I managed to get home unharmed, but I couldn't shake off the fear and terror clinging to me like smoke. It felt like a bad dream—something straight out of a horror movie, not real life. Things like that didn't happen to people like me. Not in my quiet, boring world of dust, artifacts, and research papers.
Even the hallway outside my apartment felt wrong as I walked through it—too quiet, too hollow, like the building itself was holding its breath. My keys jingled loudly in my shaking hand, and the moment the lock clicked open, I slipped inside and shut the door behind me as if something might have followed close behind.
I locked the door twice. Drew the curtains. Checked every corner of the apartment like I was expecting the shadows to move.
Nothing did.
But the silence didn't feel comforting. It felt heavy, like it was waiting.
Eventually, I changed out of my clothes and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. My hands were trembling. My mind kept replaying the whisper, the flickering lights, the gust of wind that had come from nowhere. The museum's sterile floors. That symbol carved into the stone tablet. The way it mirrored the one on my skin.
"This is insane," I muttered to myself, forcing out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Completely insane."
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the memory. My heart hadn't stopped beating too fast since the moment I'd run out of the exhibit hall. Every time I blinked, I saw the tablet again. That symbol staring back at me like it knew me.
I needed to rest. To stop thinking.
So I crawled under the covers, turned off the lamp, and decided to sleep it all off. Just one night of dreamless sleep—that's all I wanted. No more weird symbols, no more voices, no more mysteries.
Sleep came quickly. Heavy and deep.
…
I don't know how long I'd been asleep when my body started to stir on its own. Restless. Uneasy. Something inside me whispered that I wasn't alone.
A cold prickle traveled up my spine, the kind you get when someone stands too close behind you. The room felt different—like the air had thickened around me.
My eyelids fluttered open.
And I froze.
A shadowy figure loomed over me—close enough that I could smell something metallic, like blood or rust.
He was holding a pillow.
For a single second, my brain refused to process what I was seeing. My mind tried to make it into anything else—a dream, a hallucination, maybe I left the TV on and this was some strange reflection.
Then instinct kicked in.
Before I could scream, the pillow came down hard over my face.
The world turned into muffled darkness. I thrashed, clawing, trying to breathe as the weight pressed against me. Panic shot through every nerve in my body. My legs jerked violently under the blanket. I kicked, jerked, tried to twist away, but he was strong—too strong.
His body pressed down on mine, pinning me to the mattress like a trapped animal. I could hear his breath—harsh, uneven, like he was putting everything he had into keeping me down.
My lungs burned.
My nails scraped against the fabric of the pillow, then the skin of his hands, but he didn't budge.
My hands searched blindly for anything—anything I could use. My fingers brushed against the cool metal of my bedside lamp.
Without thinking, I grabbed it and hurled it forward.
It connected with a dull, solid thud.
The man grunted—a deep, pained sound that told me I'd hit my mark. The weight lifted for just a second. That was enough.
I shoved the pillow away, gasping for air, and rolled off the bed. The carpet scraped my knees, but I didn't care. My heart was going wild, hammering against my ribs. My throat was burning, each breath a desperate drag of life back into my body.
I didn't look back. I bolted.
Barefoot, I sprinted for the door, yanked it open, and stumbled into the stairwell. The echo of my footsteps and his behind me filled the silence. The sound bounced off the concrete walls, amplifying my panic.
He was right on my trail.
I slammed through the exit door that led to the fire escape, my hands slick with sweat. The night air hit my face—cold, damp, full of city noise. Somewhere a siren wailed, distant but real. I clattered down the metal steps as fast as I could, the rusted railing cold beneath my grip. Twice my foot slipped, and each time I felt a shock of terror shoot through me—if I fell, that'd be it.
By the time my feet hit the alley below, my lungs were screaming.
The streetlight at the end of the alley flickered weakly.
I ran for it.
Every step hurt. My body felt like it was running in syrup, heavy and slow. The ground was rough and cold beneath my bare feet, scraping the skin on my soles.
But before I could reach the main road, I hit a wall. Literally. A dead end.
My stomach dropped.
I turned just in time to see the shadowy figure charging toward me.
He tackled me to the ground, his arm snapping around my neck in a brutal chokehold.
"You die here, you stupid bitch," he hissed, his accent thick, maybe Eastern European. The grip tightened. My vision blurred, black dots swimming in and out. My head pounded violently as my body fought for oxygen.
I clawed at his arm, kicking, trying to scream, but my voice barely came out. Each second felt like a countdown to something final.
Then—suddenly—a heavy crack echoed through the alley. Like metal hitting bone.
The man's body went limp.
He collapsed beside me.
I gasped, dragging in air like it was gold. My throat ached, my chest hurt, my entire body trembling from adrenaline. I rolled onto my hands and knees, coughing hard, tears running down my face without me even noticing.
Through the blur of tears and streetlight, I saw another figure standing over the man—tall, solid, holding what looked like a metal pipe. The shape of him was steady, grounded, nothing like the chaos swirling inside me.
"You okay?" the stranger asked.
His voice was rough but calm. Familiar.
I couldn't find my words. I managed a weak nod, even though I doubted he could see it clearly in the dim light. My body felt disconnected, floating, numb but painfully aware at the same time.
He crouched for a second, muttering under his breath. "What's a rogue doing here?"
Rogue?
Was that supposed to mean something?
I didn't have the brain capacity to ask.
Then he straightened and took out his phone, speaking low and quick into it. His tone was clipped, efficient—someone used to giving orders. A few minutes later, a black van pulled up at the mouth of the alley, and a few men climbed out—big, built, military-looking types with the kind of expression that said this wasn't their first time doing something like this.
My rescuer turned to me, his face finally visible under the streetlight.
And my breath caught.
"Oh, it's you?" he said, half-smiling. "Still getting yourself into trouble, eh, girl?"
The British man from the bar.
Of course it was him.
Because my life wasn't weird enough already.
I just stared, too exhausted and stunned to respond. My brain couldn't decide whether to laugh, cry, or pass out. Probably all three.
He and his men lifted the unconscious attacker effortlessly, dragging him toward the van. None of them looked at me again. It was like I was background noise in their much bigger, stranger operation.
A few seconds later, the van door slammed shut, the engine roared to life, and they were gone.
Leaving me there—cold, barefoot, and shaking—in the middle of a dark alley.
Alone.
Completely, terrifyingly alone.