Mira's hand touched his.
Warmth.
Solid.
Real.
That was the first shock—not the storm outside or the footsteps echoing through the archive, but the simple, undeniable fact that she felt safer touching a stranger's hand than standing alone.
He closed his fingers around hers gently—as if afraid she might pull away—and tugged her toward the nearest aisle between the shelves.
"Stay close," he murmured.
No problem there. Her pulse thundered. Her skin prickled with adrenaline. She moved with him, her boots almost silent on the old tiles.
Another metallic slam reverberated through the building.
This time much closer.
"What is that?" Mira whispered.
"Not who," he said. "What."
"Stop saying that," she hissed. "Things don't walk around buildings on their own—"
He tightened his grip on her hand. "Some do."
Mira swallowed, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the rain beating against the walls. She followed him between the towering shelves, each filled with century-old manuscripts that suddenly looked like headstones.
Her breath fogged the air.
Had it gotten colder?
He guided her behind a tall row of archival cabinets. The space was narrow, barely wide enough for two people. The lights above flickered again, humming with a low, unsettling buzz.
"Okay," she whispered, "tell me what's happening."
He kept his voice low. "The cycle shifts when you become aware of it. When you read the letter earlier than usual, something changed. That means whatever hunts you adjusts too."
"Hunts?" Mira whispered sharply. "You said I'm in danger, not being hunted."
His expression tightened. "Mira… it's the same thing."
A cold shiver traveled down her spine. She pressed her back against the metal cabinet, trying to quiet her breathing. The stranger peeked around the corner, watching the long hallway that stretched between the shelves.
The footsteps came again—heavy, slow, methodical.
Thud.
Pause.
Thud.
"Whoever that is," Mira whispered, "they'll hear us."
"It won't matter if they don't," he said quietly. "They can sense you."
Mira's heart jumped into her throat. "Sense me? Like—smell? Sound? Heat?"
"None of those."
"Then what—?"
"Your presence."
That answer was somehow worse than all the others. Her lungs tightened, and she struggled to breathe quietly. The stranger turned back to her.
"I need you to trust me for the next sixty seconds," he said. "Do you think you can do that?"
She didn't know. She didn't know anything anymore. But the fear in her blood, the wrongness in the air, the weight of the letter—it all left her with no better options.
"Yes," she whispered.
His eyes softened with relief. "Good. Whatever happens, don't run unless I tell you to."
She nodded.
The footsteps grew louder.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Her muscles locked. Her breath froze. Her hand tightened in the stranger's.
A shadow passed across the far wall.
A tall one.
Broad.
Unhuman in its posture.
"What is that?" Mira breathed.
He didn't answer.
The shadow stretched as the figure moved into view at the far end of the aisle.
Mira's heartbeat stopped.
It wasn't a man.
It resembled a man, with limbs and height and clothing, yes. But the proportions were wrong—subtle but unmistakably wrong. Too long in the torso. Too stiff in the neck. Too smooth in the movement.
Like a puppet whose strings were pulled by invisible hands.
Its head tilted, slow as molasses.
And then…
It sniffed the air.
Mira's blood iced.
The stranger pulled her gently but urgently deeper behind the cabinets, positioning his body between her and the thing. "Don't move," he whispered.
Her entire body went still.
Her breath shallow.
Her heartbeat violent.
The puppet-thing took a slow step forward. Then another. Its movements made no sound. Not footsteps—just presence.
It stopped less than ten feet from where they hid.
Mira felt it before she saw anything else—a pressure, like invisible fingers pressing against her chest. A sensation that made her stomach twist. The thing was… feeling for her. Searching. Seeking something unseen.
The stranger lowered his head closer to hers. His breath brushed her ear. "This is the first trigger."
Her lips parted, but he shook his head quickly—don't speak.
The puppet-thing lifted its head again and turned it slightly, listening.
Then it whispered.
Not in a voice.
Not in a language.
In a wrongness.
Mira felt the sound in her bones—like a vibration traveling through marrow itself. Her teeth ached. Her vision blurred. Her knees buckled before she caught herself on the cabinet.
The stranger grabbed her hand and squeezed tightly. The pressure cut through the sensation and steadied her.
The creature's head snapped toward their hiding place.
Her stomach dropped.
The stranger's grip tightened sharply.
"Run," he said.
Mira didn't hesitate.
She bolted.
Her boots pounded the floor as she sprinted down the narrow aisle, weaving between shelves. The stranger ran at her side, fast but controlled, wrenching her toward the emergency exit door at the far end of the archive.
Behind them came a new sound.
Not footsteps.
Something faster.
A scraping.
A dragging.
A skittering.
Mira swallowed a scream. She dared a glance over her shoulder—
And almost tripped.
The puppet-thing was moving now. Not walking. Not running.
Crawling.
Its limbs contorted and twisted, bending in angles that shouldn't exist, scraping against the floor as it propelled itself with horrifying speed.
"Don't look!" the stranger barked.
Mira turned away and focused on the door ahead. He slammed into it with his shoulder, forcing the heavy metal frame open. She stumbled inside, nearly falling, and he yanked the door shut behind them.
The noise on the other side stopped.
Silence.
For two heartbeats, she didn't dare breathe.
The stranger leaned his back against the door, chest rising and falling hard, but his eyes stayed locked on her—checking, assessing, making sure she hadn't collapsed.
Mira pressed her hands to her shaking knees, trying to catch her breath.
"What… what was that?" she gasped.
He didn't answer immediately. His jaw clenched. His breathing slowed.
"That," he finally said, "was a Collector."
"A what?"
"One of the things that hunts anomalies," he said. "Things like you."
Her stomach churned. "Hunts—like an animal?"
"No," he replied. "Animals hunt to survive. Collectors hunt to reset."
She leaned against the wall for support. "Reset?"
He nodded. "To force the cycle to start again. When they reach you… you don't die the way you think."
Her blood went cold.
He walked toward her slowly, eyes softening with something like sympathy. "You disappear. And the world forgets everything. And it all starts again."
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
"How many times?" she whispered.
His brows drew together in pain. "Too many."
Her throat tightened. She stared at her hands—they were trembling badly. The stranger stepped closer, reaching out, but he didn't touch her until she nodded.
His hand settled lightly on her shoulder. Warm. Human. Anchoring.
"I know you're scared," he said softly. "I know none of this makes sense yet. But you survived the first trigger. That means you're already doing better than you did the last time."
She felt breathless. "How many triggers are there?"
He hesitated.
"Tonight? Three."
A wave of dizziness washed over her. She closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her forehead.
"Three," she repeated weakly.
"Yes."
"And I barely survived one."
"You didn't survive it last time," he corrected gently. "So this is progress."
Her eyes snapped open. "Stop saying that. Stop talking like you've been with me before."
"I have."
"You can't expect me to believe that!"
"No," he said quietly, "I expect you to remember."
Mira's breath caught.
Remember?
A flicker danced at the edge of her memory—a fleeting sensation, gone before she could grasp it. Déjà vu so intense it made her sway.
The stranger watched her carefully. "There it is."
"There what is?" she whispered.
"The echo."
She wrapped her arms around herself. "What's happening to me?"
"You're waking up," he said. "Early. Earlier than ever before."
"Why now?"
"Because something in the cycle shifted."
"But what changed?" she demanded.
"You did."
The answer landed like a stone in her chest.
Before she could process it, a faint hum sounded from the stairwell door beside them. A low vibration traveled along the ground—like distant machinery coming to life.
He tensed instantly.
"That's the second trigger beginning."
"Already?" she whispered, horrified.
He grabbed her hand. "We need to move."
"Where?"
"A safe place."
"There's a safe place?"
"Not exactly," he admitted. "But there's a place safer than here."
"That's not reassuring!"
"I'm not trying to reassure you, I'm trying to keep you alive—again."
Before she could argue, he pulled her toward the stairwell door.
She dug her heels in.
"Wait—wait! Are we really just running blindly into more danger?"
He turned, his face inches from hers, eyes fierce.
"You asked me back there what I am," he said. "I'll tell you. But not here. Not with them closing in. If you want answers—real ones—you have to trust me for a little longer."
Her chest rose and fell with quick, anxious breaths.
Thunder boomed overhead.
The hum behind the stairwell door grew louder.
Mira stared at him—his earnestness, his fear, the way he watched her like someone who had lost her too many times already.
She squeezed her eyes shut for three seconds.
One.
The letter in her pocket burned like a heartbeat.
Two.
Her memory flickered again—brief, sharp, ghostlike.
Three.
She opened her eyes.
"Fine," she whispered. "I'm with you."
Relief broke across his face—brief, fragile, but real. He squeezed her hand once and plunged through the stairwell door.
Mira followed.
For the first time in her life, she wasn't running from something.
She was running toward the truth.