James sank to his knees as smoke swallowed the sky, the color of it an angry crimson, like the world itself was bleeding. The house before him—her house—collapsed in slow motion, boards shrieking and crumbling as if mourning their own destruction.
His chest caved with a ragged sob, the kind that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his lungs, deeper even than his body. Everything around him blurred—faces, sirens, flames—until all that remained was the ash.
He should have looked away. Should have closed his eyes.
But he didn't. He couldn't.
The paramedics moved solemnly through the smoke, their silhouettes stark against the firelit haze. The stretchers were draped in white sheets—too still, too final. He counted them without meaning to.
One... two... three.
Jason didn't flinch. His heart was hollowed out, like something had been carved from within him with a hot blade.
It should've been him.
Not Selena.
"No," he whispered hoarsely, his voice splintering. "No, it can't be."
He stumbled backward, eyes wide, brain refusing to bridge the gap between what he saw and what he believed. Reality came in slow waves, each one more unbearable than the last. And then he was moving—sprinting toward the stretchers with a desperate, raw urgency. A rescuer with no one left to save.
"Selena," he choked, reaching trembling hands toward the nearest form.
The heat of the fire still lingered in the air, as if the world itself was scorched. He lifted the sheet with shaking fingers. What stared back at him was no longer her face—just blackened skin, unrecognizable. His mind rejected it. It can't be her. It isn't.
Until he saw the bracelet.
A delicate silver chain with a tiny sapphire charm. A gift from her twelfth birthday. She'd never taken it off.
His breath caught. A sound escaped him—guttural, broken.
It was her.
A scream built in his throat but never made it out. Just silence. Just pain.
A figure approached from the smoke—his housekeeper. She rushed to his side, her face pale with fear and recognition. Without speaking, she knelt beside him and pulled him into her arms, wrapping him in warmth he couldn't feel. He pressed his hands over his eyes, trying to block out the image, as if darkness alone could erase it.
She held him as he trembled, as the world cracked open beneath him.
But then something snapped.
James pulled away, breath hitching, stumbling to his feet like a man possessed. "No—there's something—I have to—"
He bolted toward the remains of the house, ignoring the shouts behind him. His legs moved on instinct, driven by a single, desperate purpose.
There has to be something left.
The flames had quieted, but the wreckage still smoked. He waded through the rubble, coughing, shielding his face from the heat. And then—half-buried under a scorched beam—he found it.
A photo album.
Blackened at the edges, brittle and wet with soot. He pried it free with shaking hands. Inside, the pages clung to each other, charred and torn. Some photographs were already lost—just outlines and ash. But a few had survived. Selena's smile. Her messy handwriting on the corner of a Polaroid. One picture of the two of them, arms slung around each other, grinning like fools.
James collapsed to his knees again, cradling the album like it was sacred.
In the ruins of everything, this was all that remained of her.
And still… it wasn't enough.
Chapter 2
6 Years Later
Today's the day. The day I finally leave behind the gold-plated prison of my parents' mansion. No more being shadowed by staff like I'm some rare antique. No more dinners that feel like interviews.
I get to live freely. Independently. Even if it means sharing a space with someone I've never met. A stranger. That word used to scare me. Now, it feels like the price of freedom and maybe the thrill of it too.
The elevator hums under my feet, lifting me toward the unknown. My fingers tighten around the key in my palm. It's not just a key to a new apartment. It's a key to a new version of me—one who doesn't need her parents' world. One who can breathe.
A whisper of doubt brushes my mind. What if I'm not ready? What if independence is just a prettier word for isolation?
Ding.
Too late now.
The elevator doors slide open, and I step into a hallway lined with silence and numbered doors. It smells like fresh paint and possibility. I find mine. The number on the door matches the one in my welcome packet.
"Thank God it's not at the end of the hall," I mumble, brushing my hand over the cool doorknob.
Click.
"It's… unlocked?" I whisper to myself, my nerves prickling. "Shit," I mutter under my breath. The door creaks open. My heart stutters and then roars to life all at once.
Standing there in the center of the living room, lit by the lazy afternoon sun slanting through the windows like a stage spotlight, is a guy. Not just a guy an unreal one. Tall. Broad shoulders. Golden skin like he's made of sunlight and secrets. His ripped black jeans hang low on his hips, and he's shirtless of course he is. His chest is lean but sculpted, every muscle defined like art. And his eyes God, his eyes are electric blue. Not just blue. Charged. Piercing. Like lightning had kissed them once and left its mark.
My breath stumbles.
Then, as if waking from a trance, I force my gaze to the floor. "Who are you?" I manage, pretending I wasn't just mentally undressing him with my eyes.
"I should be asking you the same question," he replies, walking toward me with a sudden burst of energy that makes me blink. His mood shift is almost comical.
"So… you're my roommate then?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
He nods enthusiastically. "Yes, I am. Mrs. Votterello."
That takes me by surprise. "How do you know my last name?"
"I did a background check on you," he says casually.
I laugh, despite myself. "Seriously? Why?"
"To make sure my rich roommate isn't a serial killer," he says with a wink.
"Well, in that case," I smirk, "I guess we're both serial killers."
He grins. "Then I guess I'll have to kill you first," he says lightly—and then, like something out of a dream, he walks past me and… vanishes.
I blink, trying to collect myself. He could have at least told me which room was mine—or that he was stepping out. A little communication wouldn't kill him.
I pull out my phone and press the call button.
"Hey, Mom," I say with a grin.
"Hey, sweetie! Did you meet your new roommate? Is she friendly?"
"You mean him, Mom?" I reply with mock sarcasm.
"What the—" I hear Dad swear in the background.
"Mom, you didn't tell me Dad was home," I laugh.
"Oh, sweetheart, he's been sulking all day waiting for you," she says dramatically. I can almost see her clutching her imaginary pearls.
Then, out of nowhere:
"Marie, I'm back."
I spin around. There he is again. Clothed this time. Barely. A gray hoodie unzipped halfway, still no shirt underneath, and two pizza boxes in his hands like some Greek god of carbs.
"I'll call you later, Mom," I say, ending the call quickly.
"You're already plotting my death, aren't you?" he teases, setting the boxes on the table.
I sigh and tilt my head back dramatically. "I thought you'd disappeared for good."
He chuckles, flopping onto the couch and devouring a slice of pizza with an embarrassing food moan that sends goosebumps up my spine. I try not to let him see the effect it has on me.
His stuff's still in the hallway—completely unpacked. That means I get first pick of the rooms. Why didn't I think of this sooner?
Grabbing my suitcase like a girl possessed, I bolt down the hallway.
He laughs through a mouthful of pizza. "Didn't know rich girls ran like that."
I open a door and toss my stuff in, claiming the room.
"You can pick whichever one you want," he calls. "That's why I didn't unpack yet."
I peek out. "You planning to lure me into a trap?"
He coughs violently on his pizza. "Damn, Marie. You really are a witch."
Rolling my eyes, I shoot him a look of mock offense. "Once you finish stuffing your face, come help me eat the last of that pizza."
"That food moan was almost a declaration of war," I add under my breath, smirking.
He grins. "Your traps don't work on me, Marie."
"No, you're just trying to kill me with food poisoning."
_______________
I settle onto the edge of my new bed, glancing at my phone. My lock screen shows a photo of me and my parents. A lump rises in my throat. A single tear escapes before I wipe it away quickly.
Sleep tugs at me, but I fight it.
The nightmares have been worse lately.
And my parents… they've never told me why. What really happened in my childhood? Why are so many memories just… missing?
I shift onto my side, eyes scanning the shadows dancing across the walls. The hallway light goes dark.
He's finally asleep, I think.
But what if he's not? What if he's lurking outside my door?
I have a knife in my hand.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Don't be stupid, Marie.
I don't remember falling asleep. One minute, I was staring at the ceiling, counting the faint shadows cast by the moonlight through the blinds. The next, I woke up with a jolt, my sheets tangled around my legs, and my shirt damp with sweat. My heart was racing. Another nightmare, I guessed. But as always, I couldn't remember what it was about—just a lingering sense of dread, like someone had been watching me.
I sat up, squinting at the dim numbers on my phone screen.
3:12 a.m.
Of course.
I reached for the water bottle on my nightstand and took a sip, trying to steady my breath. Then I froze. A faint sound, akin to something brushing against the wall, reached my ears. Slow. Deliberate. Not the settling of a building or the rustle of a breeze. No. This sound felt… intentional.
I pulled my legs up, holding still as stone, listening.
Maybe I was imagining things. My dreams had a nasty way of bleeding into reality. Still, something didn't sit right. I slid out of bed and padded silently across the floor. I cracked the door open just an inch and peeked out.
The hallway was empty.
He left his door slightly ajar.
Something flickered inside me. Curiosity, maybe. Or that same stubborn recklessness that made me say things I shouldn't and trust people I don't know.
I crept closer.
There was a faint light on inside—maybe from a lamp or his phone. And then I heard it.
A voice.
Not his.
Faint and mechanical. Like a distorted whisper coming from… a speaker?
I leaned in, just enough to catch a glimpse through the crack in the door.
He was sitting on the floor, back turned to me, shirtless again, hunched over a strange device. It looked like a radio, but it wasn't—sleek, silver, with small glowing buttons. The screen displayed a flickering image that didn't make sense—static, and then a flash of what looked like… symbols? I felt a tingling sensation on my skin.
He turned around—fast.
His eyes locked with mine.
Shit.
For a heartbeat, neither of us spoke.
Then he smiled, slow and calm, like he'd been expecting me.
"You couldn't sleep either?" he asked, rising to his feet. "Nightmares?"
I stepped back, heart hammering. "What the hell was that?"
He tilted his head. "You tell me, Marie."
The way he said my name sent a shiver down my spine. Familiar. Too familiar.
Chapter 3
The bad dream
The loud, piercing soundtrack from the hallway startles me from my slumber. "I would love to know how he succeeded in being so irritating!" In a swift motion, I shed my cozy pajamas and slipped into my clothes. I burst out of the room, clad in a casual t-shirt and shorts.
As I step into the living room, the atmosphere envelops me. I direct my gaze toward two disheveled figures, glistening with perspiration, sprawled on the couch. "In the name of all that is holy to you, what are you doing?" I shout, recoiling at their sharp intakes of breath as they hurriedly try to shield themselves. "Who is she, Jason?" the brunette inquires, her finger jabbing in my direction. "That's Marie, my roommate," he states, adjusting his stance. "Oh, I see." "Could you please grant us some privacy?" she inquires.
A soft laugh escapes me "Are you referring to yourself or to me?" I asked, my arms tightly crossed over my chest. "I mean you," she states.
"In my opinion, I believe you are the one destined to exit this room," I declare, a wicked smirk playing on my lips. Jason lets out a soft, amused laugh. "And what are you laughing at?" casting a piercing glare at Jason.
"Leave immediately," he shouts. "Who?" the brunette and I exclaim in unison.
"I mean you, Clover," he declares, his voice sharp and deliberate. "Are you serious?" she exclaims, her hands flung dramatically into the air. I pivoted, allowing her the space she needed as she slipped into her clothes. "Alright, step out, Clover," he commands, his voice resonating with a deep authority.
What a display of arrogance it is for him to believe he can engage intimately with someone and then treat them in such a dismissive manner. I have a sense of sympathy for this brunette, known as Clover. "It is Claire." The sound of the door closing echoed in the silence.
"You are so disgusting, pig," I say.
"So full of attitude," he remarks with a playful grin. I tilt my head back slightly, my eyes narrowing in disbelief as he approaches me. He gently cradles my chin, raising my face to meet his gaze.
A fluttering sensation swirled in my stomach, but the recollection of him moaning that brunette's name surged back to me—and it was not even the right one.
This boy is truly repulsive! His gaze drifts from my lips to my eyes, a fleeting moment of connection. He leans in, and a burst of laughter spills forth from his lips. "Did you really believe I would lean in and kiss you?" He expresses it with a light-hearted chuckle. "You are so pathetic," I say.
______________________________________________
I went to bed, fully aware of what awaited me beyond the cloak of sleep. The nightmare always came—never late, never kind—but I tried not to think about it. Not tonight. I shut my eyes and let the silence pull me under.
And just like that, I was there again.
My dream house, once a sanctuary, stood proud before me, but something was different. The colors seemed muted, the edges sharper. The innocence I once knew had long slipped away. I wasn't a child anymore. I was eighteen now. I had changed. But the house hadn't. Not really.
Then came the fire.