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The darkness doesn't feel empty.
It feels occupied.
The stairwell lights are out, but you can still see—just enough to understand how wrong that is. Shadows stretch where they shouldn't. Corners deepen, folding inward like mouths learning how to open.
Mira's breathing turns ragged behind you.
"I can't see," she whispers. "I can't—"
"I know," he says sharply.
You've never heard that tone from him before.
Command without softness. Control stripped bare.
His hand comes back suddenly, gripping your wrist. Not gentle this time. Not careful.
Urgent.
"Do not move," he says. "Do not speak. Do not think about leaving."
Your pulse screams.
The air thickens, pressure building until it feels like standing underwater. Your ears ring faintly. The space around you tightens, folding inward, creating a boundary you instinctively recognize as his.
Something brushes against it.
The pressure reacts.
A low vibration hums through the walls, through the metal railings, through your bones.
Mira gasps. "What was that?"
He doesn't answer her.
His eyes are fixed on the darkness below.
Then—
Footsteps.
Not physical ones.
There is no sound of impact, no echo—but the sense of approach is undeniable. Like knowing someone is walking toward you with their eyes locked on yours, even if you can't see them.
The presence smiles.
You feel it.
It presses against your thoughts, testing, probing—curious rather than cautious.
A voice slithers through the stairwell, smooth and amused, emerging from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"So," it says. "This is where you've been hiding."
The grip on your wrist tightens.
"You're trespassing," he says coldly.
A soft laugh answers him.
"Oh, don't be like that," the voice replies. "You cleared such lovely space. I merely stepped into what you abandoned."
Your stomach drops.
"You followed the erasures," he says. "You fed on the absence."
"Waste not," the presence hums. "You taught me that, once."
Mira starts shaking violently.
"I—I hear voices," she sobs. "Please tell me you hear them too."
You can't answer.
Because the presence has noticed her.
You feel its attention snap onto Mira like a hook sinking into flesh.
"Oh," it croons. "She's fragile. I like fragile."
The pressure around you surges violently.
"No," he snaps. "She is not yours."
The presence laughs again, softer now.
"Isn't she?" it asks. "She dreams of dying in her sleep. She calls it anxiety. I call it an invitation."
Mira screams.
The sound barely leaves her throat before the air cuts it off—not by force, but by removal. Silence clamps down so abruptly it makes your ears ache.
You twist toward him. "Don't—don't hurt her!"
"I'm not," he says tightly. "I'm keeping it out."
The darkness presses back.
The stairwell walls creak, metal railings vibrating as something unseen leans closer. The boundary shudders, cracking in places like glass under strain.
"You've grown soft," the presence says mockingly. "Domestic. Careful. How adorable."
A sudden image flashes into your mind—unbidden.
Hands around Mira's throat.
Her eyes wide.
Her mouth open in a scream that never comes.
You cry out.
The pressure falters for half a second.
That's all it needs.
Something slips through.
Mira collapses.
Her body goes slack, eyes rolling back as she crumples to the ground.
You lunge forward—
And he roars.
The sound is not human.
It tears through the stairwell like a physical force, slamming into walls, shattering something unseen. The darkness recoils violently, shrieking—not in pain, but in fury.
The lights explode back on all at once.
Mira lies unconscious at your feet.
He stands over her, no longer fully human.
The runes along his skin burn bright, ancient symbols blazing like embers beneath flesh. His eyes glow—not light, but depth, endless and terrifying.
The air bends around him again.
The presence retreats, laughter echoing faintly as it pulls back into the shadows.
"This isn't over," it promises. "She's already open."
Silence crashes down.
Your legs give out.
You drop to your knees beside Mira, hands shaking as you check her breathing.
She's alive.
Barely.
You look up at him, tears streaming unchecked.
"You said you didn't touch her," you choke. "You said—"
"I didn't," he says hoarsely.
His voice is strained now. Raw.
"That thing has been circling you for longer than you know," he continues. "I kept it at bay. I erased what it used to anchor itself."
"The people," you whisper.
"Yes."
Your chest tightens painfully. "You killed them."
"I removed them," he corrects. "It is not the same."
You stare at him in horror.
"They were innocent."
"They were food," he snaps—and then stops, jaw clenching. He exhales slowly, forcing control back into his voice. "And I regret that you know this."
You look down at Mira again.
"She's still marked," you say.
"Yes."
"Can you protect her?"
His silence is answer enough.
"You can't," you realize.
He kneels in front of you then, bringing himself to your level. The glow fades slightly, leaving only his eyes—dark, intense, unwavering.
"I can protect you," he says. "Completely. Permanently."
Your blood runs cold.
"And her?"
"She is leverage," he says quietly. "For both of us."
Anger flares through your fear. "You're using her."
"I am acknowledging reality."
You shake your head, sobbing. "You promised to guard me."
"And I have," he says fiercely. "But this—" He gestures to the stairwell, the darkness beyond. "This is what happens when others get close."
The truth settles like poison in your veins:
People aren't disappearing because they threaten you.
They disappear because they draw attention.
From things worse than him.
Sirens wail in the distance.
Mira stirs weakly.
He straightens, already pulling his power back, smoothing reality into something survivable.
"They will come," he says. "They will ask questions."
"What do I tell them?" you whisper.
He looks at you one last time before fading, his voice brushing against your ear like a vow.
"You tell them nothing," he says.
"And when the time comes—
you will choose."
The stairwell stands empty.
Mira coughs softly.
You hold her, shaking, surrounded by light and silence and the unbearable knowledge that the thing you accused—
Is the only reason you're still alive.
And the only thing standing between you
and something that wants you both broken.
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