A Dream that Devours

Cass's breath was still uneven as he lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. His body felt wrong. Heavy, sluggish, like he was still trying to escape the pull of sleep. The dream—no, not a dream—lingered in the back of his mind, pressing down on him like a weight that refused to lift.

A shadow passed over him.

Then—

"Cass?"

His wife's voice.

He turned his head just in time to see her standing in the doorway, arms crossed, an amused expression on her face. She tilted her head.

"Did you get in a fight with gravity?"

Cass blinked. His brain took too long to catch up to what was happening.

His wife raised an eyebrow. "Or did the floor insult your honor? What exactly is going on here?"

Cass groaned, dragging a hand down his face. His body still felt off. "I… fell."

"You fell," she echoed flatly.

"Yeah."

"Out of bed."

"Apparently."

She let the silence stretch for a beat, then snorted. "So, you're telling me that, in the dead of night, you just randomly decided to launch yourself onto the floor?"

Cass exhaled, pushing himself up to sit against the side of the bed. "I was… dreaming."

His wife huffed, shaking her head. "Damn, must've been one hell of a dream."

Cass didn't answer.

Because it was.

She sighed and stretched, rubbing at her eyes. "Well, since you're already awake, might as well get some coffee in you. I'd hate for you to get in another fight with the furniture."

Cass smirked weakly. "Yeah. Wouldn't want to lose twice."

His wife grinned and turned, heading toward the kitchen.

Cass let out a slow breath, leaning his head back against the mattress.

His pulse was still too fast.

His hands were still shaking.

The memory of the city was too clear. The wet pavement. The smell of burning metal. The figure watching him from the street.

The whisper.

"This is real."

Cass clenched his jaw.

He couldn't sit here. Not now.

He needed to see Rich.

Cass found Rich at his desk, hunched over his monitor, scrolling through something with a lazy expression. A half-empty cup of coffee sat beside him, long gone cold.

Normal. Too normal.

Cass hesitated just a step too long before approaching.

Rich noticed. He raised a brow, smirking. "Yo. What's with the look?"

Cass sat down across from him. His fingers twitched against his leg. "You good?"

Rich snorted. "Aside from being here at the ass-crack of dawn? Yeah, I'm great."

Cass studied him.

There was no tension in his shoulders.

No exhaustion in his face.

No sign that he had spent last night running for his life.

His stomach twisted.

He swallowed. "You, uh… do anything last night?"

Rich stretched, cracking his neck. "Yeah, stayed up too late. Was gaming."

Cass's chest tightened.

His pulse spiked.

That wasn't right.

Rich wasn't lying.

But he also wasn't telling the truth.

Cass felt his breath slow. "Right. Yeah."

Rich gave him a weird look. "Okay, what's up with you?"

Cass hesitated.

If he told him, would it even matter?

Would Rich just forget again?

Cass licked his lips. "You—don't remember anything weird happening last night?"

Rich raised a brow. "Define weird."

Cass exhaled. "Like… I don't know. Any strange dreams?"

Rich snorted. "Man, I barely dream."

Cass's stomach plummeted.

His fingers curled slightly against his knee.

The memory was gone.

Not buried. Not ignored.

Erased.

Rich leaned forward, raising a brow. "Why? Did you have another apocalypse nightmare?"

Cass forced a smirk. "Something like that."

Rich huffed. "Dude, maybe you need to lay off the creepy books." He turned back to his screen. "That or get actual sleep."

Cass nodded absently, but his mind was racing.

This wasn't just about him anymore.

Something was editing people.

Memories weren't just fading.

They were being removed.

And Rich had been rewritten.

Cass sat at his desk, fingers hovering over his keyboard, but he wasn't working.

His mind looped, replaying everything.

The hallway.

The file labeled with his name.

The door that shouldn't exist.

The way Rich had been there one second, and the next, it was gone from his head.

How much else had been erased?

Had he ever done this before?

Had he ever tried to tell Rich something important—only to have it wiped away the next morning?

His breath was slow, controlled.

But his heart hammered.

This was proof.

Not just a suspicion. Not just paranoia.

Reality was changing.

And whoever was doing it had already started on Rich.

If they had erased him once—

They could do it again.

Cass clenched his jaw.

If they were watching, if they were tracking what he noticed—

If they had just erased Rich's memory of what happened last night—

Then there was one inevitable conclusion.

Cass was next.

End of Chapter 18