It's her

“It’s her,” Iden breathed—barely audible, like the wind had to lean in to catch it.

His fingers trembled. Ana’s warmth slipped from his hand as he backed away. A few bills fluttered to the café table. The note crinkled as he stuffed it into his pocket—then he was gone.

The door slammed behind him, the bell above it chiming far too sweetly for what had just cracked open inside him.

Outside, the heat hit like a slap. Sunlight bouncing off metal, coffee-stained air tangled with car exhaust. His lungs burned. His heart hammered—wild, primal.

Where did she go?

Those eyes.

Purple . Sharp. Too knowing.

Or was the light playing games again?

Now?

Gone.

Like smoke trailing from a blown-out match.

Was it her? A ghost? A trick of memory?

'But if it was just memory, what the fuck this goddamn note doing in my pocket?'

Footsteps behind him. Fast. Sharp.

“Iden!” Ana’s voice cut through the heat. “What the hell was that?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned, his face drawn tight—mask-like.

“Who sent you that note? What did it say?”

He blinked once.

“Nothing.”

The word dropped between them like a guillotine.

Then, without ceremony, he grabbed her hand—not gently—and pulled her away from the café, weaving through the crowd like a man chased by ghosts.

“Let’s go.”

As their figures disappeared into the sunlit street, a presence lingered in the shade.

Behind the trunk of a flame tree, a figure leaned into the bark. Still. Silent. Watching.

A flicker of orange as a lighter sparked. The brief flame illuminated a pair of cold, steel eyes beneath a black hood.

She inhaled, slow and deep, cigarette tip glowing.

“Didn’t you say you were insane in love?” she whispered into the breeze, voice like silk stretched over a blade.

She exhaled.

“Maybe not. But you’re about to be… soon.”

Ash floated down. The cigarette hit the ground and was crushed under her boot like a keepsake she no longer needed.

---

The office glowed gold with late sunlight. Lines of it slashed through floor-to-ceiling glass, casting long shadows on the marble below.

Iden stood still, hands in his pockets, staring out at the city like he could command it to give her back.

To everyone else, he was a monument—flawless, godlike, untouched.

But inside?

A warzone. All ash and artillery.

Behind him, the soft hiss of the door opening.

James stepped in, hesitant. He looked at Iden and paused, breath held.

He always paused before speaking to him. Something about this man—like he was forged in fire, still cooling.

Iden didn’t move. “Talk.”

James cleared his throat and set a folder on the desk—carefully. Like it might detonate.

“Miss Stone. She served a year in prison. Attempted suicide... multiple times. Diagnosed with major depressive disorder. Screamed most nights. Mute during the day.”

Iden’s jaw twitched.

“They called her haunted. Said she saw ghosts. Real ones. Not metaphor.”

Silence.

“She was transferred,” James continued, “to a psychiatric facility. Reserved for life-sentenced inmates.”

A pause. Weighted.

“That place…” He hesitated. “It's where the state forgets people. There’s talk—experiments. Human testing. No oversight. No paper trails.”

“And now?”

James looked away, just for a second.

“Two years. No death record. No visits. No body. No digital footprint. Just... gone.”

Iden inhaled slowly through his nose.

“She’s not dead,” he said, quiet, firm. “She’s too stubborn to die.”

James nodded once and left, fast.

He’d seen that look before.

Obsession, yes—but now sharpened by something darker. Regret.

---

Now alone, Iden whispered:

“Fuck.”

The air was still, thick with memory.

> “I’m not sure when I fell in love with you.”

> “Please save me, Iden.”

It echoed. Bounced off the walls like the last words of someone already fading.

The ward came back in fragments.

The room sterile.

Her skin—pale, thin, almost luminous under fluorescent lights.

Wrists wrapped in gauze.

Gown slipping off one shoulder like paper too tired to cling.

She’d looked up. Hollow-eyed. Small.

> “You came,” she whispered. “Took you long enough.”

She reached out—tentative.

He didn’t take her hand.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t stay.

He left.

That image bled behind his eyelids now like a wound that refused to close.

> “We are done for this life.”

The way she said it. Like truth. Like prophecy.

Her laugh—the kind that made rooms colder.

Her cuffs. Her silence.

His guilt.

He sat. Buried his face in his hands.

“Why does it feel like I’m being flayed alive by my own choices?”

He opened a drawer. Pulled out a photo.

Edges frayed.

Stained by tears, time, maybe something more.

His fingers hovered over her face.

“She got what she deserved,” he muttered.

But the words were weightless.

If that were true—why did the air still tremble with her?

Watching me?

He stood.

Back straight.

Shoulders squared.

Darkness blooming behind his eyes.

“If you’re alive…” he said to the empty room, “I’ll find you.”

A pause. A breath.

“I’ll chain you to me. This time, I won’t let you run.”

---

Elsewhere

A villa near the coast. Silk sheets tangled around the legs of a man in his fifties. Tanned. Trim. Used to getting what he wanted.

The woman beside him stirred—barely legal. Flawless in the artificial way.

Forgettable.

His phone vibrated.

He grabbed it with a groan.

“What?”

A voice on the other end: “She’s back.”

He stilled.

Blood iced over.

“Kill her,” he hissed. “Before she gets to me.”

The woman blinked awake. “Baby? What’s wrong?”

He shoved her away like trash.

“Don’t touch me, you whore. Get out.”

---

Nightfall: No Second Chances

The city slept beneath a full moon.

Quiet. But not safe.

A figure ascended the banyan tree—silent as smoke. Boots barely kissed the bark.

The second-floor balcony. The knob turned.

Unlocked.

Inside, a woman stirred.

A creak. A whisper of movement.

“Who’s there?” she called softly, eyes still half-lidded from sleep.

Silence answered.

The shadow moved closer.

A flick of steel—quick and clean under moonlight.

One breath caught. One second suspended.

The scream never came.