Leyla and I are left standing near the stairs, the quiet rushing in to fill the space they leave behind.
Now that the urgency has loosened its grip, my hands start to shake. Not violently—just enough to remind me that my body hasn’t caught up to the fact that we survived this part. I let out a soft, breathless laugh that surprises even me, and lean my shoulder against a crate to steady myself.
“You look terrible,” I tell Leyla gently, the words coming out warmer than the joke implies. I don’t know what to feel at this moment but I know that the world is really feeling like some sort of sick joke and I just want things to stop hurting, and this might honestly be the first step toward my life being okay again.
She huffs a tired laugh, rubbing at her face. “You should’ve seen me last month.”
I pull her into another hug, slower this time, careful of how fragile she feels beneath my hands. She’s thinner, her movements cautious, but she’s real. Solid. Alive. The relief of it presses so hard against my ribs it almost hurts. I knew deep down that she was alive—so did Zack. And despite everything that we’ve gone through today, I know that we’re together again, and nothing can go wrong.
“I kept thinking you weren’t real,” I admit quietly. “Like my brain made you up so I wouldn’t lose it.”
Leyla smiles faintly, exhaustion lining every feature. “I tried really hard to stay real.”
We sit together on an overturned crate, knees brushing, the vast emptiness of the warehouse stretching around us. Shetells me pieces of it, all the way days bled together, how Cameron counted time by meals and light changes, how silence became both weapon and refuge. I listen, memorizing her voice, grounding myself in it.
“And you?” she asks after a moment, studying my face with an intensity that makes me feel transparent. “You’re different.”
I think of Zack—of his quiet this morning, of the way he pulled inward like he was bracing for impact. Of the words I said last night that I can’t take back and don’t regret.
“A lot happened,” I say carefully. “But I’m…okay. Better than okay.”
Her gaze sharpens with understanding. “You’re in love.”
I don’t deny it. There’s no point anymore. “Yeah.”
The softness drains from her expression instantly, replaced by urgency. She leans closer, lowering her voice until it’s just for me. “Then you need to listen to me. Right now.”
Something in her tone tightens my chest.
“Hazel,” she says, gripping my wrist. “The Whispering Killer?—”
The gunshot detonates through the warehouse, loud enough to feel instead of hear, the crack echoing off metal and concrete until it feels like the building itself is screaming.
I scream, too, the sound tearing out of me as I jump to my feet, heart slamming so hard it steals my breath. My head snaps toward the noise just in time to see Zack stumble back into view, his chest heaving violently as blood blossoms dark and fast across his shirt. His head hits the wall hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs as he slides down, teeth clenched against pain he refuses to acknowledge.
“Zack!” I shout, my body already lunging toward him, but I don’t get far.
Leyla is yanked backward so violently it knocks the breath from her chest, and steel flashes in the light. A knife pressesagainst her throat, close enough that a thin red line appears instantly, bright and terrible against her skin.
The woman holding her steps fully into view.
Detective Alexandra.
Alex.
She looks exactly the same as she always has—composed, calm, almost kind, like she’s walked into the middle of a situation she fully expected to manage. The gun hangs loosely in her other hand, a faint curl of smoke still rising from the barrel as if she didn’t just shatter the world with it.
“I was wondering how long it would take you,” she says mildly, as though this is a casual conversation instead of a nightmare unfolding. “You always did have a talent for finding what you weren’t supposed to.”
Leyla goes rigid in her grip, her breath coming fast and shallow. I can feel my own pulse roaring in my ears as my world fractures into two unbearable points.
Zack—slumped against the wall, blood soaking through his shirt, fighting to push himself upright despite the way his body clearly isn’t cooperating.
Leyla—trembling, held tight against Alex’s chest, the knife promising devastation with the slightest movement.
Alex’s eyes lock onto mine, steady and calculating.
“Here’s the problem, Hazel,” she says softly. “I don’t have time for theatrics.”
