SIR
It’s impossible, familiar in a way that reaches back further than memory should allow, and every rational part of his brain insists he must be hearing things, some trick of exhaustion and adrenaline layering a ghost over a stranger’s voice.
Eli’s throat constricts, turning completely dry. His breath hitches in his chest, his mind frantically rejecting the auditory information hitting his ears. It isn’t possible. It must be a trick. A soundboard, a voice synthesizer, a psychological game designed to break his focus before the kill.
“Who are you?” Eli demands in a tight voice, strain showing in every syllable as he blinks rapidly through the dim light, trying to parse the silhouette standing i