The next day,
They leave before dawn.
Not because dawn is safe—nothing is safe—but because the city is loud enough then to hide the sound of disappearance.
Azael doesn't let you pack much. No suitcases. No keepsakes. Just essentials, chosen with the cold efficiency of someone who has fled worlds before.
"Memories weigh more than objects," he says when you hesitate over a cracked photo frame on the counter.
You leave it behind.
The stairwell smells like dust and old paint. Every shadow feels too deep, every reflective surface too sharp. You keep your eyes down, hollow coiled tight inside you, like a held breath that might never fully release again.
Outside, the city looks unchanged.
That's the worst part.
People walk. Cars pass. Someone laughs too loudly at nothing. Life goes on, ignorant and fragile, like it hasn't almost torn open.
Azael stops beside a battered sedan that definitely wasn't here yesterday.
"You stole a car?" you ask faintly.
"I borrowed a probability," he replies, opening the door. "It will forget us soon."
You don't ask what that means.
The drive is quiet. Not the comfortable kind—the strained, listening kind. You feel watched even when there's nothing behind you but empty road and fading streetlights.
The hollow keeps twitching.
Every so often, it pulses—soft, directional. Like a compass needle dragged toward something you don't want to find.
"Mira is still aware," you say suddenly.
Azael's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "What did you feel?"
"Not words. Just… pressure. Like she knows I'm moving away."
"That means the connection isn't passive anymore," he says. "Kaelthyr is letting her feel you."
"Why?"
"To see if you'll come running."
Your throat tightens. "Would that be a mistake?"
"Yes."
The answer is immediate. Absolute.
"But it would be human," he adds quietly.
They stop at a place that doesn't exist on any map.
An old transit station, sealed decades ago, swallowed by overgrowth and time. The kind of forgotten infrastructure reality neglects just enough to make it useful.
Azael presses his palm to the rusted gate. Symbols ripple outward, briefly visible, then gone.
The gate opens with a scream of metal.
Inside, the air is cooler. Thicker. The hollow settles slightly, like it recognizes the place but doesn't trust it.
"This is a fold-shelter," Azael explains. "It bends attention. Not invisibility—misdirection."
"So they can still find us."
"Yes," he says. "Eventually."
You sit on the edge of an old platform, exhaustion finally catching you fully. Your hands stop glowing. The trembling fades into a deep ache.
"Azael," you say quietly. "When they knocked… when Kaelthyr looked at me—"
He turns.
"I don't think he was just measuring me," you continue. "I think he recognized me."
Silence stretches.
"That is… concerning," Azael says carefully.
"Why?"
"Because Kaelthyr doesn't recognize people," he says. "He recognizes functions."
Your stomach drops.
"So what am I to him?"
Azael meets your gaze, something dangerously close to fear flickering behind his calm.
"A key," he says.
"Or a door."
Far above them—far beyond walls and folds and forgotten places—something vast adjusts its focus.
And somewhere deep within the hollow, Mira stirs.
Not screaming.
Not begging.
Waiting.
---