Mondrovia at night always felt too alive, too aware. The city was never really quiet; it breathed in static, the hum of power lines, the pulse of light beneath asphalt. The kind of noise that made your thoughts feel louder.
By the time I reached my apartment, the city had tucked itself under a haze of fog.
The driver Adrian assigned, a man with a jawline carved from stone and eyes that didn't blink enough, waited until I unlocked my door before he nodded and retreated.
His presence lingered like surveillance air, suffocating and sterile.
I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, exhaling.
My apartment felt foreign after just a few hours of my absence. I guess Adrian's premonitions stuck more than I thought they would.
I kicked off my heels and wandered barefoot toward the living room, sinking into the couch. The city lights spilled through the window, striping my skin in pale gold. My phone sat on the table, black screen glinting like a watchful eye.
The message from earlier hovered in my mind.
Your rebirth wasn't a gift. It was a debt.
Memories flashed through my mind, like a film reel I couldn't turn off. The moment I was pulled back from the abyss, colors sharper, senses heightened, as if I was glimpsing reality for the first time.
A voice had echoed in that space between death and life, promising me salvation but binding me to a purpose I still did not understand.
I'd read those words too many times already, and each time they rearranged themselves, whispering something new. Debt to whom? To what?
I rubbed my temple, allowing my psychic sense to extend outward gently. It was like flexing a muscle I rarely used, the sensation humming behind my eyes.
The air around me changed, becoming more palpable as I felt the psychic residue.
There was something here, a faint vibration, reminiscent of the echo another mind might leave behind as it brushed through.
I stilled.
"Who's there?"
Silence.
I expanded the reach, a slow pulse radiating outward. The threads brushed against walls, the floor, the faint hum of electronics and something else. Something cold. Faint but deliberate.
Not human.
The lamp flickered.
"Perfect," I muttered, forcing my voice steady.
My reflection in the window looked back at me, eyes darker, shadows deeper. I felt the familiar pressure in my chest, the telltale sign of psychic intrusion.
The first lesson Adrian had drilled into me came back like instinct: Do not fight the presence head-on. Redirect.
So, I breathed. Let it in, just enough to trace its shape.
The presence wasn't hostile, at least not yet. It was testing, touching. Curious. Like fingertips brushing along the edge of a knife.
And then I heard it.
A voice—soft, distant, female.
You shouldn't have left him.
My pulse stuttered.
"Who are you?" I whispered.
You shouldn't have left him alone tonight.
It was the same voice that sent the message. The same cold knowing threaded through each syllable.
I reached for my phone, screen lighting up under my touch, but no new message appeared. Just the old one. Mocking. Waiting.
I swallowed hard. "Adrian?" I whispered instinctively, though I knew he wasn't here. "Are you listening?"
Nothing.
My phone buzzed then, and I nearly dropped it. An unknown number flashed again.
Unknown: He can't hear you right now.
Unknown: He's busy.
Busy. The word coiled through me, sharp and invasive.
I typed fast, fingers shaking slightly.
Me: Who are you?
The reply came instantly.
Unknown: Someone who knows what you are becoming.
My throat went dry. I stared at the words, the echo of them sinking deep into my chest. I didn't want to admit how much they rattled me.
I have survived betrayal. But this—this was different. This was intimate and personal.
I typed again.
Me: What do you want?
No response. Just three blinking dots that disappeared before they formed a sentence.
The air thickened. I stood slowly, pacing. My reflection followed, dark eyes glinting like another presence entirely.
I caught a flash of something, a movement, subtle through the window. Across the street, a light flickered off in a building that should have been empty. My instincts screamed.
I stepped back, pulse quickening. My psychic sense flared, catching the faint ripple of an observing consciousness, not touching me, just watching.
Adrian's voice whispered in memory, deep and deliberate: If you ever feel watched, don't react. Anticipate.
So, I didn't. I let the awareness settle, controlled my breathing, and slowly picked up my coat.
If they wanted to watch, they'd watch me leave. I wouldn't stay here waiting to be hunted.
But before I could move, my phone buzzed again.
Unknown: Leaving won't change what's coming.
I froze.
Enough.
I drew my focus inward, channeling psychic energy like a current. My mind split, one half grounded, the other searching through the invisible threads of interference around me. The signal wasn't random—it was being projected. Someone was using telepathic frequency to hijack my connection.
I pushed back hard.
The lights dimmed, and for a second, the room warped—walls bending, air vibrating like heat over asphalt. I felt something recoil—a mental hiss, distant and furious.
Then silence.
The connection broke.
I staggered back against the table, chest heaving. The lamp steadied. The hum of the city returned.
Whatever that was, it was gone.
For now.
I pressed a trembling hand against my forehead and laughed softly, the sound bitter. "You wanted to think, Elena," I muttered. "Now you're thinking yourself into madness."
I needed to call Adrian.
And yet… I didn't.
Because part of me, small and stubborn didn't want him to see me unravel. Didn't want him to know how deeply he'd gotten under my skin.
I was tired of being the one who always needed saving.
I set the phone down and walked to the balcony, pushing the glass door open. The cold air bit at my skin, but it cleared my head. Mondrovia stretched before me, glittering and cruel. Somewhere out there, someone was watching both of us, playing a game neither of us had agreed to join.
And yet, beneath that danger, another truth pulsed.
I missed him.
The thought hit me before I could shove it away. The silence of the apartment made it worse, the lack of his voice, his steady presence, the way his mind brushed against mine even when we didn't speak.
It wasn't supposed to feel like this. Attraction was dangerous; I knew that. Desire blurred focus, softened edges.
But every time he looked at me, really looked, it felt like the world around us shifted, just slightly, as though the universe was daring me to let go.
Our fight and escape at the gala showed how well we work together, even though he was just outside of being a stranger to me.
I leaned against the railing, closing my eyes. The wind tangled in my hair, whispering secrets I didn't want to hear.
I wasn't ready to trust him. I wasn't ready to need him.
And yet, somewhere in the marrow of me, I already did.
My phone buzzed again.
My heart jumped, but it wasn't the unknown number this time.
Adrian: Are you home?
I exhaled.
Me: Yes. You can stop worrying now.
Adrian: Not likely. Keep your doors locked. Something feels off tonight.
I frowned, thumb hovering.
Me: What do you mean by 'off'?
Adrian: Just… noise. A distortion in my field. It's nothing yet.
Me: Then stop brooding and get some sleep. It's almost morning.
Adrian: You first.
I smiled despite myself.
Me: Not happening.
There was a pause. Then—
Adrian: You shouldn't have left.
I stared at the words. The same phrasing that the unknown number had used earlier. My stomach turned cold.
I typed back quickly.
Me: What did you just say?
Adrian: What? That you shouldn't have left? I mean it, Elena.
My fingers hesitated.
Me: Did you message me earlier? From another number?
Adrian: No. Why?
Me: Never mind. Forget it.
Another pause. Then—
Adrian: You're lying.
My throat tightened. I almost laughed. "Of course, I am," I whispered to the empty room.
I put the phone face down, as if that could muffle the tension twisting through my chest.
Something about his tone unsettled me. Adrian rarely repeated words; he was deliberate, careful with language. For him to echo what the unknown number said, it couldn't be a coincidence.
Unless…
Unless whoever was contacting me could mimic voices.
Or worse, read minds.
The thought made my skin crawl.
I pressed my fingers against my temple, trying to push back the exhaustion. The psychic residue still lingered in the air, faint but undeniable. Whoever they were, they'd been close.
And Adrian, whatever distortion he was sensing, it wasn't paranoia.
We were being played. Both of us.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it sharpened me.
Fine. Let them watch. Let them whisper. I'd find them before they found me.
And when I did, I wouldn't just survive this.
I'd burn their world down.
****
The night deepened. The fog outside swallowed the skyline.
When I finally lay down, the sheets felt too cold. I dreamt of voices.
Of whispers buried beneath static. Of eyes watching from the dark.
And when I woke, my phone screen was glowing softly on the nightstand.
Unknown: Did you dream of him?
My breath caught.
Below it, another line appeared.
Good. He dreamed of you, too.