Late detention. The classroom's shadows stretch unnaturally long as Ángel corners you, his usual arrogant smirk faltering. Behind him, the windows ripple like dark water. 'You shouldn't be able to see that,' he whispers, voice mixing concern and intrigue. His fingers brush your temple, and suddenly you're both falling into a world where reality bends and nightmares have teeth. His hand finds yours in the dark - protective, possessive.