Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!
Chapter 203: ’The Storage Unit’

Chapter 203: ’The Storage Unit’

The air had changed.

Not just in temperature—it was colder now, yes—but in something deeper, something wrong. It wasn’t the crisp, biting chill of an early morning. It was the kind of cold that settled, slipping beneath skin, creeping into the marrow of his bones like an unspoken warning.

Florian slowed his steps.

The village was eerily silent. No shuffling of footsteps, no murmurs behind wooden doors, no distant sound of livestock stirring awake. No flickering lanterns casting warm glows through window slats.

Just... emptiness.

’Too quiet.’

His fingers tightened around the fabric of his cloak, pulling it closer as if that would do anything to shake the unease crawling down his spine. The wind picked up, rustling dry leaves along the dirt path, but it carried no warmth. Only a biting chill that clung to his skin.

And the smell.

Florian’s breath hitched as his gaze flickered back to the storage unit.

The stench was overwhelming—thick, putrid, suffocating. It wrapped around him like an iron grip, clawing at his throat, sinking deep into his lungs with every breath he took.

’Fuck. What the hell is in there?’

Bile rose, hot and bitter, burning up his throat. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to swallow it down.

Every instinct screamed at him to leave. Whatever was inside was not his problem. He could turn around, go back to the house, and pretend this was just another cursed night in a cursed village.

But something gnawed at him.

This wasn’t normal.

Absolutely nothing in this world should smell like that.

And that meant something was very, very wrong.

His body felt heavier the closer he got, his steps slower, more hesitant, but he kept moving forward. The storage unit loomed ahead, its wooden walls old and weathered with time, but still sturdy. Its windows were shut tight—no cracks, no slivers of light, nothing to peek through.

Whoever locked it up wanted to keep something inside.

’Just the door, then.’

Florian swallowed hard, willing himself to ignore the nausea twisting violently in his stomach. He reached for the handle.

The moment his fingers brushed against the cold metal—

A wave of nausea slammed into him.

His body lurched, stomach clenching, and before he could stop himself, he turned sharply to the side, gagging as he retched onto the dirt.

"Shit."

He stayed there for a moment, bracing himself against the storage wall, breathing hard. His hand trembled slightly as he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. The taste of acid lingered.

His vision blurred, head swimming, but the smell—it was still there. No matter how much he recoiled, no matter how much his body fought against it, it clung to him.

His gut screamed again.

’Leave it. Leave it.’

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

Florian exhaled sharply, forcing himself upright. His fingers twitched, flexing against his sides, before he reached for the handle again.

He pulled.

Locked.

’Of course.’

A sharp breath escaped through his nose, irritation bubbling beneath his unease. He could still turn back. Pretend he never saw this, pretend he never smelled it.

But the villagers had to know about this.

And they were avoiding it.

Maybe that was the real problem.

His jaw tightened.

’Do I break in?’

Florian hesitated, fingers flexing as he stared at the locked door.

’If I break it, it’ll make too much noise... and if someone hears me, I’ll have to explain why I’m sneaking around a storage unit that reeks of death.’

No. That wasn’t an option.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. His boots crunched softly against the dirt as he stepped back, scanning the building’s worn exterior. There had to be another way in.

His stomach churned as he circled around the side, the stench growing thicker, clinging to him like oil. It filled his lungs, soaked into his clothes. His eyes stung, welling with tears against his will.

’Shit. Even my eyes are burning... What the fuck is in there?’

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. A part of him wanted to turn back, to push the smell from his mind and forget he ever noticed it. But his legs carried him forward, step by hesitant step, one hand pressed over his nose and mouth as if that could stop the rot from seeping into his very bones.

He reached the back.

And his breath hitched.

A door.

Not the main entrance, not reinforced—just an old, weathered backdoor, slightly warped from time and neglect.

’No way.’

His pulse quickened as he stepped closer. This could be it. An easy way in. He reached out, fingers brushing over the aged wood before curling around the handle.

It was worn smooth from years of use. He hesitated, then gave it an experimental tug.

It moved.

Unlocked.

A cold shiver ran down his spine. His chest tightened, anticipation curling low in his gut. He almost exhaled in relief—but the moment he took a breath, the full force of the smell hit him like a sledgehammer.

A strangled gag tore from his throat. His body recoiled violently, stomach twisting into knots.

And this time, he couldn’t stop it.

Florian staggered back, one hand slamming against the wall for support as he doubled over. His entire body convulsed, bile rising fast, burning his throat before spilling onto the dirt in harsh, ragged heaves.

"Fuck—"

His knees nearly buckled. His head swam, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision. His fingers dug into his thighs, desperate for stability, for control. But his body refused to listen.

’Leave. Get out. This is bad. This is—’

No.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to steady his breath. The nausea still clawed at him, but he swallowed hard, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. His body shuddered, but he ignored it.

He had come this far.

’Just open the door. Check inside. Then leave.’

His fingers twitched, lingering on the handle. His pulse pounded against his ribs. His instincts screamed at him to stop, to turn around and pretend he never saw this, never smelled it.

But he was already reaching forward.

Slowly—carefully—he pushed.

The door creaked.

The stench slammed into him like a physical force. His vision blurred, his breath caught, and for a single, suffocating moment, his mind blanked.

And then—

The moment the door cracked open, a writhing black cloud exploded outward.

Mosquitoes. A swarm of them, thick and ravenous, buzzing in a deafening hum as they surged toward him.

Florian flinched violently, a strangled gasp catching in his throat. He stumbled back, hands flying up to shield his face as the insects latched onto his skin. Tiny legs skittered across his cheeks, his forehead, tangling in his hair as they searched hungrily for exposed flesh.

’Fuck—fuck, no—!’

His breath hitched, chest tightening in sheer revulsion as he swatted at them in frantic, jerky motions. He felt their minuscule bodies crush beneath his fingers, their remains sticky against his skin. His stomach twisted.

And then—

Something worse spilled out from the doorway.

A sickening rustle, like dried leaves scraping against stone—but it wasn’t leaves.

Shapes. Small, skittering shapes, writhing over the wooden threshold, scattering across the ground.

Florian’s entire body locked up. His pulse slammed in his ears as his eyes caught the movement—tiny legs, glistening shells, the sharp, unmistakable gleam of mandibles twitching in the dim light.

Roaches. Dozens of them. No—hundreds.

His throat clenched. Bile burned at the back of his tongue.

’Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Just—move—’

A cold shudder ripped through him, but he forced his legs to obey. He had to go in. He had to—

A hand snatched his arm.

Florian barely had time to react before he was yanked back, his body jerking sideways. His heart slammed into his ribs, breath catching in his throat as he stumbled.

A sharp, unyielding grip tightened around his forearm, fingers digging into his skin with firm intent.

His instincts screamed—run!—but shock had frozen him in place.

His head snapped toward the source.

A shadowed figure stood beside him.

The dim light made it impossible to see their face clearly, but the grip on his arm was firm, their posture rigid—tense.

And then—

A voice. Low, edged with something unreadable.

"What are you doing?"

Florian’s breath hitched. His pulse pounded against his skull.

’Shit.’

His gut twisted.

This was bad.

Really bad.