The room was quiet—too quiet.
Kyra sat cross-legged on her narrow bed, the soft hum of the ceiling fan the only sound keeping her company. The sketchbook rested in her lap, open to a page still half-blank. A stub of a pencil twitched between her fingers.
She should've been tired. She was tired. But her hand wouldn't stop moving.
Each line came faster now, almost frantic—her wrist guided by something unseen. The pencil scratched across the page, shaping shadows, forming a face.
That woman again.
The same one from her dreams.
Blue hair swept back in a tangled mess. A wild, fierce stare. Blood smeared across her cheek like war paint. She looked exactly like Kyra—but older, battle-worn. Like she had survived something no one should've.
Kyra stared at the finished sketch.
Something about the woman's eyes always haunted her. They looked right through her—like they knew things Kyra didn't even know about herself.
Then the whispers started.
Faint at first. Like static. Like breathing.
Her hand froze over the page.
"…it's coming…"
She blinked, eyes scanning the room.
"…wake up, Kyra…"
Her breath caught in her throat.
No one was there.
"…she's watching you…"
The words sent ice down her spine.
She slammed the sketchbook shut, clutching it to her chest. Her heartbeat was a war drum inside her ribs.
Then—
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
She nearly screamed.
"Ky!!!!! It's me"
Kyla.
Kyra exhaled shakily and stood, forcing her body to relax. She unlocked the door and stepped aside.
And there she was—Kyla Drew, glowing as always. Her curls bounced around her shoulders like they had their own agenda, and her smile was the kind that could make even a funeral feel like a vacation. She held a box of takeout in one hand and a bottle of cheap wine in the other.
"Still breathing, I see," Kyla said with a smirk as she walked in. "I was beginning to think your crazy ass finally ran off into the woods to become one with nature."
Kyra offered a weak smile. "Not yet. The forest rejected me."
They sat together on the bed, eating noodles straight from the box. Kyla's energy filled the small room, warm and alive. For a moment, Kyra forgot the whispers. The dreams. Everything.
But not for long.
Kyla paused mid-bite, eyeing her. "You're quiet."
"I'm always quiet."
"You're extra quiet. What's going on?"
Kyra hesitated. "I had the dream again."
Kyla rolled her eyes. "The same warrior-woman-with-your-face dream?"
Kyra nodded.
"Okay, I'm officially putting this on record: you're either the reincarnation of some long-dead badass queen, or your brain needs a full system reboot."
Kyra didn't laugh. Her fingers tightened around her fork.
Kyla noticed. Her tone softened. "Hey. Jokes aside… are you okay?"
Kyra looked down. "It's just… getting worse. Louder. More vivid."
"Louder?"
Kyra didn't answer.
Kyla set her box aside and grabbed Kyra's hand. "You don't have to stay here, you know. You don't owe him anything. My place is still open. Always."
Kyra swallowed. "He's still my father."
"He's not a father, Kyra."
"I just…" Kyra's voice cracked slightly. "I don't want to lose him. He's the only family I have left."
Kyla leaned back, exhaling. "No. You have me. I've been here. I'll stay here. But I can't keep watching you drown and pretending you're okay."
Silence stretched between them like a scar.
Finally, Kyra pulled her hand back gently. "I'm fine. Really."
Kyla didn't believe her, but she let it go. She always did.
They talked about lighter things until the food was gone and the wine was half-finished. Kyla stood and kissed the top of Kyra's head before heading out.
"Call me if the dreams start turning into a Marvel origin story," she joked from the hallway.
Kyra smiled faintly. "Sure."
When the door clicked shut, the silence returned.
She laid on her bed, the room dim now. The sketchbook peeked out from under her pillow.
She didn't touch it.
The whispers returned.
But this time, they weren't random.
They were focused. Intentional.
Crystal clear.
> "He knows what you are."
Her eyes snapped open. The breath froze in her lungs.
She sat up, chest tight.
Then—
A creak outside the door.
She tiptoed toward it, pressing her ear against the wood.
Nothing.
She waited, barely breathing.
And then… she felt it.
Someone was there.
On the other side.
Listening.