The sound lands between my shoulder blades like a hand.
I stop.
Not like I’ve been caught.
Like I’ve been chosen.
Like a marionette waiting for the string to pull.
I don’t turn.
I don’t have to.
Because I hear the steps.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Boots on concrete.
He doesn’t call my name.
Doesn’t say anything at all.
But I feel it when he gets close enough to inhale me.
That pause.
That stillness.
Like the world holds its breath just long enough to watch me fall.
I turn my head a fraction.
And there he is.
Standing close enough to touch me, but he doesn’t.
Dressed in black like the night built him out of shadows and violence, face half-lit by the pale, overcast light, and eyes exactly as cold and unblinking as I remember — like he’s not surprised I stopped.
Like he knew I would.
And that’s what makes my knees weak.
Not the fear.
The accuracy.
He knows me.
Better than I do.
And I don’t know if I want to run or fucking kneel.
He tilts his head, mouth curved just a hint.
Like he’s proud of me.
