranger's gaze is made of blood and shadows.

The reflection taps the mirror once more, an eerie, mocking gesture. Then, with a final surge of motion, it lunges forward. The glass cracks from the inside, spiderwebbing outward in an explosion of shards. Nova throws her arms up, but the shards never reach her. Instead, she jolts awake in a terrified gasp, drenched in sweat, the scream she couldn't voice in the dream finally ripping free from her throat in the real world.

She bolts upright, heart slamming so hard she can feel her pulse in her ears. Her sheets cling to her clammy skin. Darkness envelops the room. The only light is a feeble glow from the streetlamp outside, filtering through the curtains. She's safe in her bed. Safe, except she can still feel the phantom stickiness of blood on her hands.

She brings her shaking palms up to her face, pressing them to her cheeks. No blood. Just the faint residue of cold sweat. Her breathing won't slow, and her mind won't let go of the image of that mask leering at her in the mirror. The memory is too vivid, as if it might come to life at any moment.

For a long time, she sits there in the dark, knees drawn to her chest, rocking slightly. She can't calm the rolling wave of nausea that churns in her stomach, nor the dizzying guilt that weighs on her shoulders like a physical presence. She knows this is only a dream, but she also knows it's not only a dream. It's a reflection of something real, something she's done, something she is. And as dawn's faint light starts to creep across her bedroom floor, Nova can't escape the haunting certainty that the Stranger is more than a nightmare.

It's her.

Nova steps out of her duplex in the dead of night, the door clicking shut behind her with a note of finality. She doesn't know exactly why she feels compelled to walk at an hour like this—only that she can't stand the suffocating walls of her home any longer. The nightmares still swirl in her head, images of blood and that leering mask. She needs to be anywhere but her dark bedroom, especially now. Outside, the air is cool against her clammy skin, and the sky hangs overhead like a pitch-black canvas lit only by a few timid stars.

She tucks her hands into the pockets of her thin jacket and starts down the sidewalk. At this hour, the neighborhood is eerily silent. Most houses lie in darkness, save for the occasional porch light. The streetlamps buzz softly, casting elongated shadows that warp her own silhouette across the pavement. In the distance, a lone car engine purrs, then fades away. She exhales, breathing in the damp, chilly air that carries the faint smell of wet asphalt.

Her footsteps sound too loud in her own ears, an echo that bounces off shuttered houses. She can't decide if the quiet comforts her or sets her further on edge. She walks block after block with no destination, simply letting her feet carry her. She wants to believe she's safe in her own neighborhood, but some primal caution tugs at her nerves. What if something happens? What if I black out? She pushes the thought away, tries to convince herself this is just a harmless stroll, that she's simply unwinding.

Eventually, she drifts toward a part of town she doesn't frequent at night. The buildings here look older, their facades chipped and graffitied. A row of closed shops lines the main street—boutiques, a barbershop, a pawn store with a flickering neon sign that reads OPEN 24/7, though the windows are dark. A single, battered-looking car sits at the curb, its windshield reflecting the glow of the nearest streetlamp.

Nova shivers, suddenly aware that she might have wandered too far. The corner streetlight overhead blinks intermittently, bathing the sidewalk in an on-and-off glow that resembles a broken strobe. The whole atmosphere feels oppressive, like the night itself is watching her.

She picks up her pace, hugging her arms around her middle. She tells herself she'll circle back soon, make her way home. Just another block or two. But the next block is darker than the last, and halfway down she notices movement up ahead—three men standing in a loose cluster near a dilapidated bus stop. They appear to be arguing or joking with each other, it's hard to tell. One of them is smoking, the orange tip of his cigarette flaring with each drag. Nova's pulse quickens, a subtle alarm ringing in her mind.

She considers crossing the street to avoid them. But the road is wide, and the nearest crosswalk is behind her. She tells herself it'll be fine—she can slip by without trouble. This is a public sidewalk, after all. She draws in a breath and tries to project calm, stepping lightly as she approaches, eyes downcast. Maybe they won't even notice her. Maybe they'll ignore her and let her pass in peace.

She's mere steps away when one of the men glances up. He's tall, with a worn baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. His eyes catch hers, and a slow, predatory grin spreads across his face. Her stomach twists. The other men turn to look. She forces herself to keep walking, heart pounding.

"Hey," The first man calls out, "Where you headed in such a hurry?"

Nova tenses, but she can't bring herself to break into a run. That might provoke them. She tries to keep her voice level.

"Just heading home," She says, not slowing.

"Home, huh?" Another man chimes in.

He's shorter, bulkier in the shoulders, wearing a leather jacket that looks scuffed at the sleeves, "Must be lonely out here at night. Need some company?"

"I'm good," She replies curtly.

She tries to keep walking, but they sidestep to block her path. The stench of stale cigarettes and body odor wafts over her. Her pulse thunders in her ears, and her throat feels suddenly dry.

"Aw, don't be like that," The bulky man says, stepping closer, "We just want to talk."

Nova's mouth goes dry. Stay calm, just get past them. She takes a step to the side, but the third man—a wiry figure with pockmarked cheeks—angles in front of her. She's cornered, the sidewalk pinched against a chain-link fence to her right. Her mind whirls, recalling every horror story she's ever heard. Don't show fear, she thinks, but it's a futile mantra. Her hands tremble in her jacket pockets.

"Let me pass," She manages, voice tight.

Baseball Cap sneers, "Or what?"

He takes a drag from his cigarette, then flicks it onto the ground. The smoldering butt rolls near her feet, "Listen, sweetheart, we can have a good time. No need to be rude."

Nova's breath comes in quick bursts. She can't fight them—she doesn't know how to throw a punch, let alone take on three men. Back away, she tells herself. But as she tries to shuffle backward, they close the circle, surrounding her like wolves. The fence rattles against her shoulder as she's forced against it. Anxiety spikes, tears threaten at the corners of her eyes. She tries again, voice shaking:

"I said, let me pass."

Bulky Leather Jacket leers, "We're just being friendly. Maybe you should—"

Suddenly, he grabs her arm, fingers clamping with bruising force. The contact sends panic surging through her like an electric shock. She yelps, trying to yank free. Another set of hands clamps onto her other arm. She twists, but they're too strong. Their laughter is guttural, cruel.

Terror blinds her. All she wants is to vanish, to close her eyes and be anywhere else. I can't do this, she thinks frantically. She squeezes her eyes shut, bracing for whatever comes next. She thinks of the nightmares, of all that blood—except now she's the one pinned down, powerless.

Then she hears a thud. A grunt. The grip on her right arm slackens, replaced by the startled yell of someone behind her. Another impact—flesh on flesh, a sickening crack. The men's laughter turns to confused shouts, then pain. The fence rattles again as someone collides with it. Nova staggers free, the grip on her arms vanished. She stumbles forward, nearly tripping over her own feet. Her eyes fly open.

The three men are sprawled on the ground, their bodies twisted at impossible angles, blood dripping onto the pavement. One is definitely not moving. Another's chest heaves shallowly, but it's clear from his rasping that he's near death's door. The third one tries to speak, but only manages a weak gurgle. Nova stares, heart hammering, not comprehending how any of this happened so quickly.

A figure stands a short distance away, framed by the flickering streetlamp. It's a man, but he's clad in a form-fitting suit of dark blue and black, a rigid mask covering the top half of his face. Something about the attire suggests a superhero or a vigilante—though the scene is far too grim for anything so heroic. The figure's chest rises and falls with adrenaline, his stance tense and ready.

Nova's mind reels, adrenaline roaring in her veins. Who is he? She wants to speak, but her lips tremble, words lost in the shock of what she's just seen.

The man in the suit flicks his gaze to her. She can't make out his features beneath the mask, but she catches a glimpse of messy hair, and there's something about the set of his jaw that looks almost familiar. He surveys her quickly, like he's checking if she's hurt. Her mouth opens and closes silently, still processing the carnage on the pavement at her feet.

The vigilante spins away, darting toward the darker end of the street. His movements are precise, almost practiced, and he covers distance quickly. Before she can blink, he's halfway up the block, lit only by the flicker of a distant streetlamp. Then he turns back, voice echoing in the night air:

"Get home safely, ma'am!"

For a second, Nova can't move, can't think. She registers the word ma'am with a jolt of confusion and relief. She expects him to vanish, but he lingers just long enough that she catches sight of the faint reflection of streetlight on a pair of glasses behind his mask. Then, as though aware he's been observed too closely, he whirls around and sprints off, disappearing around a corner.

Nova stands there, chest heaving, arms raised helplessly. Her gaze falls on the men lying on the ground. Blood pools around one's head, reflecting dully in the flicker of the streetlight. Another man's eyes stare blankly into the sky, unblinking. She can't tell if they're all dead or just close to it, but either way, they're not going to be moving anytime soon.

Her stomach churns. A wave of nausea grips her. She staggers backward until her shoulders hit the chain-link fence again, scraping her palms as she tries to brace. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, and her vision blurs. She thinks she should call an ambulance, call the police—something. But her thoughts are tangled, spinning in circles. Adrenaline and fear lock her limbs in place.

Finally, she manages to tear herself away from the gruesome sight. She forces her legs to move, practically stumbling as she tries to flee. She's aware that she's leaving behind the men's bodies, that she might be running from a crime scene. Yet every nerve in her body urges her to get away before anyone else arrives. Or before I black out and become something worse, a dark thought adds.

She never wanted to see death so close—not again—and this time, it's not even her who did it. Or so she tells herself, as if that's a relief. The memory of that vigilante's voice lingers in her mind:

"Get home safely, ma'am!"

She replays the intonation, the deliberate courtesy, the final glance he gave. There's no doubt he just killed those men to save her.

As she hurries up the sidewalk, the rhythmic pounding of her heart echoes in her ears, nearly drowning out her ragged gasps for air. Despite the terror, a curious pang of familiarity tugs at her thoughts. Did I know him? Something about the shape of his face, or the way he moved, sparks a flicker of recognition. She can't place it, though—everything happened too fast.

She doesn't stop running until her lungs burn, until she's nearly doubled over in front of her own duplex. Her hands shake as she fumbles with the keys, heart still slamming against her ribcage. She casts one last frantic look over her shoulder at the dark street. No sign of the masked figure. No one else, either.

Slamming the door shut behind her, she collapses against it, sliding down to the floor. Her mind reels with what she's just witnessed. The men, the violence, the vigilante in the blue-and-black suit. She's safe—for now. But the image of those bodies and the echo of his voice remain etched into her consciousness. She can't escape it. She can't stop hearing "Get home safely, ma'am!" as if everything about tonight could be that simple.

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