The lights steadied after several long, trembling flickers, casting the archive in that washed-out, ghostlike glow that made every shadow feel longer than it truly was. Mira kept one hand braced against the desk, her fingers digging into the wood until her knuckles whitened.
The stranger didn't move. He stood where she'd told him to stop, palms open, coat dripping rainwater onto the floor. His posture was careful—deliberately nonthreatening. But it didn't matter. The fear building in her chest had a mind of its own, and every instinct screamed: run, hide, do something.
She swallowed, trying to force air into lungs that refused to cooperate. "How do you know my name?" she whispered.
His eyes softened a fraction. "I've known your name for a long time."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the truth."
Thunder rolled over the building again. A few sheets of paper on the nearest table fluttered with the vibration. Mira flinched as if the sound had been a gunshot.
She hated how raw her voice sounded when she managed, "Why are you here?"
The stranger hesitated. It wasn't the kind of hesitation someone uses when trying to lie. It was the kind that came from deciding whether or not the truth would break someone.
Finally, he said, "To keep you alive."
Her heartbeat stuttered. The same words lived in the letter crumpled in her pocket. She felt them pressing against her thigh like a pulse.
But the letter had also said not to trust him. The man who would arrive asking for directions.
She took a slow, controlled breath. "Who did you come to warn me about?"
His jaw tightened. "Not who," he said. "What."
"What?" she echoed.
But he didn't answer. Or maybe he couldn't.
Instead, he glanced around the archive as if expecting something—or someone—to appear at any moment. His eyes moved over the shelves, the dark corners, the high ceiling. He looked like a man counting exits.
"Mira," he said quietly, "we shouldn't stay here."
She tensed. "Why not?"
"The letter. It told you about tonight, didn't it?"
Her pulse thumped violently. "You don't know what the letter said."
His eyes met hers. "I know exactly what the letter said."
She stepped back a little, fear sharpening into something colder. "You're not making this easier on yourself."
"I'm not trying to make anything easy," he said, voice low. "I'm trying to keep us alive. And if the cycle is already shifting—if the letter made it to you this early—then something's gone wrong. Badly wrong."
The cycle.
There it was again.
That impossible word that had burrowed under her skin the moment she'd read it.
Mira shook her head. "This is… I don't know what game you're playing, but I won't be dragged into someone else's delusion."
"Then why did you read it?" he asked gently.
Heat rose to her face. "Curiosity. Not belief."
He nodded as if he understood something she hadn't said out loud. "You always say that at first."
Her breath caught. "What?"
"Every time," he murmured, almost to himself. "Every cycle. You always say you don't believe it. And then you do."
A cold wave washed through her chest.
"Stop," she said, her voice cracking despite her best effort. "Just stop. I don't know you. I don't know what you want. And I'm not going anywhere with you."
The stranger exhaled slowly, as though bracing himself. "Mira… you have less than an hour before the first trigger event."
"The what?"
"You're already feeling it, aren't you?" he said quietly. "The wrongness. The sense that something is… off."
Her mouth went dry.
Because he was right.
She had felt that today. Tiny things. A déjà vu so strong she'd paused mid-step in the hallway. The flicker of recognizing someone she had never met. The odd, prickling feeling that she'd forgotten something important—something just out of reach.
She hated that he was right.
"It doesn't matter what I feel," she said firmly. "I'm not going with you."
"I expected that answer."
"Good."
"But I'm still staying with you," he added. "You're not going to be alone tonight. Not when I know what's coming."
A muscle in her jaw twitched. "You can't just decide that."
"You're right," he agreed softly. "I can't. But I can follow you until you believe me."
She stared at him.
The nerve.
The audacity.
The absolute insanity.
"I'm calling security," she said, reaching toward the office phone on the far side of the desk.
"Don't," he warned gently.
"And why shouldn't I?" she snapped.
"Because in the last cycle, you called security," he said quietly. "And they were the ones who handed you over."
Her hand froze inches above the phone.
"That's a lie," she whispered.
"I wish it were."
The lights flickered again.
The archive suddenly felt much smaller. Much darker.
Mira let out a shaky breath and stepped back, putting distance between them. She didn't trust him—but she didn't trust herself either, not with her thoughts spiraling like this.
Her voice softened, trembled. "What do you want from me?"
His expression tightened in something close to pain. "To help you remember."
"I don't want to remember anything!" she snapped. "This is insane."
"You said that last time, too."
"Stop!"
Her shout cracked through the silence like a whip. The stranger flinched.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Only the storm outside filled the quiet, the wind howling across the building like a warning.
Finally, the stranger reached slowly into his coat—as slow as someone trying not to scare a skittish animal. Mira tensed, ready to grab the heavy book beside her if she needed a weapon.
But he didn't pull out a weapon.
He pulled out a folded piece of paper. Old. Creased from being opened countless times.
"Here," he said softly. "This belongs to you."
"No, thank you," Mira said sharply.
"You read it once before," he insisted. "In a previous life."
Her throat contracted.
She didn't want to touch it. Didn't want to know.
He took a step closer and set the paper on the edge of the desk—nowhere near her personal space—then backed away again.
"This is the first letter you ever wrote to yourself," he said. "Before you lost everything."
Mira stared at the folded sheet as if it were a venomous creature.
"What does it say?" she whispered.
"I don't know," he admitted. "It's sealed. Only your past self opened it. And only your current self can do it now."
Her stomach twisted.
She hated this. Hated him for bringing this madness into her life. Hated whoever—or whatever—had put that original letter in the archive box.
She didn't move.
He let out a quiet breath. "Look, I know you think I'm crazy. I know this is too much. But whether you believe me or not, the danger is real."
"Danger from what?"
He shook his head slowly. "From the one who started the cycle."
"The letter said someone would try to kill me tonight," she whispered.
His eyes darkened. "Someone will."
Her blood ran cold.
"But you're not going to die this time," he added. "Not if you trust me."
The lights flickered yet again. A low, mechanical groan slipped through the ceiling.
Mira swallowed hard. "What are you?"
He blinked, surprised. "What?"
"You said you remember everything. Even when I don't." Her voice shook. "That's not normal. Are you even human?"
Something flickered across his face—an emotion she couldn't quite name. Pain, maybe. Or guilt. Or grief.
"I'm human," he said finally. "But what I am… that's harder to explain."
"That's comforting," she muttered.
"I didn't say it to comfort you."
The storm outside intensified, slamming rain against the building so hard that the windows in the hallway shuddered. The power flickered again, longer this time.
Mira felt something deep in her chest twisting tighter with every passing second.
Fear. But not of him.
Fear of the unknown. Fear of the letter. Fear of the possibility—however thin, however absurd—that any of this could be real.
She didn't want it to be real.
She wanted to go back to this morning, when her biggest problem had been humidity and misplaced manuscripts.
"Look," the stranger said quietly, breaking the silence. "You don't have to believe me yet. Just let me get you somewhere safe. That's all I'm asking."
She shook her head. "Nowhere is safe, according to you."
"Not alone," he corrected. "But with me… you have a chance."
"A chance at what?"
"Survival."
The word hit her like ice.
"Why me?" she whispered. "Why am I in this… cycle? Why am I the one dying?"
His expression softened. "Because you're the only one who can end it."
Her knees nearly buckled. "Why?"
"Because you're the first," he said.
"The first what?"
Before he could answer—
A loud metallic slam echoed from the far hallway.
Mira's head whipped toward the sound. The stranger's posture snapped rigid, eyes sharp and alert.
"That wasn't the wind," he murmured.
The storm outside wailed. The fluorescent lights flickered violently—once, twice—then steadied at half-strength, casting the archive in a dim, sickly glow.
Mira swallowed hard.
"Is someone else in here?" she whispered.
The stranger's voice dropped low. "We need to move. Now."
He reached out—not grabbing her, not touching her—just extending a hand for her to take.
She stared at it.
The letter in her pocket felt like it was burning through the fabric. Words echoing:
Do not trust the man who arrives asking for directions.
But also:
He will give you the key. You will not trust him, but you must.
Her breath shuddered.
The metallic slam echoed again—closer.
Footsteps. Slow. Heavy.
Not like the stranger's.
Something else was in the archive. Something deliberate. Something hunting, not searching.
The stranger's hand remained exactly where it was—still, steady, patient.
"Mira," he whispered.
"Please."
Her heart hammered so hard she felt it in her throat.
Through the haze of fear, confusion, and disbelief, a single thought emerged—quiet, trembling, but unmistakably hers:
If this is real… I won't survive alone.
The footsteps drew nearer.
Mira drew a sharp breath—
and reached for his hand.