Dawn crept through my curtains like a thief, painting the apartment in sickly gray light. I hadn't slept—not really. Damien's face lingered in every shadow, his voice a velvet noose around my thoughts. The diary sat closed on the coffee table, innocent as a sleeping snake. I wanted to throw it out the window, watch it shatter on the street below. But my hands wouldn't move. Instead, I brewed coffee, black and bitter, and stared at the fresh words he'd left: *"Until tomorrow, my muse. Dream of me."*
Muse. The word slithered under my skin, stirring something forbidden. I'd always chased stories of broken souls, but this was no fiction. This was him—alive in ink, in my mind, invading my reality.
My phone buzzed again. Mia. *Girl, call me. You look like hell in that selfie you sent last night. What's up?* I'd snapped it without thinking, my eyes hollow, cheeks flushed. Delete. Block the worry. I couldn't explain this to her. Not yet.
Work dragged me out by noon—a freelance gig editing true-crime podcasts at a dingy studio downtown. The irony burned. As I hunched over scripts about unsolved murders, Damien's confessions echoed in my head. *The first cut is always the sweetest.* By 3 PM, my focus shattered. Ink spots bloomed on my notes, unbidden words forming: *"Missing me already?"*
I slammed the notebook shut, heart hammering. The producer glanced over. "You okay, Elara? You look like you've seen a ghost."
If only he knew. "Just tired," I muttered, grabbing my bag. The diary was tucked inside, a lead weight pulling me home.
The streets felt watchful on the walk back. Rain had stopped, leaving puddles that reflected distorted faces—mine, and sometimes his, smirking from the water. Paranoia? Or him? By the time I locked my door, sweat beaded my forehead despite the chill.
I collapsed onto the couch, diary in lap. Open it, a voice urged—not mine. Don't, screamed sanity. Fingers betrayed me, flipping pages to a new entry, written while I was gone.
*"Elara, my shadow-walker. You think you can run? The city remembers me. It whispers your name now, too. Check the news."*
News? Dread coiled tight. I snatched my laptop, typing "Damien Blackwood" with shaking hands. Old headlines flooded the screen: *Ink Killer Strikes Again?* No—fresh posts from this morning. A body found in an alley near the bookstore, a young woman, throat slashed, cryptic symbols scrawled in her blood. "E.V." etched beside them.
E.V. Elara Voss. My initials. Nausea hit like a fist. Coincidence? Or him, reaching out?
The air thickened, humming with that familiar static. Pages rustled on their own, flipping to a blank space where ink bled fresh:
*"Not my work, love. But a warning. Someone knows you have me. They're coming."*
"Damien?" My voice cracked, half-prayer, half-curse.
He materialized slowly this time, coalescing from smoke-like mist near the window. Solid enough to cast a shadow, his form sharper—crisp white shirt stained faintly red at the cuffs, dark jeans hugging lean hips. Those obsidian eyes locked on mine, hungry, amused. "Missed me?"
"You're a murderer. A ghost. This isn't real." But my body betrayed me, leaning forward, drawn like iron to a magnet.
He laughed, a sound that vibrated through my bones. "Real enough to touch." He extended a hand—translucent fingers brushing my cheek. Cold fire seared my skin, visions flashing: a woman's scream, blood pooling like ink, his face twisted in ecstasy and agony. I jerked back, gasping.
"What was that?"
"Your gift. My memories. You wanted truth, Elara. Take it." He paced the room, gliding effortlessly, studying my cluttered life—manuscripts, empty wine bottles, a photo of my mother, smiling before the end. "Lonely, aren't you? Like me. We could fill each other's voids."
"You're insane. That body today—did you...?"
His expression darkened, genuine fury flickering. "I told you, no. I'm bound, remember? To these pages. To *you*. But others hunt my words. Collectors. Fanatics. They think my power lives in the ink." He leaned close, breath ghosting my neck—scent of copper and night blooming. "Hide me. Or they'll carve your secrets out, too."
My pulse thundered. Part of me wanted to scream for help. Another part—the dark writer in me, starved for this intensity—ached to pull him closer. "Why me? Out of everyone?"
His fingers traced my jaw, tilting my chin up. Eyes like voids, pulling me in. "Because you *see* me. Not the killer. The man. Say it, Elara. See me."
I swallowed. "I see you, Damien."
Pleasure lit his face, boyish and terrifying. He kissed me then—not fully solid, but enough. Lips like chilled silk, tasting of salt and secrets. My world tilted, heat flooding despite the cold. His hand tangled in my hair, possessive, as memories assaulted me—not his kills, but softer things: a stolen glance at a girl in the rain, a poem unwritten, loneliness carving him hollow.
I shoved him away, chest heaving. "Stop. This is wrong."
"Is it?" He smirked, fading slightly. "Your heart races for the monster. Admit it."
Before I could answer, a knock shattered the moment—sharp, insistent. Damien vanished, words inkling onto the page: *"They're here. Trust no one."*
I froze. The knock came again. Through the peephole: Mia, bundled in a coat, worry etched deep. "Elara? Open up. I know you're in there."
Relief warred with terror. I cracked the door. "Mia? What—"
She pushed inside, eyes scanning. "You ghosted me all day. That selfie? You look haunted. Spill."
"I... found something. A diary." The words tumbled out, half-truths. No ghosts. No kisses.
Her brow furrowed. "True crime stuff? Bad idea, babe. With your history..." She trailed off, spotting the diary. "Is that it?"
"Don't." Too late. She grabbed it, flipping open.
Static crackled. Mia's eyes widened. "Elara, this handwriting—it's *his*. The Ink Killer. How did you—"
Ink bloomed: *"Touch what isn't yours, and bleed."*
Mia screamed as a cut appeared on her palm, thin red line welling. She dropped it, blood splattering the page—absorbed instantly, words forming: *"Leave her to me."*
Mia bolted, slamming the door. "You're cursed! Call the cops!"
Silence fell. Tears stung my eyes. Alone again. The diary warmed in my lap.
*"Good choice,"* it whispered in fresh ink. *"She's safe. For now. Come to me tonight. My old warehouse. 47 Oak Street. Or they find you first."*
Warehouse. Where he'd "died." Trap? Salvation? My fingers traced the address, resolve hardening amid the fear. For the story. For him. For the darkness calling my name.
As night fell, I slipped into the shadows, diary in hand. Heading straight into his web.