The penthouse existed like a dream someone had forgotten to wake from.
Marble floors sprawled beneath Elijah's bare feet, their silver veins catching light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead—frozen stars suspended in a sky that had no business being indoors. Beyond the wall of glass, Crestwood's skyline pulsed with neon and shadow, distant traffic humming a lullaby to the privileged. Furniture gleamed in shades of ivory and cold steel, each piece positioned with the kind of precision that suggested human hands had never actually touched them.
Everything whispered of wealth. Of a world where consequences were suggestions, not laws.
Elijah stood on the balcony, shirtless, his torso carved into sharp relief by the city's glow. A Panama hat tilted low over his face, casting his handsome features into half-shadow. He nursed a tall glass, condensation weeping down its sides, some sparkling thing that fizzed against the night. From inside, music drifted through the open doors:
🎶 *"El Hombre Normal…"*
Spanish pop-rumba, smooth as silk dragged across skin. Lucero del Alba's voice curled through the air like smoke searching for flame. Elijah moved with it—small motions, shoulders rolling, hips shifting in a rhythm his body remembered before his mind could catch up.
The music felt like it was pouring through him from somewhere else entirely.
Then the air... *shifted*.
For just a heartbeat, the edges of his vision blurred. The penthouse flickered—there and not there—like a projection losing power. Mist curled at the periphery of his sight, gray tendrils reaching across marble that suddenly looked less solid, more suggestion. Elijah blinked hard, and the world snapped back into focus with a clarity that felt almost aggressive.
He turned, and she was there.
Chloe Halvern materialized on the balcony, brunette hair cascading over shoulders that caught the city lights like they'd been designed for it. Bronze skin. A bikini that seemed woven from moonlight itself. She moved toward him with the kind of confidence that made reality rearrange itself to accommodate her.
"There you are." Elijah spread his arms wide.
She slipped into them like coming home. Their kiss was immediate—hungry, familiar, carrying the weight of shared history in every second it lasted. His hands traced her back, dipped lower, pulled her flush against him. She allowed it for a moment before pressing one finger to his chest.
"Not now," she murmured, silk and warning in equal measure.
Elijah groaned but released her, stealing one more kiss first. "You'll ruin me."
"Mm." She turned, already moving back inside.
His palm connected with her backside—light, playful. She shot him a look over her shoulder, half-scandalized, half-indulgent. He laughed, drink in hand, hips swaying back into Lucero's rhythm.
But then it happened again.
The world *breathed*.
For a fraction of a second, the balcony railing beneath his hand felt insubstantial, like touching fog. The city beyond wavered, its lights stretching and contracting like a pulse. Elijah's fingers tightened on the glass in his hand—solid, real, *there*—and the moment passed.
He shook his head. *In my head. Just in my head.*
Except... something else was different now.
The air around him had developed a quality he couldn't name. If he looked at it directly, there was nothing. But in the corners of his vision, reality seemed to wear a patina—something that reminded him of oil on water, iridescent and wrong. Colors that shouldn't exist bleeding at the edges of normal sight. A spectrum that human eyes weren't designed to process, yet there it was, radiating from his skin like heat haze.
He looked down at his hands.
Normal. Completely normal.
He looked up at the penthouse interior.
Normal. Chloe was reaching for her phone. Everything was exactly as it should be.
*So why does it feel like I'm standing in a painting that hasn't dried yet?*
Chloe's phone buzzed against the glass table. She picked it up, her face shifting when she saw the screen—unknown number, white text against black.
She hesitated, then answered.
"Hello?"
Static. Then a voice, tentative and worn.
"…Chloe."
Her eyes narrowed. She said nothing.
The voice tried again, gaining strength. "Hi, Chloe. It's Aubrey."
Silence stretched between them like taffy. Chloe tapped her fingers against the phone's edge. Finally: "You've got to be kidding me."
"I know." Aubrey's words rushed out. "I'm the last person you want to hear from. But this is important."
Chloe rolled her eyes, leaning against the doorframe. "What do you want?" Each word snapped like breaking glass.
"I just—" Aubrey faltered. "I need to know if you've been having any trouble lately. Anything strange happening?"
"No." Chloe's tone could have cut steel. "I'm fine. Better than fine."
"And... Lucian?"
The name landed like a stone in still water. Chloe stiffened. "Why are you asking me about that psychopath?" Her voice rose enough that Elijah paused mid-dance. He mouthed: *Aubrey?*
Chloe nodded, sighing with theatrical boredom. "It's her."
Elijah crossed the space in three strides, snatching the phone from her hand. "Aubrey?"
The line held nothing but breathing.
When Elijah spoke again, his voice carried something deeper than anger—grief raw enough to draw blood. "Why now? After nearly five years, why call us?"
"Eli—"
"Don't." His voice cracked. "Don't say my name like that. You were gone. You disappeared. I was your best friend, Aubrey. Me and Casey." His free hand swiped at his face, catching tears. "Casey..."
Aubrey stayed quiet, letting the storm break itself against her silence. When she finally spoke, her voice had softened to something almost gentle. "I made mistakes. I ran. I wasn't there for you. But I can't undo that. What I can do is tell you something has started again. Something we thought was buried."
Chloe leaned in, reaching for the phone, but Elijah held firm.
Aubrey's words quickened, almost desperate now. "It's come back. The same thing. The same nightmare—but this time, it's after me."
Elijah and Chloe exchanged a look. Fear flickered beneath their armor of arrogance.
"I'll send you proof," Aubrey continued. "And a place. A safe place. We need to meet. All of us. Survivors, together. Please."
Chloe finally barked, "If it's only happening to you, Aubrey, then leave us out of it."
"No." Aubrey's voice sharpened. "This isn't just me. Chloe—you're a Halvern. Your family is tied to this, whether you admit it or not."
That stopped Chloe cold. Her lips pressed into a hard line.
"I'll send you the location," Aubrey whispered. "Don't ignore this. If you do, it'll be worse than you can imagine."
The call ended.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then Chloe's phone buzzed again. Notification: *New Message.*
Elijah checked it. His beautiful features darkened. Chloe leaned over his shoulder.
On the screen:
*Breaking News – Azaqor Killings Return to Crestwood*
*Victims: Victoria Lockridge (2 months ago), Marlene Wynter (recent). Both killings show Azaqor-style ritual markings.*
Chloe's hand flew to her mouth. "No..."
Elijah's jaw tightened. "She was telling the truth."
Before either could speak again, a maid burst through the door, eyes wide with panic.
"Miss Chloe!"
Chloe spun. "What is it?"
The maid stammered. "It's bad... Lucian Freeman. He's escaped."
Elijah froze. The glass in his hand trembled.
And then, for just an instant, the entire penthouse *flickered*.
Not like before—not subtle, not questioning. This time, everything dissolved into gray mist for a full second. Elijah stood suspended in nothing, surrounded by fog that pressed against his skin with impossible weight. He could see his own body as if from outside it, standing alone in an expanse of colorless void.
The maid was a shadow. Chloe was a silhouette. The penthouse was a suggestion of architecture drawn in smoke.
That strange spectrum of color—those impossible hues—flared around him like a corona, pulsing from his chest outward in waves. Not quite purple. Not quite black. Something that existed in the space between visible light and the frequencies human eyes refused to acknowledge.
Then reality slammed back into place.
The maid was staring at him, waiting for a response. Chloe had already turned toward the TV. Everything was solid again, real again, *there* again.
Elijah's heart hammered against his ribs. *What the hell was that?*
The TV screen erupted with a *Breaking News* banner. A young reporter—Janet from WELB 7—appeared, her voice crisp with urgency.
"Crestwood County Jail officials confirm that Lucian Freeman, prime suspect in the Ever Thorne College massacre, has escaped custody. Freeman, long suspected to be the original Azaqor killer, is believed to have outside help. Authorities warn that Freeman may be attempting to resume his killing spree—or rejoin an accomplice who has already committed recent murders in Crestwood."
The camera panned to a photo of Lucian: calm, unsmiling, eyes that burned through the screen with quiet intensity.
Chloe collapsed onto the couch, bikini straps catching the TV's glow, her face drained of color.
Elijah knelt before her, still shirtless, and kissed her forehead. "Breathe. It's going to be okay."
But his voice betrayed him with its tremor.
Chloe's phone buzzed again. She flipped it open with a sigh, more theatrical than afraid.
"Who is it?" Elijah asked.
"My mom." Chloe rolled her eyes. "She never stops. Always trying to control me."
Elijah took the phone from her hands, set it on the table. "Forget her. Forget everything right now."
He kissed her. Harder this time. Desperate. She melted into it, their fear dissolving into hunger, hands finding each other with urgency. They were both pretending—the world was burning outside, and they clung to each other like the last dose of a drug they couldn't quit.
The TV droned on: *"Lucian Freeman remains at large..."*
But the penthouse filled only with the sound of their breathing, their lips meeting and parting, the insistent buzz of Chloe's phone vibrating unanswered against glass.
And at the edges of Elijah's vision—just barely, just enough—that impossible color continued to pulse, painting the air around him in shades that didn't belong to any world he recognized.
He squeezed his eyes shut and kissed Chloe deeper, as if that could make everything else disappear.
As if that could make him disappear.
As if any of this was real at all.