The air in my apartment was thick, heavy, almost suffocating. I could still feel Daniel's blood on my hands, though I had washed them twice and scrubbed the floor beneath me. My chest ached, my head throbbed, and the envelope I had tucked into my bag burned with a weight I couldn't describe.
I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't alone. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch toward me, creeping along the walls like living things. Every flicker of the fluorescent light above the kitchen made me flinch.
And then, I heard it—a soft knock, deliberate and slow, on my front door.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat.
It wasn't a casual knock. It wasn't accidental. It carried purpose. Intent.
I waited. My mind raced. Should I call someone? Should I hide? Should I run?
But curiosity, and something darker, forced me to my feet. I walked toward the door, each step slow, calculated, like I was moving through water. My hand hovered over the knob. My heart thudded so violently I thought it might break my ribcage.
"Who is it?" I called, my voice cracking despite my effort to stay calm.
No answer.
Just another knock. This one sharper, insistent, as though the person—or thing—outside was testing my resolve.
I finally turned the knob and opened the door.
And there she was.
Mara.
She didn't move quickly, didn't burst into the room. She simply stood there, framed by the dim light of the hallway, as if she had always been part of the shadows. Her hair was long, black, and fell around her shoulders like a veil. Her eyes—calm, piercing, and impossibly knowing—met mine, and I felt a chill crawl up my spine.
She extended her hand, holding something.
The envelope.
My envelope.
"You dropped this," she said.
Her voice was soft, measured, and terrifyingly calm. It carried authority without arrogance, command without threat—but it unsettled me more than any scream ever could.
"I… I didn't drop anything," I stammered.
"I know," she replied.
Her eyes held mine, and for a moment, the air between us thickened, like a living thing, pressing against my skin. The room grew colder. Shadows flickered across the walls. I realized, with sudden clarity, that this was no ordinary visitor. This was something… different.
"You should read it," she said, voice low, "before he comes back."
I swallowed hard. My fingers closed around the envelope as though it were a lifeline. "Who… who is he?" I asked, though part of me already knew.
"The boy who broke you," Mara said simply.
I flinched. My chest tightened. I hadn't realized how much I had still carried inside me—the fear, the anger, the remnants of betrayal.
"Why… why are you here?" I whispered.
"To warn you," she said. "To make sure you understand what you're dealing with."
I glanced down at the envelope, suddenly aware that the room around me seemed to breathe, to pulse. The shadows deepened. The corners darkened. And I understood: karma had become a presence. It wasn't a thought. It wasn't a warning. It was alive.
I opened the envelope with trembling hands. Inside was a single line of text, written in a hand I knew too well:
"He didn't leave because of you.
He left because of what he did."
My stomach turned. My fingers went slack.
"What… what does this mean?" I whispered.
Mara stepped closer, though she made no sound, like the shadows themselves had carried her. "It means you were never the target," she said. "Not really. But you are part of the balance now. Karma doesn't forgive. It doesn't rest. It doesn't care who you are—only what has been done."
The room seemed to shift again. The shadows stretched toward me, curling around my legs, around my arms. I shivered. My hair stood on end. I felt eyes on me—not hers, but something else. Something patient. Waiting.
I looked up at Mara. "You're saying… it's coming for him?"
She nodded. "And for anyone connected to his sins. Karma doesn't discriminate. It only collects. And now… you are on its path. Not because it hates you, but because it cannot allow the scales to remain unbalanced."
The words sank in like ice in my veins. My hands shook. "So… I'm supposed to… do what?"
"Watch. Wait. Prepare," Mara said. "Learn what he did, learn the consequences. Understand. And remember—what is coming isn't evil. It is justice. It is balance. It is inevitable."
I felt the weight of the envelope, the weight of the warning, the weight of everything I had ignored for so long. I wanted to scream. I wanted to drop it. I wanted to burn it.
But I couldn't.
The air seemed to pulse. The shadows deepened. I could hear whispers—faint, incomprehensible, like voices brushing the edges of my mind. They weren't human. Not entirely.
"Who are you?" I asked Mara, my voice trembling.
She didn't answer immediately. She tilted her head slightly, watching me as though she were reading the truth in my bones. Finally, she said, "I am what comes when balance is demanded. I am the messenger. And I am patient. But patience has limits."
I shivered. The room seemed to breathe around me, the shadows twisting and coiling. I could feel it—the presence, heavy, waiting, hungry, patient. Karma wasn't coming. It was already here.
"I don't understand," I whispered. "Why me?"
"Because you survived," she said simply. "Because you carry the reminder of what was broken. Because you must witness the consequences, even as others cannot escape them. And because…" She paused. Her eyes darkened, and for a moment, she seemed older, infinitely older, like someone who had seen the world burn and rise a thousand times over. "…because balance must touch every life it has unsettled. And your life was unsettled first."
I clutched the envelope tighter, feeling the cold paper burn through my fingers. I wanted to argue, to refuse, to run—but my legs wouldn't move. My mind spun, trying to grasp the enormity of what she was saying.
"You'll see it soon," Mara said softly. "Not all at once. Not in ways you expect. But it will come. And when it does, you will understand. And you will decide."
"Decide what?" I asked, voice shaking.
She smiled, faint, unsettling, and for a moment, I felt her smile reach into the shadows themselves. "Whether to survive it—or whether to become part of it."
And with that, she stepped backward, fading into the darkness of the hallway like smoke curling into nothing.
I sank to the floor, clutching the envelope, and for the first time since Daniel's death, I allowed myself to tremble. The presence was still there, curling around me, patient, observant, waiting. Karma had arrived, and it wasn't polite. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't forgiving.
And I was caught in the middle of it.
I didn't know how long I sat there, paralyzed, staring at the envelope, staring at the shadows, listening to the faint, impossible whispers that carried from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Finally, I forced myself to stand. My hands still shook. My chest heaved. But the thought that burned hotter than fear, hotter than confusion, hotter than despair, was this:
I had a role in this.
And whether I wanted it or not, karma would not wait for me to decide.
I took a deep breath, and with trembling fingers, tucked the envelope into my bag again. I had no idea what was coming next. But I knew this—Mara was right.
The first strike had been Daniel.
The second strike… would not wait long.