I wake up sweating.
For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The ceiling above me is too high, too smooth, and pale morning light slips through tall windows. My heart pounds—not fast, but heavy, deliberate, as if it’s measuring something I can’t see.
The words echo in my head, sharp and unmistakable.
They will force your hand.
I sit up abruptly, breath shallow, scanning the room. The sheets are twisted around my legs, my fingers ache where I’ve been clenching into fists. The room is silent. No shadows press down. No presence hovers. Just the faint murmur of life in the house, footsteps and voices far below.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
I press my palm to my sternum, grounding myself. The voice doesn’t return. That almost makes it worse.
Was it real? Or a dream?
I swing my legs over
