A bitter laugh escaped before I could stop it. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”
I extended my hand.
“So, are you ready to come with me?”
He stared at it momentarily, then placed his hand in mine.
“Yes,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’d like that very much.”
When we climbed the steps to my apartment, the sun still blazed outside, casting golden light on the sidewalk—but inside, the air felt strangely cool, almost sterile.
Jack hesitated at the threshold, blinking as if the sudden shift from sunlight to shadows had disoriented him.
“Come in, come in. Don’t be shy,” I said, giving him a gentle but deliberate nudge through the doorway.
He stumbled inside like someone not quite used to having legs.
At the sound of our arrival, Lee emerged from the bedroom, stretching lazily and blinking at the noise. His gaze landed on Jack, and for a moment, he said nothing—just studied him, the way a predator might assess a newcomer to the territory.
But then something in Lee shifted. Maybe it was Jack’s awkward innocence or his wide-eyed curiosity. Whatever it was, Lee softened, his posture relaxing as he launched into a story about his Native American ancestors—their deep connection to the land, the legends passed down, the sacred ties to time and spirit.
Jack listened intently, nodding, asking quiet questions that showed he absorbed Lee’s words.
I remained standing where I was, awkwardly frozen. I wasn’t used to being the one overlooked.
As I opened my mouth to interject, Lee said, “You and your brother look so much alike.”
Jack blinked. “I don’t have a brother. I’m an only child.”
Lee paused—just a beat too long—then offered a casual shrug. “Oh, my mistake. I was talking about someone else.”
I shot Lee a pointed glare. He, of course, ignored it.
“I’m going out to grab some food,” I said, louder than necessary. “Jack, do you want to come with me?”
He barely turned. “No, thank you. I’m enjoying my conversation with Lee.”
His soft, genuine smile was the first I’d ever seen on him. It made him… almost handsome. It also made something twist inside me.
“Suit yourself,” I muttered, turning sharply on my heel and stepping back into the sunlight.
The street outside buzzed faintly with traffic, the distant hum of the city. As I descended the steps, a man approached from theopposite end of the sidewalk. He walked with a limp, hunched slightly from age or injury.
He looked around fifty, with round spectacles perched on his nose. Everything about him was muted—his clothing, posture, and plain, unremarkable face. He seemed like someone who belonged in a dusty library, hunched over ancient manuscripts, forgotten by the world.
I was about to step around him when he shifted, blocking my path.
“Excuse me,” I said, startled. “You’re in my way.”
He looked up, and something in me recoiled.
His eyes were black, void of anything remotely human. The shadow of a hood obscured the rest of his face, but the intensity in his stare made the hairs on my neck rise.
“I know about you,” he said, voice low and raspy, like gravel scraping metal. “We’ve never met face-to-face, but I know exactly who you are.”
I froze, rooted to the pavement by fear and confusion.
“Did Zara send you?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.
