The camp was silent, but Nathan's quarters breathed with ghosts.
The liquor bottle lay half-empty on his desk, its amber light catching in the dim glow of the lamp. He tipped it again, the burn scorching his throat, but it did nothing to silence the echo that had rooted itself in his mind.
Her laughter.
Her smirk.
The way her eyes had burned when she defied him.
Lexi.
Nathan's hands tightened around the glass until his knuckles whitened. He should have chained her. Locked her in. Taken every chance from her. She had been fire—wild, untamable—and he, foolishly, had believed he could smother that flame with his hands while still keeping her glow.
Now the fire had consumed her, swallowed by the cliff's abyss, leaving him with nothing but ash.
Her room was across the hall. Untouched. Empty.
Nathan rose, swaying slightly, bottle dangling from his hand. He shoved the door open. The air inside was stale, carrying only the faintest trace of her presence—the ghost of her scent clinging to the sheets, the faint wrinkle in the pillow where her head had once rested.
He stood there, staring.
H remembered how he kissed her until his thoughts blurred. Once, he had believed he could break her defiance with sheer will. And once, he had thought—no, convinced himself—that she could never slip away.
Now the bed was vacant. The silence mocked him.
"Damn you," he whispered hoarsely, pressing the bottle to his forehead. His reflection glared back at him in the window—red-rimmed eyes, disheveled hair, a man unraveling.
He stumbled to the wall, pressing a button. The hidden screen slid open, revealing camp surveillance. His fingers flew over controls, searching.
There she was.
Lexi, captured on looped footage, frozen in time.
The tilt of her chin, the mocking curve of her lips when she teased him. Her calmness, even as he burned with fury and desire. Her gaze—a mixture of challenge and allure—pierced him through the glass.
He replayed the clips again and again until his vision blurred.
She was alive here. Smirking. Moving. Breathing. His.
But the abyss had swallowed her.
Nathan gripped the edge of the desk, head bowing low. His chest heaved with the weight of memories. He could still feel her fingertips brushing against his chest, still taste her kiss—sweet and poisonous. He remembered the way she looked at him before leaping. Calm. Defiant. Almost amused.
That expression had seared itself into him, tormenting him more than the emptiness of her absence.
She hadn't feared death. She had welcomed it.
And he, Nathan, had been powerless.
The thought tore at him, each repetition dragging him deeper into madness. He had promised himself he would never lose control again, not since the world fell apart. Yet with her—he had lost everything. Control. Sanity. Heart.
The liquor wasn't enough.
Nathan slammed the bottle against the desk, shards scattering across the floor, amber liquid spilling like blood. He staggered back, running his hand through his hair.
"She's not dead," he muttered to himself, pacing. His boots crunched glass beneath them. "She's too stubborn. Too wild. Death wouldn't claim her so easily."
His voice rose, echoing off the walls. "You're alive, aren't you, Lexi? Playing with me even now. Hiding. Laughing at me."
He pressed his fists to his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. Her face danced behind his lids—smirking, teasing, daring him to chase her.
If she was alive, she was his to find.
If she was dead, then he would drag her ghost back and chain it to him.
Either way, he would not let her go.
He slumped into the chair, breath ragged.
The madness twisted inside him, equal parts fury and desire. He wanted to throttle her for her betrayal, kiss her until she broke, cage her until the fire in her eyes belonged only to him. He wanted to protect her from the world and at the same time, destroy her for defying him.
Every memory was a knife.
Every silence, her absence.
The camp carried on, the survivors whispering, plotting, fearing—but Nathan had withdrawn. He ate little. Slept less. Every night, he returned to her room, to her footage, to her ghost.
"She's not gone," he whispered, fingers tracing her frozen image on the screen. "I can feel you. I know you. You wouldn't die that easily."
His lips curved into something dark, twisted. "You're mine, Lexi. Alive or dead—you'll always be mine."
The paranoia took root.
When soldiers spoke in hushed tones, he imagined they were whispering about her. When reports came of movements outside the camp, he thought it was her shadow, testing him, watching him. When he dreamed, she came to him—sometimes chained, sometimes laughing, always untouchable.
He woke with sweat soaking his sheets and her name on his lips.
He began sending patrols farther and farther beyond the borders, demanding reports, demanding sightings. None came back with her name.
It only fueled his madness.
She was alive. She had to be. And if she wasn't, then he would find the abyss where she had fallen, tear it apart stone by stone, until he unearthed her bones and bound them to his side.
Nathan poured himself another drink from a fresh bottle, his hand shaking as he lifted it. His reflection in the glass was no longer the commander the camp knew, but a man hollowed out by obsession.
He raised the bottle in a bitter toast to the empty room.
"To you, Lexi. To your smirk. Your defiance. Your damn fire."
He drank deeply, the burn mixing with the ache in his chest.
"Run as far as you want," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Even in death, you won't escape me."
The shadows closed in around him, the silence thick, the ghost of her laughter echoing in his ears.
Nathan leaned back, eyes bloodshot, lips curling into a smile that was more a snarl.
"I'll find you," he vowed into the empty dark. "Alive or dead—I'll make you mine."
And with that, the commander of the camp surrendered fully to his madness, his obsession coiling tighter with every heartbeat, every breath haunted by the girl who had dared to defy him.