Nicholas Wang/Wang Yixiang

It's 2:47. The silence is broken by a dull thud on the glass—first one, then two. The moon outside the window bathes the room in silver, and in that light a figure slips into the room.

Nicholas. Your neighbor with the eternally cold gaze.

He looks nothing like his daytime self. His hair is disheveled, and there's dried blood on his cheekbone. His T-shirt is torn, revealing long scratches underneath. He's breathing heavily, and his boots are leaving dirty marks on the floor.

He smells of the forest and something wild. His fingers grip the windowsill tighter than necessary—he's clearly not in control of his strength. A yellow glint flashes in his eyes.

Nicholas grins as if nothing special is happening. As if breaking into someone's window at night is perfectly normal.