#magic whumper

Eddie's lungs were burning.

He'd been running for blocks, maybe miles—his sense of distance had shattered somewhere around the third alley, the second wrong turn. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he could feel it in his throat, his temples, his shaking hands.

Behind him, nothing. Just the absence of whatever had started the chase, the thing he couldn't see but could feel at his heels, patient and inevitable.

He didn't look back anymore. Looking back had cost him speed, cost him breath, cost him the precious seconds that kept him ahead.

The ground shifted. He felt it first—a vibration through his soles, then a grinding, stone against stone. Then his foot came down on rising ground.

He stumbled, arms pinwheeling, and fell hard on his hip. The pavement was moving. Cracking. Splitting. Something pale and rough pushed through the asphalt like a slow-growing tooth, widening, thickening—

A wall.

Eddie scrambled backward on his palms, staring. It rose to his knees, then his waist. He lunged at it, fingers scrabbling for purchase, but the surface was sheer, wet, impossible. He made a sound—frustration and terror twisted together—and dropped back down, chest heaving, and looked left, right.

Empty alley. Empty street. The wall stretched across the entire passage, seamless, new, and beyond it—

Nothing. No one. Just the dark and the rain and his own ragged breathing. Eddie turned to run the other way.

The man was already there.

He hadn't been there. Eddie was certain he hadn't been there, but now he stood ten feet away, dry despite the rain, hands loose at his sides, watching Eddie with an expression of mild curiosity. Like Eddie was a puzzle he'd already solved.

Eddie froze.

The man smiled. Then his arm swept out—wide, aggressive, a roar of motion that didn't match the silence of everything else—and Eddie felt the impact before he saw it. His feet left the ground. He flew backward, spine arching, and his head cracked against the wall—

Soft.

For one impossible second, the brick yielded like flesh, like foam, cradling his skull, cushioning the blow. Eddie's eyes flew wide, confusion cutting through terror, and then the wall hardened again, instant and absolute, and he was pinned against it, shoulders digging into unforgiving brick, the back of his head throbbing with the memory of that strange, brief gentleness.

"Look at you," the man said. He hadn't moved from his spot. Eddie tried to push off the wall. His palms met brick and scraped, raw. He tried to slide sideways and the pressure increased, something invisible pressing his chest, his shoulders, holding him in place like a specimen.

"I watched you run," the man continued. He stopped six feet away. Five. "All that panic. All that effort." He tilted his head. "Did you really think you could outrun something that wasn't chasing you?"

Eddie's breath hitched. He looked past the man, searching the alley, the street, anywhere—but there was no help, no witness, just the wet dark and the stranger's flat, patient eyes.

The man's hand rose. Fingers spread.

Eddie felt the pressure on his throat before the fingers moved—just a phantom weight, a promise. Then the man clenched, slowly, deliberately, and the weight became crushing, absolute, invisible fingers closing around Eddie's windpipe.

Eddie's hands flew to his neck, clawing at empty air, feeling the constriction from the inside, the denial, the suffocation. He made a sound—wretched, broken—and his legs kicked out, heels scraping brick, finding nothing.

The pressure on his chest increased, pushing him harder into the wall, and he felt brick crumbling behind him, dust and fragments falling, his ribs grinding against the uneven surface.

"Ry—" The name tore out of him, barely shaped, barely sound. "R-Ryan—" He choked, gagged, fingers digging at his own throat as if he could pry the invisible grip loose. "He-hel—help—"

The man stepped closer.

Eddie sobbed, open and ugly, tears blurring the alley into smeared light and darker dark. He could feel blood now—warm, wet, seeping through his shirt where the brick had scraped him raw, trickling down his spine, his side. His body was being pressed into the wall, brick dust coating his hair, his shoulders, and still the fingers closed, tighter, tighter—

Then the man spoke again, conversational, almost gentle.

"Did you know it takes three minutes to die from strangling, Eddie? Did you know that?"

Eddie's vision spotted. He couldn't answer, couldn't nod, could only hang there with his mouth open and his chest hitching uselessly.

The man took another step. Close enough to touch. Close enough that Eddie could see the rain sliding off his shoulders without wetting them, could smell something cold and metallic radiating from his skin.

"I could let you die. A few more seconds and you would." He smiled, small and private. "What do you say when someone doesn't?"

Eddie's fingers twitched against his throat. Nothing. No air. No thought except the roaring need to breathe, to live, to—

"I said," the man repeated, and his hand tensed, fingers curling into a claw, and the pressure on Eddie's neck spiked, bright and violent and personal, "what. Do. You. Say."

Eddie's body convulsed against the wall. His legs kicked once, twice, finding only empty air. The word tore out of him, shredded, desperate—"Thank you! I'm sorry—ah—argh—th-thank you—"

The man held the pressure for one second longer. Two.

Then his fingers relaxed. The crushing weight on Eddie's throat vanished. Air rushed in, harsh and desperate, and Eddie sucked it in with a ragged, broken sound, his whole body shuddering with the relief of it. He coughed, gasped, tears streaming down his face, his hands still clawed at his neck as if the phantom grip lingered.

The man watched him. Silent. Patient.

Eddie dragged in another breath, then another, his chest hitching, his vision slowly clearing from the edges—

"Disappointing." The word cut through the alley, flat and cold. Eddie's eyes snapped open.

The man stepped closer, into the space where Eddie could smell him, where he could see every pore, every casual indifference in his expression.

"All that build-up," he said, soft, almost wondering. "All that fear. And you crumple at the first touch." He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted against Eddie's tear-wet cheek. "I expected more from you."

He reached up.

His fingers touched Eddie's cheek, gentle, almost tender, tracing the path of a tear. Eddie flinched, tried to turn away, but the invisible pressure on his chest still held him pinned.

His hand continued down, fingers light against Eddie's throat, finding the bruise already darkening there. Eddie jerked at the touch, a whimper escaping him, every nerve screaming. The man's thumb pressed into the centre of the bruise, testing, and Eddie choked, his body jolting against the wall.

"God," the man breathed, almost laughing. "Listen to you. Sounds like a broken thing." His palm spread wide, feeling Eddie's pulse hammer against his hand. "You make noise like that for this? For a little pressure?" He leaned in, mouth near Eddie's ear, and whispered, "What would you sound like if I actually tried?"

Eddie shook his head, small and helpless.

The man pulled back just enough to see his face, smiling. His hand slid lower, pressing flat against Eddie's chest, right over his heart. "Listen to that," he whispered. "Racing." He pressed harder, feeling the frantic beat against his palm. "Like a bird in a cage. Do you think it knows it's trapped?"

Eddie's breath hitched. A sob caught, and the man's eyes crinkled, almost delighted.

"There it is again. That noise." He leaned in and murmured, "You know what? I think you need this. Being held down. Being told what you are. You don't even fight anymore, you just—" he made a soft sound, mimicking Eddie's whimper, "—make noise and hope someone stops."

He pulled back, smiling, and his hand came up to cup Eddie's jaw, forcing his eyes up.

"You're not a runner, Eddie. You're not even a survivor. You're just the thing that makes noise when it's squeezed." He wiped another tear away with his thumb, almost gentle. "And I haven't even squeezed hard yet."

Eddie's face crumpled. More tears spilled, and the man watched them, thumb brushing them away. "Don't cry," he said softly. "I'm not even done with you."

The man held his gaze. Savouring. Memorising.

Then his arm dropped.

The pressure on Eddie's chest vanished instantly, completely, and Eddie's body simply failed. His knees buckled, his spine slid down the brick, and he dropped like a ragdoll into the rubble, slumping sideways against the wall, his shoulder hitting broken mortar, his head lolling, his legs splayed graceless and limp in the wet.

He didn't feel the hands that caught him under the arms before his face hit the concrete.

He didn't feel himself being lifted, folded, held against a chest that didn't breathe, didn't warm, didn't live like anything human should.

He only knew, dimly, that he was moving, that the alley was receding, that the rain had stopped touching his face.

And that the arms around him tightened, just slightly, as if he belonged there now.