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Mira wakes without warning.
No gasp.
No jolt.
Her eyes simply open.
You're half-asleep in the chair beside the bed, spine aching, mind still humming with the aftershock of what was done to you. When you notice her staring at the ceiling, unblinking, a slow dread crawls up your throat.
"Mira?" you whisper.
She turns her head toward you.
The movement is smooth. Too smooth. Like her neck no longer resists gravity.
"You're tired," she says.
Her voice is calm. Centered. Not weak. Not shaking.
It's her voice.
But it doesn't reach the way it used to.
"I'm fine," you reply cautiously. "How do you feel?"
She thinks about that.
Actually thinks.
"I feel…" Her brows knit slightly. "Quiet."
Your heart stutters. "Quiet how?"
"Like a room after everyone leaves," she says. "Not empty. Just… no noise."
Behind you, you feel him tense.
You stand slowly and move closer to the bed. "Do you remember what happened?"
She blinks. Once.
"There was something," she says. "Watching me from the inside."
Your breath catches.
"And now?"
She looks at her hands, flexing her fingers.
"Now it's not," she says. "But the space is still there."
Your stomach drops.
He steps forward. "Do you hear anything you didn't before?"
Mira's gaze snaps to him instantly.
Too instantly.
"Yes," she says.
You freeze.
She looks directly at where he stands—no confusion, no hesitation.
"You're loud," she adds calmly. "Not like sound. Like… pressure."
Your blood turns to ice.
"You can see him," you whisper.
She tilts her head. "I can perceive him."
He doesn't speak.
That scares you more than anything else.
Mira swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands. She moves carefully, like she's learning balance again—not because she's weak, but because she's aware of too many things at once.
She walks to the window.
Stops.
"The neighborhood feels wrong," she says. "Something is missing."
Your chest tightens. "People are missing."
She nods. "I know."
"You—" Your voice trembles. "How do you know?"
She turns.
Her eyes look the same.
That's the worst part.
"I can feel where they were," she says. "Like dents in the air."
Silence swallows the room.
"You're anchored," he says finally.
Mira studies him openly now. No fear. No awe.
"You're afraid of me," she observes.
He doesn't deny it.
"I am cautious," he says. "There is a difference."
She looks at you then.
Really looks.
Something in her expression softens—but it doesn't fully return to what it was.
"You're hurting," she says quietly.
You touch your chest instinctively.
"I'm okay," you lie.
"No," she replies gently. "You're leaking."
Your breath leaves you in a rush.
"What does that mean?"
"It means things notice you now," she says. "The way they noticed me."
A chill crawls over your skin.
He steps closer to you, protective instinct flaring visibly.
"She should not be sensing that," he says sharply.
"But she does," Mira replies calmly. "Because you didn't close the door."
Your head spins. "I thought you said it was sealed."
"It is," he says. "To intrusion. Not awareness."
Mira sighs, almost tired.
"I don't think I'm meant to be normal anymore," she says.
"No," you say quickly. "No, you are. You're Mira. You're my best friend. You like bad coffee and old rom-coms and you cry at commercials—"
She smiles.
A small, sad smile.
"I remember those things," she says. "I just don't live in them anymore."
Your eyes burn.
"Please," you whisper. "Don't say that."
She steps closer to you.
When she hugs you, you tense—half-expecting cold.
Instead, she's warm.
Solid.
Real.
But something presses back from the inside of her embrace, like she's holding you and something else is holding you too.
"I'm still me," she murmurs. "Just… wider."
She pulls back and looks you dead in the eyes.
"If it comes back," she says calmly, "it won't sneak up on me again."
He stiffens. "That confidence is dangerous."
"So is ignorance," she counters.
You look between them, heart pounding.
"What are you saying?" you ask.
Mira exhales slowly.
"I'm saying it didn't just try to take me," she says. "It showed me why."
The room seems to lean in.
"It was lonely," she continues. "And angry. And tired of watching others choose meaning."
He's silent.
"And now?" you ask.
She looks at you.
"Now it's curious," she says softly. "About you."
Your blood runs cold.
"Because I'm a door," you whisper.
"Yes."
"And a lock."
"Yes."
She reaches out and takes your hands.
"I think," she says carefully, "that whatever's coming next isn't going to be about possession."
You swallow. "Then what?"
Her grip tightens.
"Recruitment."
The lights flicker once.
Just once.
From somewhere deep in the building, something shifts—slow, deliberate, aware.
He steps in front of you immediately.
"No," he says into the dark. "You will not touch them."
A whisper brushes the edge of hearing—pleased.
Not yet.
Mira's gaze sharpens.
"It's closer than before," she says.
You feel it too now.
Not fear.
Attention.
And as the night settles around the ne truth settles heavier than all the others—
Mira survived.
But she didn't come back alone.
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