Chapter1-The Message
The last bus hissed away from the stop just as I turned the corner. For a moment, I just stood there, breath fogging in the cold air, watching the red taillights disappear into the dark.
Great. Another night walk home.
The street was unusually quiet. Even the wind felt like it was holding its breath. I pulled my coat tighter and checked my phone out of habit.
A new notification blinked on the screen.
Unknown Number: "Don't go home tonight."
I froze.
My thumb hovered over the screen, waiting for the punchline. A prank? A wrong number? Someone from class messing around?
Before I could think further, another message appeared.
"Turn around."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Slowly—too slowly—I turned.
A girl stood under the flickering streetlight. Black coat. Dark hair. Eyes that looked like they had been waiting for me long before I arrived.
She didn't move. She didn't speak. She just watched me, like she already knew what I was thinking.
"Who… are you?" I whispered.
The light flickered again.
She stepped closer, her voice low and steady. "You shouldn't go home tonight."
My breath caught. "How do you know me?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she looked past me—toward the direction of my house—her expression tightening like she could see something I couldn't.
Then she said the words that made my stomach drop.
"Because someone else is already there."
My pulse hammered in my ears as I stared at the girl under the streetlight. Everything about her felt wrong — or maybe too right — like she didn't belong here, yet somehow she belonged in my story long before I ever saw her.
"Someone is at my house?" I whispered, barely able to form the words.
She didn't answer immediately. Her eyes drifted toward the dark road again, sharp and alert, like she was listening to something I couldn't hear.
Then she stepped closer.
So close that the cold night air between us disappeared.
"You don't have to believe me," she said softly, "but you need to listen."
Her voice wasn't threatening. It wasn't dramatic. It was… steady. Like she had said these words before — maybe to me, maybe to someone else — and she already knew how I would react.
"I don't understand," I said, my breath shaky. "Why are you warning me? Who are you?"
Her expression flickered — a tiny crack in her calm mask — before she looked away.
"You'll remember soon," she murmured.
Remember? Remember what?
Before I could ask, my phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: "You're not alone."
My fingers trembled as I held the phone. The girl leaned in, reading the message over my shoulder without hesitation — like she had every right to.
Her jaw tightened.
"They're getting bolder," she said under her breath.
"Who?" I demanded, louder than I intended.
She placed a hand on my arm — warm, grounding, strangely familiar.
"Don't panic," she whispered. "That's what they want."
My heart thudded painfully. "I need to go home. My things are there. My—"
She shook her head.
"If you go home right now, you won't walk out again."
The streetlight above us flickered violently, buzzing like it was about to die. For a moment, her face was swallowed in darkness — then revealed again — and in that split second, I saw something in her eyes.
Fear. Not for herself. For me.
"Please," she said quietly. "Just trust me tonight."
The wind howled down the empty street, carrying a faint metallic sound — like a gate creaking open somewhere far away.
I swallowed hard.
"Okay," I whispered. "Just… tell me what to do."
Her shoulders relaxed, just a little. She stepped beside me, close enough that our arms brushed.
"First," she said, "we need to get you somewhere safe."
"Where?"
She looked at me — really looked — like she was memorizing my face.
"With you?" I repeated, my voice barely more than a breath.
She didn't look away this time. Her eyes held mine with a strange mix of certainty and something else… something I couldn't name.
"Yes," she said softly. "It's the only safe option right now."
A part of me wanted to pull back. Another part — the part that had been trembling since the first message — leaned toward her warmth without meaning to.
"I don't even know your name," I whispered.
She hesitated. Just for a second. Like the answer mattered more than I understood.
"You will," she said. "But not here."
The streetlight above us flickered again, buzzing louder this time. The shadows around us stretched unnaturally long, swallowing the pavement in uneven patches of darkness.
She glanced up at the light, then at the empty street behind me.
"We need to move," she said, her voice suddenly sharper. "Now."
Before I could react, she gently took my wrist again — not forcefully, not possessively, but with a quiet urgency that made my pulse jump.
Her touch was warm. Too warm for the cold night.
"Wait," I said, stumbling a step closer to her. "Where are we going?"
"A place they can't reach you."
"Who are they?" I demanded, my voice cracking.
She didn't answer. Instead, she looked at me with an expression that made my breath catch — like she was memorizing me, like she had done this before, like she had been waiting for this exact moment.
Then she said something that made the world tilt beneath my feet.
"You're not supposed to be alone tonight."
My phone buzzed again.
I didn't want to look. But I did.
Unknown Number: "He's watching you."
A chill shot down my spine.
The girl's grip tightened just slightly — protective, steady.
"Don't look around," she whispered. "Just stay close to me."
My heart pounded so hard it hurt.
"Why are you helping me?" I whispered.
She exhaled slowly, like she'd been holding the answer inside her chest for too long.
"Because," she said, her voice barely audible, "I promised I would."
Her words settled over me like a second layer of cold air.
A promise. She had promised to protect me?
But when? How? Why did her voice sound like she'd said this before… maybe not tonight, but in some memory I couldn't reach?
I swallowed hard. "Where are we going?" I asked again, quieter this time.
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she scanned the street — every shadow, every corner, every flicker of movement — like she was expecting something to step out at any moment.
Only when she was sure we were alone did she turn back to me.
"Somewhere close," she said. "Somewhere they won't think to look."
My pulse jumped. "Who are they?"
Her jaw tightened, and for the first time, I saw something like anger flash in her eyes — not at me, but at whoever she was talking about.
"They've been following you for days," she said. "Tonight, they finally crossed the line."
My breath caught. "Following me? I—I didn't notice anyone."
"You weren't supposed to," she murmured. "That's why I'm here."
The streetlight above us buzzed again, then went completely dark.
For a moment, the world vanished into black.
I felt her hand slide down my wrist and lace gently around my fingers — warm, steady, grounding.
"Stay close," she whispered in the dark.
I didn't pull away.
When the light flickered back to life, she was already guiding me toward the side street — the one I never used, the one that always felt too quiet, too empty.
"Why this way?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my effort to sound calm.
"Because your usual route isn't safe anymore."
I opened my mouth to ask what that meant, but before I could speak, my phone buzzed again.
I lifted it with shaking hands.
Unknown Number: "You're holding her hand."
My blood ran cold.
I froze mid‑step.
The girl immediately stepped in front of me, shielding me with her body, her eyes scanning the rooftops, the alleys, the shadows.
"Don't react," she whispered. "They want fear. Don't give it to them."
My voice cracked. "H‑How do they know what we're doing?"
She didn't answer. She just moved closer, her presence wrapping around me like a shield.
"Look at me," she said softly.
I did.
Her eyes were steady, dark, and impossibly calm — like she was the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly tilted sideways.
"You're safe with me," she said. "I won't let anything happen to you."
Something in her tone made my chest tighten — not with fear, but with a strange, aching familiarity.
"Who are you?" I whispered again, barely breathing.
This time, she didn't look away.
This time, she answered.
"I'm the reason you're still alive."
The world seemed to narrow around her words.
I'm the reason you're still alive.
I stared at her, my breath caught somewhere between disbelief and a fear I couldn't name. She didn't look away. She didn't flinch. She said it like a fact — like gravity, like nightfall, like something that had always been true.
"I don't understand," I whispered. "How could you—"
A sudden metallic clang echoed from the far end of the street.
She reacted instantly.
Her hand tightened around mine, pulling me closer, her body shifting just slightly in front of me — protective, instinctive, like she'd done this a hundred times before.
"Stay behind me," she murmured.
The sound came again. A gate? A bin? Footsteps?
I couldn't tell. The darkness swallowed everything.
My heart hammered so loudly I was sure it echoed down the street.
"Is someone there?" I whispered.
She didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on the shadows, sharp and unblinking.
Then — another buzz.
My phone lit up in my trembling hand.
Unknown Number: "He's getting closer."
My breath hitched.
The girl stepped even closer, her shoulder brushing mine, her voice low and steady.
"Don't look at the message," she said. "Look at me."
I forced myself to lift my gaze.
Her eyes were dark, intense, and impossibly calm — like she was the only thing holding the night together.
"You're safe," she said softly. "As long as you're with me."
A shiver ran through me — not from the cold, but from the way she said it. Like a vow. Like a memory. Like something she had said before.
"But why me?" I whispered. "Why are they after me?"
Her expression softened — just barely — like she wished she could tell me everything but couldn't. Not yet.
"Because you saw something you weren't supposed to," she said.
My stomach dropped.
"What did I see?"
She shook her head.
"You don't remember. That's why they're moving now."
The wind picked up, carrying a faint sound — a footstep? A breath? A whisper? I couldn't tell.
She took my hand again — firmer this time.
"We need to leave," she said. "Before he reaches this street."
I swallowed hard.
"Where are we going?"
She looked at me with an intensity that made my chest tighten.
"Somewhere only I can take you."
The streetlight flickered violently, buzzing like it was about to explode.
And then—
A shadow moved at the far end of the road.
Tall. Slow. Deliberate.
My breath froze.
The girl's grip tightened.
"Don't run," she whispered. "Just walk with me."
She stepped backward, pulling me gently but firmly with her, her eyes never leaving the shadow.
"Trust me," she said again, her voice barely audible. "Please."
And for reasons I couldn't explain — reasons buried somewhere deep, somewhere familiar — I did.
I let her lead me into the darkness.
We moved deeper into the narrow side street, our footsteps soft against the pavement. The world behind us felt heavier with every step — like the darkness itself was watching.
I kept glancing at her hand wrapped around mine. Steady. Warm. Too warm for someone I had supposedly just met.
"Are you sure he's following us?" I whispered.
She didn't look back. "Not yet. But he will."
The certainty in her voice made my skin prickle.
"How do you know?"
"Because he always does."
Always. The word lodged itself in my chest like a splinter.
I opened my mouth to ask what she meant, but she suddenly stopped walking. Her grip tightened, pulling me gently behind her as she scanned the alley ahead.
"What is it?" I whispered.
She raised a finger to her lips — quiet.
I held my breath.
For a moment, there was nothing. Just the distant hum of traffic, the rustle of leaves, the faint buzz of a streetlamp.
Then—
A soft crunch. Like a footstep on gravel.
My heart lurched.
She stepped closer, her shoulder brushing mine, her voice barely audible.
"Don't look behind you."
Of course, that made me want to look even more. My neck twitched involuntarily, but before I could turn, she gently cupped the side of my face, guiding my gaze back to hers.
"Stay with me," she whispered.
Her touch was warm, grounding — and strangely familiar, like a memory I couldn't reach.
"I'm scared," I breathed.
"I know." Her thumb brushed my cheekbone — a small, steadying gesture that made my chest tighten. "But you're not alone."
Another crunch echoed behind us.
Closer.
My pulse spiked.
She moved even closer, her breath brushing my ear.
"When I say run," she whispered, "you run with me. Don't look back."
My throat tightened. "Why me? Why are they after me?"
Her jaw clenched, and for a moment, I saw something raw flicker in her eyes — fear, anger, guilt… something deeper.
"Because you're the only one who survived," she said.
The words hit me like ice water.
"Survived what?" I whispered.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she looked past me — over my shoulder — and her expression changed instantly.
Sharp. Alert. Deadly calm.
She leaned in, her lips close to my ear.
"Run."
The moment the word run left her lips, my body reacted before my mind did.
She pulled me with her, our footsteps hitting the pavement in uneven, panicked rhythm. The alley stretched ahead like a tunnel carved out of darkness, every shadow feeling alive, every sound amplified.
I didn't dare look back.
Her grip on my hand tightened, guiding me, steadying me, almost dragging me when my legs stumbled.
"Don't slow down," she said, breathless but controlled. "He's close."
My lungs burned. My heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest.
"Who is he?" I gasped.
"Not now."
We turned sharply into another narrow lane, the kind I'd never walked through even in daylight. The walls were close, the air colder, the silence heavier.
Behind us — a footstep.
Then another.
Then faster.
"He's running," I whispered, terror slicing through me.
"I know."
She didn't look back. She didn't need to. Her entire body moved with a precision that didn't belong to someone ordinary — like she had trained for this, like she had done this before.
We reached the end of the lane, but instead of turning left toward the main road, she yanked me right — into an even darker passage.
"This way," she said.
"There's nothing here!" I cried.
"There is."
I didn't understand what she meant until she suddenly stopped in front of a tall metal gate, half‑hidden behind overgrown vines.
She let go of my hand only long enough to push the gate open with surprising force.
"Inside," she said.
I hesitated — just for a second — but the sound behind us made the decision for me.
A heavy, echoing step. Close. Too close.
I slipped through the gate.
She followed instantly, pulling it shut behind us with a soft clang.
The noise of the street dimmed, swallowed by the enclosed courtyard we had entered — a forgotten space between old buildings, silent and cold.
I pressed my back against the wall, chest heaving.
"Is he still—"
She raised a hand, signaling me to stay quiet.
We stood there, barely breathing.
Footsteps approached the gate.
Slow. Measured. Like whoever it was knew exactly where we had gone.
My heart stopped.
The girl stepped in front of me again, shielding me with her body, her posture tense, ready — almost dangerous.
The footsteps paused right outside.
Silence.
Then—
A faint scrape. Metal against metal. Like fingers brushing the gate.
I clamped a hand over my mouth.
The girl didn't move.
Not even a breath.
The scraping stopped.
A long moment passed.
Then the footsteps retreated — slowly at first, then fading into the distance.
Only when the last echo disappeared did she finally exhale.
"You're safe," she whispered.
My legs gave out, and I slid down the wall, trembling.
She crouched in front of me, her face close, her voice softer than it had been all night.
"I told you," she said. "I won't let anything happen to you."
My throat tightened.
"Why?" I whispered. "Why me? Why are you doing all this?"
Her eyes softened — dark, warm, unbearably familiar.
"Because," she said quietly, "you're the only person I can't lose."
The moment she whispered run, the world blurred around us.
We slipped deeper into the hidden courtyard, the cold air thick with silence. My legs trembled, not from the sprint, but from the realization that someone—some he—had been close enough to touch the gate we'd just slipped behind.
I pressed my back against the wall, trying to steady my breathing.
She stayed in front of me, her posture tense, listening to the night like it was speaking directly to her.
After a long moment, she finally turned toward me.
"You're shaking," she said softly.
"I—I'm fine," I lied.
Her eyes softened. "No, you're not."
She crouched slightly so we were eye‑level, her face inches from mine. The dim courtyard light cast shadows across her features, making her look both unreal and painfully real at the same time.
"You did well," she murmured. "You listened. You trusted me."
"I didn't have a choice," I whispered.
"You always have a choice."
Her voice was gentle, but something in it carried weight—like she wasn't talking about tonight, but something older, deeper, something I didn't remember.
I swallowed hard. "What does he want from me?"
Her jaw tightened. "Not you. What you know."
"But I don't know anything."
"You don't remember," she corrected softly. "That's different."
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
"What did I forget?"
She hesitated—really hesitated—for the first time tonight. Her eyes flickered with something like pain.
"That's not something I can tell you here," she said. "Not while he's still close."
I hugged my arms around myself. "Then where?"
She stood and offered her hand.
"Come with me."
I stared at her hand—steady, warm, waiting.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
She didn't smile, but her voice softened.
"To the only place they can't reach you."
My heart thudded. "And where is that?"
She stepped closer, her presence wrapping around me like a shield.
"With me," she said quietly. "You're safe with me."
Before I could respond, a faint metallic sound echoed from the alley we'd come from.
Her expression sharpened instantly.
"He's back," she whispered.
My breath caught.
She took my hand again—firmer this time.
"We need to move. Now."
The moment she said "He's back," something inside me snapped awake — fear, instinct, survival, I couldn't tell. All I knew was that her fingers tightened around mine, and suddenly the courtyard felt too small, too exposed, too close to whatever was out there.
"We have to move," she whispered again, her voice low, controlled, but edged with urgency.
She guided me toward the far end of the courtyard, where a narrow passage disappeared between two old brick buildings. I had never noticed it before — maybe because it looked like nothing more than a crack in the wall.
"Through here," she said.
"It's too narrow," I whispered.
"That's why he won't follow."
Her hand slid from my wrist to my waist, steadying me as I squeezed into the passage. The walls were cold against my shoulders, the air damp and stale. She stayed close behind me — too close — her breath brushing the back of my neck.
"Keep going," she murmured.
My heart pounded so loudly I was sure it echoed off the bricks.
Halfway through, I froze.
"What if he finds this place?" I whispered.
"He won't," she said. "He doesn't know this route."
"How do you know?"
A pause.
Then, softly:
"Because it's mine."
Something about the way she said it — quiet, certain, almost possessive — made my breath catch.
We slipped out the other side into a dim, abandoned service lane. A single broken lamp flickered overhead, casting long, trembling shadows across the cracked pavement.
She stepped in front of me, scanning the area with sharp, practiced eyes.
"He's close," she murmured. "But he won't find this path unless you panic."
"I'm trying," I whispered, my voice shaking.
She turned to me, her expression softening for the first time since the night began.
"You're doing better than you think."
Her hand brushed mine — a small, grounding touch — and for a moment, the fear loosened its grip on my chest.
But then—
A distant clang echoed from the courtyard we'd just escaped.
My breath hitched.
She stiffened instantly.
"He found the gate," she whispered.
My stomach dropped.
"What do we do?"
She took a step closer, her face inches from mine, her voice barely audible.
"We disappear."
Before I could ask what that meant, she reached up and gently cupped the side of my face — her thumb brushing my cheek in a way that felt too familiar, too intimate, too… remembered.
"Stay with me," she whispered. "No matter what you hear."
I swallowed hard. "O‑Okay."
She leaned in, her forehead almost touching mine.
"Good."
Then she took my hand again and pulled me deeper into the shadows.
Behind us, the clang came again — louder this time.
He was getting closer.
And for the first time tonight, I realized something terrifying:
She wasn't just protecting me.
She was hiding me.
From someone who already knew exactly who I was.
We slipped deeper into the narrow service lane, the darkness folding around us like a second skin. Her hand stayed locked around mine — steady, warm, unshakeable — the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
Behind us, the faint echo of footsteps grew sharper.
"He's tracking the sound," she whispered. "We need to stay ahead."
My breath hitched. "How does he even know where we are?"
"He doesn't," she said. "He's guessing. And he's getting too close."
We turned another corner, this one opening into a small, forgotten courtyard between old buildings. A rusted fire escape clung to the wall, and a broken lamp flickered weakly overhead.
She scanned the area quickly, her eyes sharp, calculating.
"This way," she said, guiding me toward the shadow beneath the fire escape.
I stumbled slightly, my legs trembling from fear and exhaustion. She caught me instantly, her arm slipping around my waist to steady me.
"Careful," she murmured.
Her voice was soft — too soft for someone who had just dragged me through the dark. It made my chest tighten in a way I didn't understand.
"I'm trying," I whispered.
"I know." Her fingers brushed my side, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "You're doing better than you think."
Before I could respond, a metallic clang echoed from the alley behind us.
He was close.
Too close.
She pulled me deeper into the shadows, pressing me gently against the wall. Her body shielded mine, her breath warm against my cheek.
"Don't move," she whispered.
I froze.
The footsteps entered the courtyard — slow, heavy, deliberate. Each one sent a jolt of fear through my spine.
She leaned in closer, her lips almost brushing my ear.
"Whatever happens," she whispered, "don't make a sound."
I nodded, barely breathing.
The footsteps stopped.
Right outside the shadows where we hid.
I could see the faint outline of a tall figure through the broken lamp's flicker — just enough to know he was inches away.
My heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
She pressed her hand gently against my chest — not to silence me, but to steady me. Her touch was warm, grounding, familiar in a way that made no sense.
The figure shifted.
For a moment, I thought he would turn toward us.
But then—
A distant siren wailed somewhere in the city.
He paused.
Then slowly, reluctantly, he turned and walked away.
His footsteps faded into the night.
Only when the last echo disappeared did she finally exhale.
"You're safe," she whispered.
My knees buckled, and she caught me before I could fall.
"I can't… I can't do this," I whispered, shaking.
She held me closer, her voice low and steady.
"You can. And you will. Because you're stronger than you think."
I looked up at her, my breath uneven.
"Why are you doing this?" I whispered. "Why risk yourself for me?"
Her expression softened — painfully, beautifully — like she'd been waiting for that question.
"Because," she said quietly, "I've already lost you once."
We moved deeper into the maze of narrow back lanes, the night pressing in around us like a living thing. Her hand stayed locked around mine — firm, warm, unshakeable — the only anchor in a world that suddenly felt unreal.
The footsteps behind us had faded, but the tension in her shoulders hadn't.
"He won't give up," she murmured. "Not after tonight."
My breath hitched. "Why tonight? What changed?"
She slowed, just enough to glance back at me. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, but something flickered there — something like regret.
"You did," she said softly.
I frowned. "I didn't do anything."
"You existed," she whispered.
Before I could ask what that meant, she guided me into another narrow passage — this one even darker, the walls close enough to brush my arms.
The air smelled like old stone and rain.
"Where are we going?" I whispered.
"To a place he can't enter."
"What place?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she stopped walking and turned to face me fully.
The dim light caught her features — sharp, soft, familiar in a way that made my chest tighten.
"You're scared," she said quietly.
"Of course I'm scared," I whispered. "Someone is chasing us. You're saying things I don't understand. And I don't even know your name."
Her expression softened — painfully.
"You used to."
The words hit me like a cold wave.
"I… used to?" I repeated.
She stepped closer, her voice barely above a breath.
"You knew me before all of this. Before you forgot."
My heart pounded. "I don't remember anything like that."
"I know." Her gaze dropped for a moment, like the admission hurt her. "That's why tonight is dangerous. He knows you don't remember. And he's using it."
I swallowed hard. "What did I forget?"
She reached up, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face — a gesture too gentle, too familiar, too intimate for a stranger.
"Everything," she whispered.
A chill ran through me.
"Tell me," I said. "Please. Tell me what I forgot."
She shook her head slowly.
"Not here. Not while he's still close."
A distant clang echoed again — faint, but enough to make her tense.
She took my hand again, her grip firmer than before.
"We're almost there," she said. "Just a little further."
"Where?" I whispered.
She looked at me — really looked — her eyes softening in a way that made my breath catch.
"Somewhere safe," she said. "Somewhere only you and I know."
My heart skipped.
"But I don't remember it."
Her lips curved into the faintest, saddest smile.
"I do."
She pulled me forward, deeper into the shadows.
And for the first time tonight, I realized something terrifying:
She wasn't just leading me somewhere.
She was taking me back to a place I had already been with her before.
The deeper we moved into the hidden backstreets, the more the city around us felt like it was fading — swallowed by shadows, by silence, by something older than fear.
She walked slightly ahead now, still holding my hand, guiding me like she knew every crack in the pavement, every turn, every blind corner. Like she had walked this path a thousand times.
I didn't know where we were anymore.
But she did.
"We're close," she murmured.
"To what?" I whispered.
She didn't answer. Instead, she slowed, her eyes scanning the narrow lane ahead — a dead end, from what I could see. A tall brick wall blocked the way, covered in ivy and old paint.
"There's nothing here," I said, breathless.
"There is," she replied softly. "You just don't remember."
That sentence again. It kept hitting me like a bruise I didn't know I had.
She stepped toward the wall, brushing her fingers along the ivy until she found something — a small metal latch hidden beneath the leaves.
My breath caught.
"You've been here before," she said quietly, glancing back at me. "With me."
My heart thudded painfully.
"I don't remember any of this," I whispered.
Her expression softened — a mix of sadness and something deeper, something that made my chest tighten.
"I know," she said. "But your memory doesn't change the truth."
She pulled the latch.
A soft click echoed through the alley.
The wall shifted — not fully, but enough to reveal a narrow opening, just wide enough for one person to slip through.
A hidden door.
My pulse spiked.
"What is this place?" I whispered.
She stepped aside, letting me see the darkness beyond the opening.
"Sanctuary," she said. "Yours."
"Mine?"
She nodded.
"You trusted this place long before you forgot me."
The words hit me like a cold wind.
"Why did I forget you?" I asked, voice trembling.
She didn't answer immediately. Her eyes lowered, her jaw tightening like she was holding back something heavy.
"It wasn't your fault," she said finally. "And it wasn't mine."
I swallowed hard.
"Then whose fault was it?"
She looked up — and for the first time tonight, I saw fear in her eyes.
"His."
Before I could speak, a distant metallic crash echoed from the alley behind us — louder, closer, unmistakably deliberate.
She grabbed my hand again.
"No more time," she whispered. "Inside. Now."
My heart pounded as I stepped toward the hidden doorway.
But just as I crossed the threshold, she leaned close, her breath brushing my ear, her voice low and trembling with something I couldn't name.
"Please," she whispered, "don't forget me again."
And then she pushed the door shut behind us.
The hidden door clicked shut behind us, sealing out the night — and him.
For a moment, everything went silent.
No footsteps. No buzzing streetlights. No cold wind clawing at my skin.
Just darkness.
And her.
I felt her presence before my eyes adjusted — the warmth of her hand still wrapped around mine, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the faint scent of rain clinging to her coat.
"Don't move," she whispered.
Her voice echoed softly in the narrow space, low and calm, like she'd been here a thousand times.
I swallowed hard. "Where are we?"
"A place no one else knows," she said. "Except you."
"But I don't remember it."
"I know."
My eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light filtering through cracks in the old brick walls. We were standing in a narrow corridor — old, forgotten, hidden between buildings like a secret spine of the city.
She stepped ahead, still holding my hand.
"Come. It's safer deeper inside."
I followed, my footsteps soft against the dusty floor. The corridor opened into a small room — abandoned, but not empty. A single lantern sat on a crate, its warm glow flickering gently.
She lit it with practiced ease.
The room came alive in soft amber light.
Old blankets. A metal thermos. A small first‑aid kit. A cracked mirror leaning against the wall.
It looked like someone had been here recently.
Or often.
I turned to her slowly.
"You've been using this place."
She didn't deny it.
"It's the only place he can't reach."
"Why?"
"Because he doesn't know it exists."
I hesitated. "And how do I know it?"
She looked at me — really looked — her eyes softening with something that made my chest tighten painfully.
"Because you found it first," she said quietly. "And you brought me here."
My breath caught.
"I… did?"
She nodded.
"This was your safe place. Before everything changed."
I stepped back, my pulse racing.
"Why don't I remember any of this? Why don't I remember you?"
Her expression cracked — just for a second — revealing something raw beneath the calm.
"Because he took that from you."
My stomach dropped.
"He took my memories?"
"Not all of them," she whispered. "Just the ones that mattered."
I stared at her, my voice barely a breath.
"And you… you mattered?"
She didn't look away.
"Yes."
The lantern flickered, casting shadows across her face — soft, sad, familiar in a way that made my heart ache.
I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, a faint metallic sound echoed from somewhere outside the hidden door.
She stiffened instantly.
"He found the alley," she whispered.
My pulse spiked.
"Is he coming here?"
"No." She stepped closer, her voice low and steady. "He can't enter this place. But he can wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For you."
My throat tightened.
"Why me? What does he want?"
She reached out, her fingers brushing mine — gentle, grounding, trembling just slightly.
"He wants the part of you he couldn't erase."
"What part is that?"
She leaned in, her voice barely audible.
"The part that remembers me."
My breath caught.
"I don't—"
"You do," she whispered. "Not with your mind. But with your heart."
The lantern flickered again, and for a moment, the room felt too small, too warm, too full of something I couldn't name.
She stepped even closer, her forehead almost touching mine.
"You trusted me once," she said softly. "And you will again."
Outside, the metallic sound echoed once more — closer, sharper, deliberate.
She didn't flinch.
But her next words made my blood run cold.
"He's not leaving tonight."
Her words hung in the dim lantern light like a warning carved into stone.
"He's not leaving tonight."
My breath caught. The room suddenly felt smaller, the shadows deeper, the silence heavier.
I stepped back instinctively, but she caught my wrist — gently, not to restrain me, but to steady me.
"Don't panic," she whispered. "That's what he wants."
"How can I not?" My voice trembled. "He's out there. Waiting. For me."
Her expression softened, and she moved closer, her presence warm and grounding in the cold, hidden room.
"You're safe here," she said. "He can't enter this place. Not unless you open the door."
"I would never—"
"I know." Her thumb brushed my wrist, a small, reassuring gesture that made my chest tighten. "But fear makes people do things they normally wouldn't."
I swallowed hard. "What does he want from me?"
She hesitated — really hesitated — like the truth was a blade she didn't want to hand me.
"He wants the part of you he couldn't erase," she said softly.
My pulse spiked. "You keep saying that. What part?"
She stepped closer, her voice barely above a breath.
"The part that remembers me."
I shook my head. "I don't remember you."
Her eyes softened — sad, warm, familiar.
"Your mind doesn't," she whispered. "But your heart does."
Before I could respond, a faint metallic scrape echoed from outside — the sound of something dragging across stone.
I froze.
She didn't.
She moved instantly, stepping between me and the door, her posture sharp, protective, almost dangerous.
"He's checking the walls," she murmured. "Trying to find the opening."
My stomach dropped.
"What if he does?"
"He won't." Her voice was steady, but her eyes flickered with something darker. "He never found it before."
"Before?" I whispered. "Before what?"
She turned to me slowly, the lantern light catching the edge of her profile — sharp, beautiful, haunting.
"Before you forgot," she said.
My breath hitched.
"What did I forget?" I whispered.
She stepped closer, her face inches from mine, her voice trembling with something she had been holding back all night.
"Everything that matters."
The metallic scrape came again — louder this time.
I flinched.
She didn't.
nstead, she reached out and gently cupped my face, her touch warm and steady.
"Listen to me," she whispered. "He can't get in. He can't touch you. Not here."
"But why is he after me?" I whispered.
Her eyes locked onto mine — dark, intense, full of something I couldn't name.
"Because you're the only one who survived him."
My blood ran cold.
"I survived… what?"
She opened her mouth to answer — but before she could speak, the lantern flickered violently, the flame shrinking to a trembling point.
The metallic scrape outside stopped.
Silence.
Then—
A slow, deliberate knock on the hidden door.
Three times.
Knock.Knock.Knock.
My heart stopped.
She stepped in front of me, her voice low and deadly calm.
"Don't make a sound."
The knock came again — softer this time, almost gentle.
Knock…Knock…Knock.
Then a voice — muffled, distorted, too close.
"I know you're in there."
I clamped a hand over my mouth.
She didn't move.
Not even a breath.
The voice came again, lower, colder.
"Come out… or she comes out alone."
My knees buckled.
She grabbed my hand instantly, her grip fierce, protective, unshakable.
Her voice was a whisper of steel.
"He won't touch you. Not while I'm alive."
The lantern flickered once more — then went out.
Darkness swallowed us whole.
The darkness swallowed everything.
No lantern. No light. No sense of direction.
Just her hand gripping mine — the only warm, real thing left in the world.
Outside, the voice lingered like a stain on the air.
"Come out… or she comes out alone."
My breath hitched. He knew I was here. He knew I wasn't alone. He knew her.
I felt her shift in front of me, her body angled protectively, shielding me even though she couldn't see either.
"Don't listen to him," she whispered, her breath brushing my cheek. "He lies."
"But he knows your voice," I whispered back. "He knows you're with me."
"He always knows," she murmured. "That's why we hide."
The scrape of metal echoed again — slow, deliberate, like he was dragging something across the wall.
I pressed closer to her without meaning to. She didn't pull away. Her hand slid up my arm, steadying me, grounding me.
"You're trembling," she whispered.
"Of course I'm trembling," I breathed. "He's right outside."
Her fingers brushed my jaw, guiding my face toward hers even in the dark.
"You're safe," she said softly. "As long as you stay with me."
A beat of silence passed — heavy, fragile, intimate.
Then the voice came again, closer this time, almost amused.
"You can't hide her forever."
My heart stopped.
She stiffened, her grip tightening around me.
"He's trying to get inside your head," she whispered. "Don't let him."
"How do you know what he's trying to do?" I whispered.
A pause.
Then, quietly:
"Because he did it to you once."
My stomach dropped.
"What did he do to me?"
She didn't answer.
Not because she didn't want to — but because she couldn't.
The silence between us thickened, filled with things unsaid, things forgotten, things stolen.
Outside, the footsteps shifted — slow, circling, patient.
He wasn't leaving.
He was waiting.
"Why is he after me?" I whispered, my voice cracking. "What does he want?"
Her hand slid down to mine again, fingers interlacing with a familiarity that made my chest ache.
"He wants what you took from him," she said softly.
"What did I take?"
Her breath hitched — the first time all night she sounded unsure.
"Me."
The word hung in the darkness like a confession.
Before I could respond, a sudden thud slammed against the hidden door — loud, violent, shaking dust from the ceiling.
I gasped.
She pulled me into her arms, shielding me completely.
"Don't move," she whispered fiercely. "Don't speak. Don't even breathe loud."
Another thud. Then another. The door rattled under the force.
He was trying to break in.
My pulse hammered so hard it hurt.
"Will the door hold?" I whispered.
She didn't answer immediately.
Then, quietly — too quietly:
"I hope so."
Another slam shook the room.
I clung to her, my fingers digging into her coat.
"What if he gets in?" I whispered.
She leaned close, her lips near my ear, her voice trembling with something raw and real.
"If he gets in," she whispered, "I'll make sure he never touches you again. Even if it kills me."
The door shook violently.
The lantern flickered back to life for a split second — just long enough for me to see her face.
Fear. Determination. And something else.
Something that looked a lot like love.
Then the light died again.
And the chapter teetered on the edge of something irreversible.
The darkness pressed in from all sides, thick and suffocating. I could hear nothing except my own heartbeat — frantic, uneven — and her breathing, steady but tense, like she was holding the night together by sheer will.
Another slam hit the hidden door.
Dust rained from the ceiling.
I flinched, but she didn't. She stood in front of me like a wall — small, quiet, unmovable.
"He can't get in," she whispered, though her voice trembled at the edges. "He shouldn't be able to."
"Shouldn't?" I breathed.
She didn't answer.
Another slam. This one harder. The metal groaned under the force.
My fingers dug into her coat.
"What if he breaks it?" I whispered.
She leaned closer, her forehead brushing mine in the dark — a gesture so intimate it made my breath catch even through the fear.
"Then I'll stop him," she said softly. "No matter what it costs."
My chest tightened painfully.
"Why?" I whispered. "Why would you risk your life for me?"
Her breath hitched — the first crack in her calm.
"Because I already lost you once," she whispered. "I won't lose you again."
Before I could respond, the door rattled violently — not from force this time, but from something else.
A click.
A lock shifting.
My blood froze.
"He found it," she breathed. "He found the mechanism."
"How?" I whispered, panic rising like fire in my throat.
"He shouldn't know it exists," she said, voice shaking now. "He shouldn't—"
Another click.
The hidden door creaked, just slightly — but enough to let a sliver of cold air slip inside.
She grabbed my shoulders, pushing me back behind her.
"Stay behind me," she whispered. "No matter what happens."
The door inched open.
Just a crack.
Enough for a shadow to spill into the room.
A silhouette. Tall. Still. Watching.
I couldn't breathe.
She stepped forward, blocking me completely.
"You're not taking her," she said — her voice low, steady, deadly.
The shadow didn't move.
Then a voice — cold, distorted, too close.
"You can't protect what doesn't remember you."
Her breath caught.
My heart stopped.
The shadow leaned closer to the crack in the door.
"Come here," the voice whispered. "You know me."
I shook my head violently, tears burning my eyes.
"No," I whispered. "I don't."
But the voice only chuckled — soft, chilling.
"You did."
The door creaked wider.
She grabbed my hand — fierce, desperate — and pulled me back.
"Don't listen to him," she whispered. "Don't move. Don't answer. Don't—"
The voice cut her off.
"Tell her the truth."
She froze.
My breath hitched.
"What truth?" I whispered.
Silence.
Then the voice spoke again — slow, deliberate, cruel.
"Tell her who she used to be."
Her grip on my hand tightened painfully.
"Away from the door," she whispered. "Now."
But I couldn't move.
My legs wouldn't obey.
"Who was I?" I whispered, my voice breaking.
She turned toward me — and even in the darkness, I could feel the weight of her gaze.
"A different version of you," she said softly. "One he wants back."
The shadow shifted.
The voice sharpened.
"Tell her what she was to you."
Her breath caught.
My heart pounded.
"What was I?" I whispered.
She opened her mouth — hesitated — then whispered the words that shattered the night.
"You were mine."
The door slammed open.
Darkness rushed in.
The door slammed open.
A rush of cold air tore through the hidden room, snuffing out whatever warmth the lantern had left behind. I stumbled backward, but she caught me instantly, her arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me behind her like a shield.
The shadow stepped inside.
Not fully — just enough for the darkness to take shape. Tall. Still. Wrong.
I couldn't see his face. I didn't want to.
But I felt his presence — heavy, suffocating, familiar in a way that made my skin crawl.
She stood between us, her stance sharp, protective, almost feral.
"Step back," she said, her voice low and steady. "You're not taking her."
The shadow tilted its head, amused.
"You said that last time."
Her breath hitched — barely, but I felt it.
Last time.
My heart pounded.
"What does he mean?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
She didn't answer.
The shadow took one slow step forward.
The floor creaked under his weight.
"She doesn't remember you," he said. "She doesn't remember anything."
My chest tightened painfully.
He was right. I didn't remember him. I didn't remember her. I didn't remember me.
But something inside me — something buried deep — recoiled at his voice.
She stepped forward, blocking me completely.
"You erased her memories," she said, her voice shaking with anger she'd been holding back all night. "You took everything from her."
"Not everything," he replied. "She still feels the pull."
My breath caught.
The pull.
The strange familiarity. The warmth in her touch. The ache in my chest when she said she'd lost me once.
I didn't understand it — but I felt it.
He took another step.
She grabbed my hand behind her back, squeezing it hard — a silent plea.
"Don't listen to him," she whispered. "Don't move."
But the shadow wasn't talking to her anymore.
He was talking to me.
"You came with her," he said softly. "But you belong with me."
My knees buckled.
"No," she snapped. "She doesn't."
He ignored her.
"Tell me," he whispered, "why did you forget her… but not me?"
The room spun.
I shook my head violently. "I don't know you!"
He chuckled — low, cold, familiar.
"Your heart does."
Something inside me cracked.
A memory — faint, blurred, like a reflection in broken glass — flickered at the edge of my mind.
A hand. A voice. A scream.
I gasped, clutching my head.
She spun around instantly, grabbing my shoulders.
"Don't look at him," she whispered fiercely. "Look at me."
I tried.
I really tried.
But the shadow stepped closer, and the memory sharpened.
A dark room. A locked door. A hand dragging me back.
I choked on a sob.
"I… I remember something," I whispered.
Her face went pale.
"What do you remember?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Before I could answer, the shadow spoke again — soft, triumphant.
"She remembers me."
She snapped.
"NO!"
She lunged forward, slamming the hidden door shut with all her strength. The impact shook dust from the ceiling. The lock clicked back into place.
Silence.
Then—
A single whisper from the other side:
"I'll wait."
She backed away from the door, breathing hard, her hands shaking.
I stared at her, my heart racing.
"What was that?" I whispered. "Who is he? What did he do to me?"
She looked at me — really looked — her eyes full of fear, guilt, and something deeper.
Something that hurt to see.
"He's the reason you forgot," she said softly. "And the reason I found you again."
My throat tightened.
"Why me?" I whispered.
She stepped closer, her voice breaking.
"Because you weren't supposed to survive him."
The lantern flickered back to life for a heartbeat — just long enough to illuminate her face.
Tears in her eyes. Blood on her sleeve. And a truth she could no longer hide.
"You were mine," she whispered. "And he wants you back."
The lantern died.