The fire in her memory never fades. It doesn't dim, it doesn't soften with time—it burns the same way every night, as if it has been waiting for her to close her eyes.
------She is sixteen again.----
The road stretches empty and black beneath a sky with no stars. Flames rise in violent bursts from an overturned car a few feet away, the metal twisted like a crushed toy. Smoke coils upward, thick and suffocating, carrying the sharp stench of gasoline and something far worse—blood everywhere.
She is on her knees on the asphalt. The skin of her palms is torn open, but she doesn't feel it. Heat presses against her face, dries the tears on her cheeks as quickly as they fall.
"Dad…" Her voice cracks, thin and fragile against the roar of fire. "Dad, I'm here."
Inside the upside-down car, her father hangs trapped by the seatbelt, his body bent unnaturally. Blood runs from his forehead, down across his eyebrow, dripping into his hair. His chest rises in shallow, painful attempts at breath. Every inhale sounds like it might be the last.
His eyes find hers.
They are not angry. Not afraid.
They are breaking.
He lifts his hand. Slowly. Trembling. Each inch looks like it costs him something unbearable. Glass cuts into his skin as he pushes his arm through the shattered window frame. Blood spills fresh over his fingers.
She crawls closer despite the heat, ignoring the way sparks sting her arms. She stretches her hand toward him. Their fingers hover inches apart, shaking, desperate.
"Just hold me," she whispers, choking on smoke. "Please… just hold me."
His lips part. He tries to speak her name. "Ni—"
The world shifts.
There is no warning. No sound before it happens.
The car jerks violently, metal screaming as if dragged by invisible chains. It slides across the road, not rolling but moving in a straight line, pulled backward through the flames by something that cannot be seen. The force is unnatural, deliberate.
Her father's hand slips from the window as the car is yanked away from her.
"NO!" The scream tears out of her throat raw and feral.
The fire dims, not extinguished, but subdued—like it has bowed to something greater. The night thickens. The smoke grows heavier until it feels like the darkness itself has weight.
Footsteps echo behind her.
Slow. Measured. Calm.
She turns.
A figure stands beyond the firelight.
Tall enough that he seems to stretch into the darkness above. A black suit, perfectly tailored. A long black coat that moves slightly though there is no wind. Gloves darker than the night itself. The flames reflect off nothing—his clothes swallow the light whole.
His face is obscured, as if shadow clings to him.
Only his eyes are visible.
Red, threaded with molten gold, glowing with a depth that is not human.
Her body refuses to move. Her breath lodges in her chest.
He walks toward her, each step steady, unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world. The closer he comes, the colder the air feels despite the surrounding fire.
He tilts his head slightly, studying her.
When the corner of his mouth lifts, she sees teeth that are too sharp, too many, catching the firelight for a fraction of a second.
Her father's scream echoes from somewhere behind her, swallowed by an explosion of flame as the car ignites completely.
The figure stands before her now, close enough that she can see herself reflected in those red-and-gold eyes—small, terrified, powerless.
He leans down slightly, as if examining something fragile.
His gloved hand begins to rise—
---And Nita jerks upright in her bed with a violent gasp.---
The darkness of her room replaces the darkness of the road, but her heart doesn't know the difference. It pounds hard against her ribs, as if trying to escape. Sweat clings to her neck. For a moment she doesn't move, doesn't trust that she's awake.
She is twenty-three now.
But the nightmare has not aged.
Her hand fumbles toward the bedside table, finding the glass of water she keeps there every night for this exact reason. The water shakes against the rim as she brings it to her lips. She drinks too quickly and coughs, pressing her palm against her chest until her breathing steadies.
The silence in the house is ordinary. No fire. No screaming. No footsteps.
Still, she rises from the bed as if something might be standing in the corner watching her.
The bathroom light flicks on with a soft click. The mirror greets her with a face that looks composed from a distance—sharp jawline, tired eyes, hair tangled from sleep. Up close, the cracks show.
"You froze," she murmurs to her reflection.
Her voice is low, controlled, but her fingers tighten around the edge of the sink.
"You just sat there."
Her eyes gloss over, but she refuses to let the tears fall. She hates the weakness of tears. Hates the girl on the road who could do nothing but reach.
She leans closer to the mirror.
"What were you?" she whispers.
For a split second, in the corner of the reflection, she imagines a taller shadow behind her. A flicker of red threaded with gold.
Her heart jumps violently.
She spins around.
The bathroom is empty.
Her breathing slows again, but her jaw remains tight. She splashes cold water over her face and pats it dry with sharp, deliberate movements.
"I will find who you are," she says quietly to the empty room.
Downstairs, laughter drifts upward—light, intimate, almost musical.
It feels wrong against the residue of the nightmare.
She changes quickly into dark jeans and a fitted top, tying her hair back with precise movements. She grabs her books and phone before heading downstairs.
The kitchen is bright with morning sunlight. The scent of coffee and butter fills the air. Her mother, Landa, stands at the stove flipping pancakes while a man stands close behind her, his arms loosely wrapped around her waist. He leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek.
"You're going to burn them," he murmurs playfully.
"They're perfect," Landa replies with a soft laugh. "Unlike you."
"Rude. I'm at least medium rare perfection."
She swats him lightly with the spatula. "Go sit. You're in the way."
"I prefer being in your way."
He steals a small piece of pancake and feeds it to her with his fingers. She rolls her eyes but takes the bite anyway, smiling.
Nita stops at the bottom step, expression unreadable.
Her phone vibrates in her hand. Lisa.
She answers, turning slightly away from the scene in the kitchen.
"Tell me you're ready," Lisa says immediately. "And tell me you didn't forget what today is."
"I'm ready," Nita replies calmly. "And I didn't forget. Big presentation. The masterpiece."
Lisa exhales dramatically. "I barely slept. What if the projector doesn't work? What if Professor Mehra asks something we didn't predict?"
"Then we answer," Nita says. "We prepared for everything."
"You sound annoyingly confident."
"That's because I am."
There's a small pause on the other end. "You okay?" Lisa asks more quietly.
"I'm fine."
"That didn't sound convincing."
"I'll see you in thirty minutes. Relax."
"Fine. But if we win top grade, I'm taking full credit."
"In your dreams."
They hang up.
Nita walks into the kitchen without looking directly at the man. She opens the fridge, takes the milk, drinks from it, then grabs an apple from the counter.
"Nita," her mother says gently.
She doesn't respond.
"Nita," Landa repeats, firmer now.
Nita turns slowly, her expression polite but distant. "Yes?"
"I wanted you to meet someone properly."
The man steps forward with a practiced smile. "Hi. I'm Jon."
She studies him openly. Well-groomed. Confident. Slightly uncomfortable under her gaze.
"Congratulations," she says flatly.
He blinks. "For what?"
"You survived breakfast."
Landa sighs softly. "Nita."
Jon forces a small chuckle. "I've heard you're sharp."
"I doubt that," she replies, taking a bite of her apple.
"Oh?"
"If you had, you'd look less relaxed."
Landa crosses her arms. "That's enough."
Jon straightens. "I work in finance. Your mom and I—"
"—met recently," Nita finishes. "I figured."
A faint tension flickers across her mother's face.
"We're serious," Landa says carefully.
Nita nods once, uninterested. "Good for you."
Jon attempts a warmer tone. "I hope we can start fresh."
She holds his gaze for a long moment, then shrugs lightly. "well."
She turns toward the door.
"Be careful driving," her mother calls after her.
Nita pauses at the threshold but doesn't look back.
She steps outside into the morning light. The air is cool, crisp, painfully normal. For a brief second, she feels as if someone is watching her from across the street—a tall, still presence standing just beyond clear sight.
She scans the empty sidewalk.
Nothing.
She unlocks her car and slides inside, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary. As the engine starts, the memory of red and gold eyes flickers behind her own reflection in the windshield.
She doesn't look away this time.
Instead, she whispers under her breath, steady and certain, "let's do it."
And she drives toward college, toward her presentation, toward a life that looks ordinary on the surface—while the fire from years ago continues to burn quietly beneath it.
The applause still lingers in the air when Nita steps away from the crowd, her mind replaying that handshake—cool skin, unreadable eyes, the weight of something unspoken.
Students gather in clusters, laughing, replaying moments from the event. Reporters drift toward the exit. Faculty members shake hands enthusiastically.
She moves through the corridor toward the courtyard, needing air.
Halfway down the steps—
She stops.
Across the crowd, near the iron gates.
A man stands completely still.
Black coat. Black gloves. Black everything.
Face partially covered. Shadow swallowing whatever should be visible beneath.
No one seems to notice him.
But she does.
Her heartbeat shifts violently in her chest.
The same pressure in the air.
The same cold threading through warmth.
And then—
He lifts his head slightly.
For the briefest second, beneath the shadow of the covering, she sees it.
A flicker.
Red.
Gold.
Her fingers go numb.
The noise of the campus dulls around her, like the world is pulling away again.
The man doesn't move closer.
He doesn't need to.
Because she already knows.
He was there that night.
And he is here now.