A rhythm I can feel before I hear it, syncing with my pulse until I don’t know which is mine and which is his.
The room smells of sweat, smoke, and rain on metal.
Somewhere, music drips from a speaker – low bass, a heartbeat made of sound.
I’m standing. No – leaning. Pressed between a wall and a body that moves like it’s always known where I’ll be.
“Trust me,” he murmurs.
The words drag over my skin like teeth. I want to say no. I want to mean it.
Instead, I tilt my head back and breathe him in.
Every movement feels deliberate, measured, the same precision I once reserved for cutting. He touches me the way I used to touch my instruments – testing weight, edge, resistance. And when I shiver, it isn’t fear that floods me. It’s recognition.
The same pulse that guided my hand now throbs behind my ribs.
“Easy,” he says. “You don’t have to fight.”
But fighting is all I know.
I trace the line of his jaw, feel the scrape of stubble, the warmth underneath. My nails bite into his shoulder; he exhales, low and pleased. The sound curls through me, dangerous and sweet.
There’s a moment – small, breathless – when I think I could disappear into it. Into him. No knives. No blood. Just the dizzying, terrifying quiet of being seen.
Then the light flickers.
For a heartbeat, the wall behind him becomes stainless steel. His breath smells like antiseptic. The rhythm under my skin stutters, mechanical now, too even, too cold.
“Stay with me,” he whispers.
But his voice warps – deepens – splits into two.
One soft. One clinical.
The pressure at my throat changes; the heat becomes chill metal. Hands that were tender a moment ago are gloved.
The hum is louder now – steady, relentless.
“Pulse rising,” someone says. “Increase the dosage.”
“No—” I try to speak, but the word dissolves on my tongue.
A sharp hiss.
Liquid fire in my veins.
The world tilts.
His face blurs to light and shadow, love and warning tangled together.
Then nothing.
CASE FILE - HONEY
Name: Emerson Mead
Age: 32
