Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight! novel Chapter 246

Chapter 246: ’Since Yesterday’

Florian’s consciousness stirred.

A thick, cloying scent of flowers curled around him, sweet and overripe, bordering on sickly. The air was heavy, dense with the perfume of unseen blooms, saturating his lungs until each breath felt like inhaling syrup. A breeze whispered through the field, but it did not cool him. It carried something else—something wrong.

The field stretched endlessly, a sea of blossoms shifting in unnatural unison. Petals swayed as though caught in a silent, rhythmic pulse, their colors too vivid, too alive. Shades of pink, white, and blue bled into one another, painting the horizon in an ethereal haze. Above, the sky burned with an unnatural gold, tinged with molten orange, as though the sun had cracked open and spilled its lifeblood across the heavens.

He blinked.

’No... This isn’t real.’

There was no haze, no confusion, no sluggishness of a fading dream. He could move, he could think—sharply, clearly. And yet, the crispness of the wind against his skin, the tickle of petals at his fingertips, the rhythmic pulse of the field—it was all too real. Too vivid. Too wrong.

A hush settled over the landscape, unnatural in its stillness. The breeze no longer rustled the flowers. The air thickened, pressing down on him like unseen hands against his shoulders.

Then—

Something shifted.

A breath. A whisper.

The flowers around him trembled.

Then they withered.

Color drained from the blossoms, their once-vibrant hues bleeding into nothingness. Stems curled inward, shriveling, dying, as though something unseen had sucked the very life from them. The sickness spread outward, devouring the field in rapid succession, leaving behind only decay.

The air turned stale, the scent of rot slithering in to replace the floral perfume. A chill coiled around his spine.

Then—

A hand burst from the dead earth.

Pale, contorted fingers clawed at the air, desperate, writhing. A strangled gasp escaped Florian’s throat as another hand erupted beside it, then another. And another.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

Countless limbs, grasping, clawing, reaching skyward from the depths of the soil, as if dragging themselves from an unseen abyss.

The earth convulsed beneath him.

His breath hitched.

He turned to run—but something latched onto his ankles.

Hands.

Cold, skeletal fingers snaked around him, tightening like iron shackles. Panic flared through his veins, white-hot. He kicked, thrashed, twisted, but the hands held firm, dragging him downward. The more he struggled, the deeper he sank, the dirt swallowing him inch by inch.

A shadow loomed overhead.

He froze.

A figure stood against the golden sky, faceless yet watching. Its form rippled, shifting like smoke, limbs distorting in unnatural motions. It lifted a hand toward him, fingers impossibly long, reaching—

Florian’s pulse pounded. He wrenched himself away—only for another hand to seize his wrist.

A second figure.

This one held his left arm, its grip vice-like, unyielding. A force neither aggressive nor gentle, only suffocating in its silence.

Then—

Arms wrapped around him from behind.

A third figure.

Unlike the others, it did not grasp or pull. It simply held him. Held him in a crushing, inescapable embrace.

Ice knifed through his veins.

He couldn’t breathe.

Terror clawed at his throat, tearing a raw, strangled scream from his lips. "Get away! LET ME GO!"

The grip tightened. His body shook violently. The figures loomed closer.

Then—

They let go.

He collapsed, gasping, fingers clawing at the withered ground. For a brief, desperate moment, he thought he was free. He scrambled to his feet, muscles screaming in protest, and bolted forward without looking back. His breath came in ragged gasps, heart slamming against his ribs.

He just had to get away.

He just had to—

No.

They were waiting.

Florian skidded to a stop, his stomach plummeting.

The three figures stood before him, silent. Unmoving.

The first tilted its head back and laughed. The sound was low, guttural, peeling into something twisted with hatred.

The second took a step forward, arms outstretched, as though longing for an embrace.

The third—

The third simply stood there. Watching. Silent.

Somehow, that silence was the worst of all.

Florian’s throat was dry. "Who... who are you?"

No answer.

Then—

They spoke.

"Florian."

His breath caught. The way they said his name—

The first spat it out, dripping with venom and loathing.

The second whispered it with longing, desperation.

The third—

Soft. So quiet. So broken.

Like mourning.

A suffocating dread settled in his chest. He stumbled back, shaking his head. "No—no, I’m not Florian. You’ve got the wrong person."

The figures stepped closer.

Then another step.

And another.

"Stay back!" Florian shouted, voice breaking. "I said I’m not Florian!"

The world around him blurred, twisting at the edges. The figures closed in—

Then—