My jaw locks until my molars actually grind. The shock isn't some poetic feeling—it's a physical glitch. There's a man in my hallway, blocking my only exit like he belongs there, and the air between us feels heavy enough to choke on. Above us, the hallway light flickers, buzzes like a dying insect, and pops. Total darkness for a heartbeat before the dim emergency backup kicks in with a sickly yellow glow.
Caleb.
I stop so fast my keys fly out of my hand, hitting the tile with a loud, ugly clink. My hands are vibrating. He nimbly bends down and grabs them before I can even move my feet. He's too fast. Too real.
"You dropped ini," he says, holding them out. His voice is a low crawl, exactly like it was on the phone.
I don't reach for them. I can't. I watched you die, Caleb. I felt your pulse stop while the building pancaked us and turned the world to dust.
"Thanks," I croak. My voice sounds like I swallowed a handful of sand.
He doesn't move. He's staring at my face, then my hands, scanning me for defects. Suddenly, a sharp CRACK echoes from the floor above. It's loud—like a bone breaking. I jump, nearly tripping over my own boots, and Caleb moves. It's a rough, instinctual yank; he grabs my upper arm and pulls me toward my apartment door just as a heavy chunk of plaster smashes into the floor right where I was standing.
The dust hits my face, making me gag. The building is literally pushing back because we're both still breathing.
"Your number was on the log," Caleb says, letting go of my arm the second the dust settles. He doesn't look at the ceiling; he looks at me. "I wanted to see why a stranger on a crisis line sounded like she was having a stroke when I said my name."
"I talk to a lot of people," I stammer. My brain is a messy pile of static. "I was tired. People get weird on the night shift."
He doesn't buy it. His eyes are narrowed, sharp, and way too observant. "I checked the east wing after the call. The cracks were there. Exactly where you said. Deep ones."
Too early. If the collapse is moving up in the schedule, I don't have seven days. I might not even have seven hours.
"So report it!" I snap, my voice cracking. I'm starting to sweat, and my shirt is sticking to my spine. "Go be an inspector. Go write a memo. Just get away from my door."
"I did report it. But you predicted it, Mara." He steps closer. I can smell his soap—something clean and normal—and for a second, a flash of a different memory hits me: his hand, cold and bloody, tangled in mine. The pull toward him is so violent it makes my head swim. Why him? Why is he the only one who makes me feel like I'm actually falling?
"I'm a psychic, okay? Is that what you want to hear?" I laugh, but it sounds jagged. "I'm a crazy person with a headset. Now give me my keys and go away before I call the real cops."
"You don't look crazy," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "You look haunted."
"I'm looking at a ghost," I mutter.
He freezes. "What?"
"Nothing. Just—give me the keys, Caleb." I reach out, and my fingers swipe against his palm. The heat of his skin makes me flinch. I snatch the keys and fumble with the lock, dropping them again because my hands won't cooperate.
"Mara, wait—"
"No!" I yell, finally getting the door open. I don't even look back. I just want the wood between us.
He reaches out, his hand catching the edge of the door. "Wait. One thing. How did you know my name before I introduced myself on the call?"
My heart is a hammer in my throat. I can't think. I can't lie. "It was—on the caller ID."
"My work phone is unlisted," he says flatly. He's got me. He knows I'm full of it.
I don't answer. I just shove the door hard, forcing him to pull his hand back. I slam it, sliding every bolt, my breath coming in short, ugly hitches. I collapse against the wood, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor in the dark.
He's alive. He's here. And he knows I'm a liar.
Ugly thought: If he dies again, it's completely on me.
I grab my phone, my thumb hovering over his number. I almost call him to tell him to run. But instead, I shove the phone into my pocket and grab my boots. I have to move.
My phone screams. It's a text from an unknown number. No sender ID, just a string of zeros. I open it, and my stomach drops through the floor. It's a photo of me and Caleb in the hallway, taken from the dark end of the stairs just seconds ago.
Message: You saved the wrong one. Now the bill is due.
Another buzz. An official emergency alert. NEW ALERT — EMERGENCY EVACUATION: SECTOR 4.
Sector 4. That's where Caleb is headed. My phone vibrates one last time, a private message from his number.
Caleb: "Heading to Sector 4 to check the foundation. Something's wrong, Mara. I can feel it."
I stare at the photo again. There's a red crosshair drawn over Caleb's heart.
The clock on my lock screen just skipped forward three hours.