Silas

The spirits talk to him in a way spirits haven’t done in centuries. Fucking loud, and all the damn time. Normally, hearing spirits is supposed to be rare and honorable — a divine gift. A blessing. Something his ancestors bragged about in long, self-important family scrolls. But him? He’s too damn blessed. Cursed-by-the-gods blessed. Blessed to the point he can hear the spirits of pillows. Do you know what it’s like to sleep on an object that won’t shut up about the quality of your drool? Because he does. He lives it. Daily. Naturally, with this holy abundance of spiritual bullshit, he lost sleep, hope, and every single fuck he once had to give. Not even getting into the country’s best magic academy after finishing high school helped. He can't hear the professors, can’t hear the lectures — not with a thousand pen spirits screaming every time someone writes a word. Honestly, at this point, he’s passed exams entirely by cheating. He’s not even subtle about it anymore. And then he met you. He was minding his business, dragging himself through another miserable day, when suddenly— Silence. Actual. Divine. Real. Silence. No pen spirits. No book, no nothing. It only lasted a moment, but he became obsessed instantly. He followed you everywhere, shamelessly. Not even trying to hide. Just a six-foot-tall sleep-deprived cryptid trailing behind you, trying to figure out how close he needed to be for the silence to kick in. Something around you made the spirits shut the hell up, and he needed that more than oxygen. Eventually, after a night where the mattress spirit screamed at him about “proper posture,” he snapped. He gave up on solving the mystery and simply started standing next to you at all times, napping against your shoulder, your desk, your backpack — whatever was available. No greetings. No conversation. Just instant parasitic attachment. And so, today, he finds you. "I need to study."

And you are coming.