Chapter 5
I don't sleep.
I lie in my bed and listen to the city pretend nothing happened.
Sirens wail three streets over. Somewhere, glass shatters. The building hums with electricity and old pipes and the sound of other people living normal lives.
Mine doesn't feel normal anymore.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him standing in my doorway—dark coat, calm eyes, gravity bending around him like the world is leaning in to listen.
Blackfall.
I say it silently, testing the shape of it in my head.
It doesn't feel like a name.
It feels like a warning.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Unknown Number.
I stare at it for a long second before picking it up.
UNKNOWN: Did you lock your windows?
My breath catches.
I sit up, heart hammering.
ME: Yes.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then:
UNKNOWN: Good.
UNKNOWN: Don't answer the door for anyone.
UNKNOWN: Not even heroes.
I type before I can overthink it.
ME: Are you watching my building?
A pause.
Longer this time.
UNKNOWN: I'm nearby.
That shouldn't make me feel safe.
It does.
I press the phone to my chest and let myself breathe for the first time since he left.
Morning comes too fast.
The city looks the same in daylight, which feels like a lie. Ashfall is good at pretending—sunlight on glass towers, people jogging with earbuds in, coffee shops opening like routine is a promise.
I move through it carefully, like everything might break if I touch it wrong.
At work, everyone's talking.
Not about him.
About villains.
"Did you hear about the Registry incident last night?"
"I swear my cousin saw Blackfall once. Whole street went sideways."
"They say he doesn't kill unless you give him a reason."
I keep my head down, hands steady on the espresso machine. Steam hisses. Cups clink. Normal sounds.
But every word feels aimed at me.
At lunch, a man sits across from me without asking.
Hero.
I recognize the posture immediately—the confidence, the public smile sharpened just enough to feel like a warning. His implant glints at his temple.
"Elara Finch," he says pleasantly. "Mind if we talk?"
My stomach drops.
"I'm on break," I say carefully.
"So am I."
He leans back like this is casual, like he isn't cataloging every micro-expression on my face.
"You were approached by Registry agents last night."
"That's not a question."
"No," he agrees. "It's an opportunity."
I say nothing.
"They're concerned about your proximity to certain... influences."
I meet his eyes. "You mean Blackfall."
His smile tightens. "I mean a known threat to public safety."
"You mean someone who stopped them from dragging me away."
That surprises him.
Just for a second.
"You don't know what he is," the hero says. "What he's done."
"Neither do you," I reply.
His voice lowers. "We can protect you."
The word we feels heavy.
"I didn't ask for protection," I say.
He studies me, then nods slowly. "If you change your mind, you'll find us very cooperative."
He stands.
"Be careful who you trust," he adds lightly. "Villains don't fall in love. They fixate."
My hands shake after he leaves.
I walk home instead of taking the train.
I don't know why—maybe I want space to think, or maybe I want to see if I'm being followed.
Halfway down my street, the air changes.
Pressure.
Not heavy—focused.
I stop.
He's there.
Across the road, half-hidden in shadow, like the night itself decided to take a human shape.
Blackfall.
My heart stutters.
He doesn't move closer.
Doesn't speak.
He just watches me, like he's making sure I'm real.
"You shouldn't be here," I say softly.
"I know," he replies.
Same words as before.
Different weight.
I cross the street before I can stop myself.
Up close, he feels... quieter. Like the world dims around him. I'm suddenly aware of how close we are—too close for a stranger, too close for safety.
"You talked to a hero today," he says.
I blink. "How did you—"
"I know."
There's no accusation in his voice. Just fact.
"He warned me about you," I admit.
A corner of his mouth lifts. Not amused. Not angry.
"Did he threaten you?"
"No."
"Good."
The way he says it makes my breath catch.
"You can't keep watching me," I say. "People will notice."
"They already have."
He steps closer—not enough to touch, just enough that the space between us feels charged. My back brushes the brick wall of the building behind me.
I didn't realize how far I'd backed up.
His voice drops.
"You should be angry with me."
"I know," I whisper.
"Scared."
"I know."
He tilts his head slightly, studying my face like I'm a puzzle he doesn't want to solve too fast.
"Then why aren't you?" he asks.
I swallow.
"Because when you're near," I say slowly, "everything else gets quieter."
Something flickers in his eyes.
Not triumph.
Relief.
He braces one hand against the wall beside me—not trapping me, not touching me—just close enough that I feel the heat of him, the careful control in the way he holds himself back.
My pulse races.
"You don't understand what you're inviting," he says softly, breath brushing my ear. "If I get closer, I won't pretend this is coincidence anymore."
My hands curl into my jacket.
"Then don't pretend," I whisper.
The silence between us stretches—tight, fragile, electric.
For one terrifying second, I think he might kiss me.
Instead, he pulls back.
Just enough to breathe.
"That's exactly why I have to leave," he says.
He steps away, pressure easing, the night rushing back in.
"But you'll come back," I say.
It's not a question.
His gaze locks onto mine.
"Yes," he says. "And when I do... you won't be able to pretend either."
Then he's gone.
The street feels colder without him.
I stand there long after, hand pressed to my throat, feeling the echo of his presence like gravity that hasn't realized it's been let go.
I don't plan on seeing him again that night.
That's the lie I tell myself as I lock my door and lean my forehead against it, heart still racing like I've run miles instead of crossed a street.
I replay everything.
The way he stood too close without touching me.
The way the world seemed to hold its breath when he was near.
The way the hero's warning still echoes in my head.
Villains don't fall in love. They fixate.
I press my fingers into my palm until the thought fades.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown Number.
UNKNOWN: They escalated.
I don't ask who they are.
ME: I felt it.
A pause.
UNKNOWN: You shouldn't leave your apartment tonight.
I hesitate, then type what's been sitting heavy in my chest all evening.
ME: You're already here, aren't you?
This time, there's no reply.
The air changes instead.
It's subtle—pressure shifting, sound dulling, the city's background noise dropping like someone turned down the volume of the world.
I turn.
He's standing just inside my apartment, shadows clinging to him like they belong there.
I gasp softly. "You can't just—"
"I know," he says.
Same words.
Different meaning.
"You said not to open the door," I whisper.
"I didn't come through it."
That shouldn't be attractive.
It is.
I cross my arms, more to steady myself than to create distance. "You're going to get me in trouble."
His gaze flicks over me—quick, assessing, protective.
"They already marked you," he says. "I'm just deciding how much that matters."
I swallow. "You can't fight the whole system."
"I don't fight systems," he replies calmly. "I remove leverage."
I take a step closer before I realize what I'm doing.
"So what am I?" I ask. "Leverage?"
His jaw tightens.
"No."
The word is immediate. Certain.
I exhale.
"Then what?"
He studies me for a long moment, like he's weighing something he doesn't want to admit he wants.
"You're a variable," he says finally. "One they can't predict."
"That sounds dangerous."
His mouth curves slightly. "For them."
I shake my head, half-laughing, half-terrified. "You really are impossible."
I hesitate, then say the name that feels safest. The one everyone knows.
"Blackfall."
He stills.
Completely.
The room feels smaller.
Not hostile.
Focused.
He steps toward me slowly, deliberately, until my back brushes the kitchen counter. He doesn't touch me. Doesn't cage me.
He leans in just enough that his breath ghosts the shell of my ear when he speaks.
"I told you," he murmurs, voice low, controlled, intimate,
"that isn't my name."
My pulse stutters.
"Then what is?" I whisper.
His lips hover close—so close I forget to breathe. I'm painfully aware of every inch of space between us, of how carefully he's holding himself back.
"Kael," he says.
The name settles into me like a secret I wasn't supposed to be trusted with.
My fingers curl against the edge of the counter.
"Only you," he adds quietly, "get to know it."
I don't say it.
Not yet.
But I want to.
The silence stretches—charged, fragile, heavy with everything neither of us is saying.
Finally, he straightens, stepping back like distance is an act of discipline.
"You should sleep," he says. "Tomorrow will be louder."
"And you?" I ask.
His eyes meet mine.
"I'll still be close," he says. "Whether you want me to be or not."
Something in my chest tightens.
"I don't mind," I admit.
For the first time, something like a smile crosses his face.
Then the pressure lifts.
The room feels empty again.
But the echo of his presence stays—right there, just under my skin.
I slide down against the counter, hand pressed to my chest, whispering the name silently to myself.
Kael.
And knowing—deep down—that once I say it out loud...
There will be no going back.