I kill the engine only a few blocks later, nerves too raw to sit still behind glass and steel. The steering wheel burns under my grip, and I can’t shake the thought of being trapped in another cage. I slam the door, gravel crunching under my boots, and keep going on foot.
The garden looms on either side of the path, heavy with silence, vines curling like nooses around old stone. The air smells like moss and endings.
I don’t run, refusing to give him that. I walk the winding path, past the statues with screaming mouths. Past the wrought iron gate that clicks shut behind me like a verdict. Like the end of something I didn’t agree to begin. My legs carry me forward, block after block, until the mansion and its shadows are swallowed behind me. I keep walking through neighborhoods that blur into each other, not caring where I end up, just moving. Like if I stop, whatever’s crawling under my skin will catch up.
I wind up downtown, near the clubs, where the lights are loud and drunk laughter pours out of bars in waves. It's so normal here it makes my teeth itch. Only then do I realize I’m shaking. My hands, my breath, my core…they won’t settle. That blade in the glass case wasn’t just familiar.
It was mine. I drew it. Weeks ago. Months maybe.
Before the stranger in the bar. Before the envelope. Before any of this spiraled into obsession and darkness,I drew it, and tonight I saw it in real life, under glass, on display in his collection.
I stop walking and lean hard against a building, chest heaving. Did I see it before, somewhere deep on the internet? Copy it by accident? Am I losing my mind, or is he in my head? Is that what this is?
I pull out my phone. No new texts. No missed calls. No shitty memes from coworkers. Not a single sign that reality still exists. I call a rideshare, and when the driver pulls up, I slide into the backseat and say nothing. I stare out the window and try to glue my sanity back together; every red light blurs, and I swear every person on the street looks like they’re watching me. I tip too much and slam the door behind me harder than necessary.
The second I’m in my apartment, I lock the door, deadbolt it, and slide the chain in place for extra measure. Not that any of that will do a damn thing if he wants back in here. I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t want to see myself. Don’t want the shadows to move wrong. I go straight to the bedroom and yank the sketchbook from under my pillow; graphite dust is already smeared on my hands. The paper feels heavier than it should. Or maybethat’s me. Dropping onto the couch, I drag my legs up and flip it open. The blade is still here, but it’s different. Sharper. The linework is deeper. There’s a nick in the hilt just like I saw in the glass case. That wasn’t there before. I never added that, did I?
I keep flipping through the pages, and the sketches greet me like ghosts. Hands reaching through the fire. A woman with a jagged crown, mouth stretched in a silent scream. A man standing in a field of ash, coat billowing behind him in the smoke. Their eyes all stare at me, hollow, accusing, familiar. Like they’re waiting for something. Like I’m the thing they’re waiting for. There are faces I don’t consciously recognize but know deep in my bones. Expressions twisted. Mouths too wide. Ribs exposed like cages. One figure with ink bleeding from his sockets, hands clutching his own heart like he’s trying to rip it out.
The pages pulse with tension, as if they’ve soaked in something more than charcoal…something alive.
I stop cold.
A hallway. Black floors. Plaster walls. Illuminated glass cases filled with relics of war. The exact one I walkedthrough tonight. Drawn in detail days, maybe weeks, before I ever set foot in Riven’s mansion. I don’t remember sketching any of this. I didn’t tear the pages out. I didn’t scribble over the faces. I think some part of me knew. Even then.
My hands go numb. I stare at the page until the lines blur, until the blood roars in my ears. Then I tear it out and throw it across the room. It lands as if it were simply just a regular piece of paper. I want to destroy it. The whole book. Burn it. Rip it page by page. My hands won’t move. I press my forehead to my knees, trying to breathe.
How long has he been watching me?
How long have I been seeing him without knowing?
How deep does this go?
I sit there in the dark with the sketchbook in my lap, and the fear crawling up my spine like a second skin.
He’s in my head. Or I’m in his. I don’t know which one is worse.
I lose track of time sitting on the floor. I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I just…sit. My fingers stay curled around the sketchbook like it’s a weapon. Or a leash. The paper cuts and graphite smears across my palms like bruises that haven’t bloomed yet. Eventually, I get up. Moving on muscle memory.
Kitchen. Tap. Water.
I drink like I’ve been crawling through the desert, but it doesn’t help. My mouth still tastes like ash and iron. The apartment hums around me. Fridge motor grinding. Plumbing pipes shifting. Distant traffic. All of it sounds wrong. Slanted. Out of step.
I don’t trust sleep, I haven’t for a while. Exhaustion drags at me like chains. I crawl into bed without bothering to change. The sketchbook comes with me. I tuck it under my pillow, again, like a fool. Like paper and ink will save me. I leave the lamp on, telling myself it helps. The shadows on the ceiling still move. And eventually…I sleep.
It starts like the others. Darkness. Then heat. A hallway I know but shouldn’t. Glass cases lit like altars. Weapons humming. Fire flickering. The sound of war rises like a heartbeat. Then…hands. On my hips. My throat. My waist. Possessive. Familiar. A voice I’ve never heard but somehow recognize curls against my ear like smoke, “There you are.” I try to turn, but I’m pinned. A mouth brushes the curve of my neck. Teeth graze my skin…testing…tasting. My pulse goes wild, and the air around me vibrates. My body arches into the touch like it remembers this. Like it’s been waiting for it. The voice again. “I’m not the one you should fear…but I will be.” The fire grows brighter, closer.
I see the blade again, held in a hand that doesn’t shake, pointed straight at me. I know, somehow, I’m the one who drew it. I wake up gasping. My sheets are soaked with sweat, and the lamp is still on. My sketchbook is on the floor, open to a page that wasn’t there before. A new drawing.
The blade again, but this time, it’s being held by a figure in shadow. No face. No eyes. Just a silhouette outlined in gold and fire, with a name scrawled underneath in frantic jagged strokes:
VESCARI
I didn’t write that. I know I didn’t.
The pen I use for notes is uncapped on the nightstand. Fresh ink bleeding into the wood. My heart jackhammers.I scramble for the book and slam it shut, like that’ll trap whatever’s trying to get out.
This isn’t normal.
