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I awake, Claire’s asleep beside me, her breath steady, her snores soft and almost... adorable. It’s the kind of sound you’d never associate with a warrior like her. But that’s the thing—she is both. The monster-slaying badass and the **** woman who let herself be held, touched, kissed... fucked. Just for one night.

She murmurs something in her sleep, a breathy sound, then shifts slightly, her naked skin glowing in the low light, and I know it’s time.

I rise from the bed, body still tingling from the heat we made, the sweat we shared. I’m naked and sated, standing in the aftermath of something that felt… earned. Her outline is still soft in the sheets, like she’s been etched into them.

I glance down at the pile of bloody, sweat-soaked clothes at my feet. The flannel, the worn jeans, the boots still caked with dirt and vampire ash. With a flicker of thought, they stir—like they’re waking up.

The blood pulls away first, vaporizing into mist that dances upward and dissolves. The grime vanishes. The cloth begins to reweave, restitching itself—jeans reshaping into pressed charcoal slacks, the flannel melting into a crisp white dress shirt. The boots buckle and slide into sleek, polished black dress shoes. My business wear reforms as if it never left me.

The garments glide across the room, finding their place on my body, zipping, buttoning, smoothing into place on their own like the void itself is redressing its master.

The honeymoon suite around me begins to deconstruct.

The carpet peels away into nothing, strip by strip. The pink walls vanish like breath on glass. The gaudy cherub lamps unbuild themselves, wires curling back into sockets. The ceiling mirror ripples once, then disintegrates into glittering flecks. Even the humid Louisiana night folds inward, swallowed into the dark.

Claire vanishes last.

Not in a cruel way. Not violently. Just gently. Softly. Her body fades like moonlight behind cloud. The sheets fall where she once lay. Then even they dissolve.

And just like that—

I’m back.

The black void of my domain yawns open around me, cool and silent.

I stand there again, fully dressed, hair still damp from the shower, heart still pounding from the woman I just made love to. The only sound is the faint pulse of my own breath.

Then... they speak.

The Voyeurs.

The cacophony of their voices, hundreds of them, layered over one another like the echo of a memory. Male. Female. Ancient. Childlike. Ethereal, this time, they speak one after the other, almost over each other.

“He’s evolving…”

“Not just fantasies now. Worlds.”

“That one had weight. Texture. Consequences.”

“We saw her pain. Her lust. Her fire.”

“As well as his.”

“The cabin. The forest. The motel... the mirror.”

They laugh softly, a vibrating, seductive hum that seems to come from every direction at once.

“You didn’t just build a set piece, Joe. You directed reality.”

I exhale through a smile and run a hand through my hair as I feel the remnants of sex whisp away. “Appreciate the notes. Glad you enjoyed the show.”

“We always do…”

“You’re not playing dress-up anymore, Creator. You’re crafting cinema.”

The voices fade, still chuckling in delight as I lift my hand. A portal spirals open before me—cool silver light along the edges, glowing like the surface of a calm lake under moonlight.

On the other side?

Home.

My apartment.

I step through, closing the portal and -

POP.

—back into the moment I called it forth.

Exactly as I was.

Time resumes. The city hums. My feet touch the carpet. I’m back.

My living room is warm, familiar, save for my new home movie setup waiting like a shrine to my hobbies. The new mounted sleek soundbar, the massive 70" OLED 4K Samsung display, fresh out of the box. Beneath it, the crisp white of the PS5 Pro, with disc drive model, of course. I don’t do digital-only.

Physical media is sacred.

And speaking of...

I look down at The Supernatural: Complete Series, grabbing it, I walk over to one of the shelving units besides the TV. Some Alphabetized, some categorized and arranged in my meticulous way. Each spine a memory. My fingers trace over: Angel. Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Smallville. Suits. The Good Place and more.

I find the perfect spot between "Smallville" and "Fringe". I slot Supernatural in carefully, spine out, perfectly aligned. A king among kings.

Then my phone buzzes from the coffee table.

Iris.

I swipe to open the message.

"A car will be picking you up from home at 7AM. I know you usually drive, but consider this part of the surprise. Driver’s name is Marcellus (yes, like Wallace). It’s a black stretch limo. Your equipment is already at the shoot. The cast will be prepped. I’ll meet you at the studio. Get some sleep. You’re gonna need it. ;) – Iris."

I grin. She’s efficient. And way too good at knowing how to get me excited for work.

I type a quick reply:

Can’t wait to shoot tomorrow. Hope the cast is as photogenic as I imagine them to be.

I toss the phone onto the couch and drop onto it myself, letting the tension bleed out of my body. I grab the remote and fire up the PS5.

The TV flares to life. Soundbar hums.

I log into my accounts, Playstation store, Netflix, Hulu, Apple TV, etc. Then I grab season 4 disc one and choose the episode, “Lazarus Rising.”

Dean clawing out of his grave.

And I lean back with a satisfied smirk, ready to relive the show I just inhabited.

Tomorrow will bring lights, cameras, action.

Tonight?

It’s just me, my stories, and the worlds I build between breaths.

And maybe a glass of bourbon.