I woke up with a sharp inhale, my chest rising too quickly as if I had been pulled out of something deeper than sleep. For a moment, I didn't move. The ceiling above me wasn't mine. Rough stone stretched unevenly overhead, dark and unfamiliar, and it took a few slow blinks before my vision settled properly. My body felt heavy, but my mind was already racing, trying to catch up with something it didn't understand.
I pushed myself up too fast, and the world tilted instantly. A wave of dizziness hit hard enough to force my hand against the edge of the bed to steady myself. I stayed there for a second, breathing unevenly, trying to make sense of where I was. This wasn't my room. The walls were stone, the air felt different, still in a way that didn't belong anywhere familiar. There was a table, a chair, nothing more. No window I recognized. No sign of anything normal.
My heartbeat picked up.
I swung my legs off the bed anyway, ignoring the lingering unsteadiness, my eyes scanning the room again as if something would suddenly explain itself. It didn't.
"Stay where you are."
The voice came from behind me.
I froze.
Slowly, I turned.
He was standing near the wall.
The same one from before.
And just like that, everything came back at once—the street, the figures, the way they had been moving closer, the moment everything had changed.
"No…" I muttered under my breath.
This wasn't real.
I took a step back, my eyes fixed on him. "What did you do?" I asked, my voice sharper now, steadier than I felt.
"Nothing."
"That's not possible."
My gaze dropped for a second—and paused.
This wasn't what I had been wearing.
The fabric was different. Smooth. Fitted in a way that felt too precise to be accidental, falling naturally as if it had been chosen rather than put on. A muted shade between grey and silver caught the dim light, subtle but intentional.
I frowned slightly, brushing my fingers against it. "I don't remember wearing this."
There was a brief pause.
Then—"You weren't."
I looked up immediately. "Then how did—"
"It was necessary."
That was it.
No explanation. No hesitation.
I stared at him for a second longer, but something about the way he said it made it clear I wasn't getting anything more.
I exhaled quietly, running a hand through my hair—and stopped.
Something felt different.
My fingers slowed as they moved through it, and without thinking, I turned toward the mirror placed against the wall. For a second, I just stared. My hair fell softer than usual, less controlled, strands slipping naturally over my shoulders. My face looked the same, but sharper somehow, like something had shifted without changing.
"You did something," I said.
"No."
I glanced at him through the mirror. "Then why do I look like this?"
He didn't answer immediately. When I turned to face him, his gaze was already on me. Not surprised. Not impressed. Just watching.
"You take after her," he said.
I frowned. "After who?"
"Your mother."
I went still. "…You knew her?"
"Not well."
That didn't sound convincing. "Then how do you know what she looked like?"
"She had the same presence."
That wasn't an answer either.
"You're avoiding the question."
"I'm answering enough."
I let out a quiet breath, shaking my head. "You keep saying that."
"And you keep expecting more."
Silence stretched between us. I looked down at my hands again. Normal. Nothing unusual.
But I remembered.
"They were real," I said quietly.
"Yes."
"They were coming closer."
"Yes."
"And then…" I hesitated. "…that happened."
"You lost control."
"I pushed them back."
"You nearly collapsed doing it."
I didn't respond. Because he wasn't wrong.
"Are they coming back?" I asked.
"Yes."
My chest tightened slightly. "When?"
"Soon."
That wasn't enough time.
"And next time?"
His gaze didn't shift. "You won't last as long."
Silence followed, heavier this time.
"This is insane," I said.
"It is."
At least he admitted that.
I looked at him again, properly this time. He wasn't confused. Wasn't uncertain. He knew exactly what was happening—and he still chose not to explain.
"You knew something would happen," I said.
"I knew it might."
"And you just watched?"
"Yes."
That hit harder than I expected. "Why?"
A brief pause. "To see if you would survive it."
"That's it?"
"For now."
I exhaled, frustration settling in. "If they come back, I'm not standing there again."
"That would be a mistake."
"Doing nothing is worse."
A small pause.
"If you act without control," he said, "you won't get a second chance."
I held his gaze. "Then I don't really have a choice."
For a moment, he didn't respond.
Then—"No," he said quietly. "You don't."
The silence that followed felt different.
He turned, moving toward the doorway.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"To confirm something."
"About what?"
He stopped, glancing back at me.
"Whether you survive what comes next."
Something about the way he said it—calm, certain—made something in my chest tighten in a way I didn't understand.
"And if I don't?" I asked.
A brief pause.
"Then this ends sooner than expected."
And with that, he walked out.
I stood there, staring at the empty doorway, my thoughts refusing to settle into anything clear. My heart was still racing, my head still aching, nothing feeling normal.
But one thing was certain.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.
If he was already thinking about how this would end…
then why did it feel like I had only just stepped into the beginning?