(Lyn's POV)
The nights in the Lawrence estate were too long.
Back in my first world, I had grown used to short, restless sleep. My body had adapted to the noise of traffic outside dorm windows, the occasional bang of a slammed door, and the dull hum of vending machines. Even nightmares had their rhythm—jolting me awake, then letting me collapse again until the alarm rang.
Here, there was no such mercy. The estate was silent, the kind of silence that made you aware of your own heartbeat. The bed was too soft, the sheets too heavy, the room too large. And worse than all of it—the air itself felt alive. Watched.
That night, I tossed, turned, and finally slipped into a shallow sleep.
And the river was waiting.
In the dream, I stood at its edge. Not the familiar concrete embankment from my world, but an endless black current cutting through the earth. The water gleamed like glass under a moon that looked too close, too bright.
I leaned forward, heart pounding, because I already knew what I would see. My reflection rippled on the surface—but I wasn't alone.
The hooded figure stood beside me, their outline blurred. I couldn't see their face, but I recognized the shape of their smile. Crooked. Patient. Certain.
I reached out, desperate to pull back the hood. My fingers brushed the water instead. The surface broke, shattering the reflection, distorting both faces until nothing remained.
And then a voice echoed from beneath the current. Not Michael's, not Adrian's, not mine. Something older.
"The day you forget, I'll remind you. The day you ask, I'll let you go."
The promise rang like a bell inside my chest.
I gasped and jerked awake, my hands clutching the sheets.
The curtains swayed though the windows were closed. The chandelier glittered faintly in the dark. And outside, the balcony's wind chime sang.
Wrong. Off-key. A sound that didn't belong.
I pressed my palm over the locket at my throat, fingers trembling.
"Not real," I whispered. "It was just a dream. Just a dream."
But it didn't feel like a dream. It felt like a warning.
The hooded smile burned behind my eyes.
I pushed the covers aside and stood, bare feet brushing against the cold marble. The room felt too large, the shadows too thick. I hugged myself, staring at the mirror. My reflection stared back, pale and shaken, hair tangled from restless sleep.
And then I heard footsteps.
Steady. Measured. Familiar.
The door opened without a knock.
Michael entered like a storm disguised in human form. He never needed to announce himself—the air announced him. His presence pressed down, filling every corner of the room.
He was half-dressed down from the day: tie gone, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, jacket discarded. For anyone else it would have looked casual. For him, it looked like danger trying to relax.
"You were restless," he said.
"I was asleep," I lied, too quickly.
His eyes studied me in the dim light. He didn't need to argue; he simply looked, and I felt the lie crumble. "The house shifts when you are uneasy," he said.
And he was right. I had noticed it before—how the staff moved sharper, how Rosa's heels clicked faster, how the guards doubled their patrols. The estate itself bent to his awareness of me.
Michael stepped closer, his shadow spilling across the bed. He touched the headboard lightly with one hand, not me but close enough to remind me that he could.
"What did you see?" His voice was low, quiet, dangerous in its softness.
"Nothing," I whispered.
"Lyn."
The way he said my name left me no room to hide.
"The river," I admitted. "And the hooded figure."
His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he would break the wood beneath his hand. "What did they do?"
"They just… smiled." My voice shook. "Like they knew something I didn't."
Michael's eyes darkened, storm breaking just beneath the surface. "They don't matter."
"They do to me," I snapped, more harshly than I meant to. "If they're the one who pushed me, if they're the reason I ended up here—then they matter."
Michael leaned closer. His shadow swallowed me. "Do you regret being here?"
The question punched straight through me.
"No," I whispered. And it was true, despite the fear. Despite the confusion. Despite him.
But the truth that followed clawed out of me before I could stop it.
"I regret not knowing why."
Silence stretched between us.
Then Michael reached into his pocket and placed something on the nightstand.
The fountain charm.
I stared at it. Its small surface caught the lamplight, glowing faintly, as if it remembered a promise I had almost forgotten.
"You keep seeing ghosts because you look behind you," Michael said softly. "Look forward instead. I'll be there."
My throat tightened. "And if the ghosts catch up?"
His voice was steady, terrifying in its certainty. "Then I'll destroy them."
A shiver ran through me. Not because I doubted him—but because I wasn't sure if I wanted the ghosts destroyed, or remembered.
He left as quietly as he entered, the door closing with a soft click.
I sat in the dark, clutching the locket and staring at the charm. Two promises. Two weights.
I pressed the charm into my palm until it hurt. Then, restless, I walked to the balcony.
The night air was cool, brushing my skin like unseen fingers. The city stretched out below, glittering with lights that pretended nothing was wrong. Beyond it, the river wound silver through the darkness, calm on the surface, hiding currents beneath.
It looked peaceful from here. But I remembered the water in my lungs, the hooded smile pulling me under.
"Which promise do I trust?" I whispered.
The wind chime rattled, wrong again.
I went back inside, curling under the sheets. Sleep didn't come, but memories did.
Flashes of vending machines humming. A fountain swallowing coins. Adrian's crooked smile. Michael's storm-dark eyes.
Two worlds colliding in my chest.
When I finally drifted off, the dream returned. I stood at the river again. This time, there were two reflections in the water—one with a crooked smile, one with storm-dark eyes—watching me. Waiting for me to choose.
And I woke knowing that choice was coming.