Elena's POV
The cab rolled away before I'd even shut the door. I stood on the curb with the city's neon pulse flickering over my skin, keys trembling between my fingers.
My apartment building loomed ahead, its same brick, same shadowed windows but something seems off, it wasn't the same.
Three days since I'd seen Adrian. Three nights since his voice had ghosted through my mind. I'd told myself the silence meant freedom. Tonight, it felt like exposure.
I climbed the steps, every sound too sharp: the click of heels on stone, the metallic scrape of the key sliding home. Inside, darkness swallowed me whole. I didn't switch on the light at once. Instead, I listened.
The apartment breathed differently. My coffee mug had shifted half an inch. A faint, musky cologne—neither mine nor familiar—hung in the air. Someone had been here.
I moved quietly through each room, pulse steady but fast, scanning corners. Nothing moved. Nothing threatened. Yet the quiet wasn't clean; it hummed with residue.
When I finally flicked the switch, light spilled over scattered papers on the table. I froze. My case files, the ones I'd hidden beneath a stack of sketchpads- were spread open like someone had studied them and left in a hurry.
A tremor of anger shot through me. And under it, unbidden, a flicker of warmth that wasn't mine.
Elena?
The voice wasn't real. It couldn't be. But it slid through the back of my mind with that low, velvet timbre I could never mistake.
You're tense.
I pressed a hand to my temple. "Get out of my head, Adrian," I whispered to the empty air.
No response, only the aftertaste of his worry, like ozone before rain. The link was stronger.
My ears started to ring slightly, a thin, high whisper that seemed to resonate with some part of the tether between us.
I shook my head, trying to clear the sensation, but it lingered, a reminder that our connection was not just mental but physical, embedded deeper than before.
Whatever had happened when he touched me in the street had deepened it.
I sank onto the couch, staring at the files. My hands still shook. The city hummed outside, muffled through the glass.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown Number: He's not who you think.
A second later, an image arrived, it was grainy, distorted, but unmistakably Adrian's silhouette under harsh light. His head bent as if interrogated. Or praying.
My throat tightened. I wanted to delete it, to laugh at the attempt, but fear lodged deeper than reason. Someone wanted to wedge space between us. And the worst part? It worked.
I turned the phone face down, stood, and poured water from the sink. My reflection in the kitchen window stared back at me, my face was pale, hair falling in wild strands.
"Get it together," I muttered.
When I looked up again, the reflection wasn't mine.
For half a heartbeat, Adrian's eyes looked out through my face. Gray, dark, full of unspoken things.
The glass slipped from my hand and shattered.
Pain flared up, a shallow cut on my palm and at the same instant, a hiss of pain echoed in my mind, it was his pain.
I staggered back, clutching the sink edge.
Elena what happened?
I squeezed my eyes shut. "Stop it. Stop this."
I can't. I felt you.
"Then feel me leave."
Silence. Only the faucet's drip and my breath coming fast. The connection faded but not fully; a pulse still linked us, faint but alive, like a second heartbeat under my skin.
I cleaned the glass with shaking hands, wrapped the cut, and tried to focus on mundane things: the fridge noise, the floor beneath my feet, the smell of detergent. Anything real.
It didn't help. His emotions bled through the cracks, remorse, restraint, something dangerously close to longing.
When I could no longer stand it, I grabbed my coat and stepped onto the balcony for air.
Mondrovia spread below, all gleaming roofs and restless lights. The night wind lifted my hair, and for a moment I almost felt weightless.
Then the tether tugged again. A flash—his office, dimly lit. Adrian pacing, hand raking through his hair, jaw tight. My breath synced to his without permission.
I whispered into the wind, "Why can't you just stay out?"
No answer, but my chest warmed; he'd heard me.
I stayed on the balcony until the wind numbed my fingers. Below, car lights weaved through the wet streets like restless fireflies. The world moved on, as if nothing extraordinary was happening, as if I wasn't slowly unraveling from the inside out.
When I closed my eyes, I could almost sense his presence on the other side of the city. That familiar static between us, low and pulsing, tethered tight through distance and denial. It wasn't normal. It wasn't safe. Yet every part of me clung to it.
"Stop thinking about him," I told myself.
But the problem with psychic connections is that thinking is calling.
The air thinned. A flicker of heat spread across my chest — not mine. His. I could feel his heartbeat overlapping mine for a second, then fading as if he'd realized I was listening.
Adrian.
I didn't mean to think of his name, but it echoed, sharp as a dropped pin.
The link snapped open again, it felt bright, invasive, and intimate. I saw a flash of his office through his eyes: a glass of untouched scotch, city lights painting lines across his desk. His pulse matched mine, fast and uneven.
You shouldn't have come back alone.
His thought slipped into me like a warning wrapped in warmth.
You shouldn't be watching. I fired back before I could stop myself.
I wasn't watching. I was worried.
Liar, I thought. But there was a softness behind the word that startled me more than the thought itself.
I turned, went back inside, shut the balcony door, and leaned against it as if I could keep the world out that way. My reflection in the glass caught my attention again, at least this time, it was only me. Pale skin. Dark eyes. Too many ghosts.
I pressed my palm to the cool glass and whispered, "I don't know what you're doing to me."
No response. Just a wave of quiet that wasn't empty. Shared silence.
I dropped the curtains, dimmed the lights, and sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath me. The apartment finally felt like mine again.
That's when I noticed the small envelope wedged beneath the door.
I hadn't heard anyone slide it in. I stared at it for a while. Before I picked it up.
No name. No address. Inside was a single piece of paper. Three words scrawled in neat, sharp ink:
"Don't trust him."
I laughed once — brittle, humorless. "Original," I murmured.
Still, my fingers trembled as I folded it back up.
The room felt smaller, tighter. Every corner is a hiding place. Every shadow a memory. My mind fought to make sense of it: the message, the photo, the psychic bleed. Could someone be amplifying our connection, manipulating us through it? The thought chilled me more than any threat.
I reached for my phone, half to call him, half to throw it across the room. Instead, it buzzed before I touched it.
Unknown Number: You can't run from what's already inside you.
My breath caught. The message dissolved before I could screenshot it — gone, as if it had never been there.
"Enough." My voice cracked.
I stood, paced, tried to outrun the panic clawing up my throat. But the tether followed too, soft at first, then stronger.
Elena—
His voice brushed against my mind, ragged, low, more emotion than sound.
You're scared. Why?
"Stop doing that," I whispered aloud. "You don't get to ask."
Then tell me to leave.
"I already did."
But you don't mean it.
The words landed like a hand on my skin. I could feel the truth of them and hated it.
The link trembled, dangerously close to something raw. I caught flashes — his thoughts spilling before he could rein them in: the memory of my hair against his fingers that night at the gala, the way I'd looked at him before walking away, the quiet ache that had followed me out the door.
I gasped, clutching my chest. "Stop. Please."
The link faltered, then faded to silence again. The emotional echo lingered — heat, restraint, a near confession he hadn't said out loud but that my mind had caught anyway.
I stood frozen, trembling. I didn't know if I was angrier at him or at myself for wanting him to stay.
The clock ticked past midnight. I forced myself to breathe, to ground. I cleaned the last shards of glass from the floor, washed the counter, and folded a blanket. Normal things.
But every movement carried the awareness of him, of us — an ache threading through the quiet.
When I finally collapsed on the couch, exhaustion hit all at once. My eyelids grew heavy. I told myself I'd rest for a minute, nothing more.
As I drifted, the low, steady, intimate resonance came back. Not invasive this time. Calmer. I almost leaned into it.
And then, through that drowsy haze, came a whisper, softer than I thought, barely sound.
Elena…
I sat up. Heart racing.
The room was silent. My phone lay face down on the table. The air felt electric, humming between every heartbeat.
Slowly, I reached for the phone and turned it over. The screen lit up at once.
Unknown Number: It's already begun.
The message stayed this time.
My pulse pounded in my ears. I waited for it to vanish again, but it didn't. The letters burned against the screen like a verdict.
I looked around the apartment, the shadows, the quiet, the faint echo of Adrian's voice still brushing against the edge of my thoughts, and I knew something fundamental had shifted.
Whatever this was between us, this bond, curse, warning, it wasn't finished.
Not even close.