chapter 3
1741 Words
POV: Evelyn
The envelope’s still in my bag. I haven’t touched it again, but I swear it’s burning through the lining. Like it knows I’m thinking about it. Like it wants out.
I slam my front door harder than I mean to. Whole frame rattles. I lean back against it, chest rising too fast, fingers scrabbling for the deadbolt.
Three locks.
I do all three. Then I go back and check them again, which is stupid, but my hand’s shaking and I don’t trust my eyes right now. Or my memory. Or anything, really.
I drop the bag. Right by the hallway light switch. Don’t even look at it. Can’t.
My fingers still throb. That envelope—whatever the hell it’s made of—felt like dry ice. Or copper wire stripped bare and shoved in a socket.
It’s not bleeding anymore. But the skin looks off-color. Bruised from the inside.
I haven’t reopened it since the lot. Don’t need to. The words are stitched in my head now, like a migraine you can’t dig out.
You belong to me now.
I stand in the kitchen for maybe a minute. Maybe an hour.
Staring at the microwave clock like it’ll do something.
4:12 a.m.
I swear I watched it jump. Or maybe I blinked. Doesn’t matter. Time’s wrong. Everything’s wrong.
There’s this… static. No. Not static.
Something brushing up behind my thoughts. Like a whisper, but not in any language. More like pressure. Like a feeling that doesn’t have words. Animal. Wet teeth and dark woods and breath on the back of my neck—
I clamp down. Hard.
It’s just adrenaline. Just fatigue. My body’s shot full of cortisol. That’s all. I’ve been up twenty-eight—no, thirty hours now. That’s all.
That’s it.
Still—
My phone buzzes. Loud. Too loud. I flinch so hard I knock over the mug beside the sink.
Unknown number. No name.
But I answer.
I don’t even know why. I just—my hand moves. Thumb swipes.
“Evelyn,” the voice says.
Low. Male. I know it.
I’ve heard it behind surgical masks and code-blue chaos.
That doctor.
Marcus.
The one from Trauma. The one with the fog. The gas. The weird not-explanation and the flat eyes.
“We need to talk,” he says. “Somewhere no one can hear us.”
No greeting. No pause.
I don’t ask questions.
I don’t even think.
I’m moving before I’ve hung up. Scrubs. Jacket. Shoes I didn’t tie all the way. I take the stairs because the elevator feels wrong and I don’t want the light in there.
Ten minutes later I’m pushing open the roof door.
It groans loud as hell.
The air slaps me. Cold and sharp. My cheeks go numb in seconds.
He’s already here. Pacing in tight loops, head down, sleeves shoved to the elbows, no coat, no clipboard.
No badge.
He sees me.
Then he sees my bag.
“You got the envelope?”
I pull it out. Real slow. Like it’s a bomb.
Hold it by the corner. Between two fingers. It’s colder now. Still feels like it’s watching me.
I don’t hand it over.
“s**t,” he mutters. Hand dragging across his face like he hasn’t slept and he’s trying to scrub that fact off.
I don’t wait.
“What the hell is happening?”
I’m shaking now. Not sure when that started.
“That guy—the one in Trauma—his body did something. It wasn’t seizure. It wasn’t human. I saw it. And my skin’s been burning. And I’m feeling things that don’t belong to me.”
“You’re not crazy,” he blurts. Fast. Too fast.
Something in me snaps.
I step toward him. My voice goes raw. “Say that again.”
He hesitates. Like he’s picking words out of broken glass. Mouth parts, closes again. Then—just—sighs. Real slow.
Eyes on the skyline like he’s trying to lose himself in something bigger. “You’re not crazy,” he says, and the pause after is thick. “Just… new. To our world.”
I laugh. I don’t mean to. It comes out like a bark. Loud. Ugly. “What the f**k does that mean?”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me. Like I’m the one slipping. Which maybe—maybe.
“It means what you saw was real.” His voice is quieter now. Lower. Like it’s meant for me only, like it doesn’t want the rooftop to hear. “That man? He wasn’t… normal.”
Nope.
Nope, f**k that.
I flinch. The word hits a nerve I didn’t know I had. “Normal” is something you say when you’re trying not to say crazy. I try to fix it in my head, twist it into something I can file away. Adrenaline spike. Patient delirium. Hallucination triggered by trauma exposure. I’ve read the papers. I’ve written the f*****g assessments.
“Not normal?” I echo. But it comes out hollow, like my throat gave up halfway through. “Is this a psych eval?”
He shakes his head. Not slow, not fast. Just… final. “No tests. No meds. Just truth.”
And then he says it. All of it.
Territories. Hierarchies. Packs—he doesn’t use that word yet, not exactly, but it’s what he’s describing. Hidden networks. Supervised sectors. Influence maps drawn in blood and teeth, not politics or licenses. He tells me I’ve been living inside it. Working in it. For years.
I feel sick.
“That’s not possible,” I whisper. It doesn’t even sound like me. “I would’ve known.”
“You didn’t know what to look for.”
The wind slices through my sleeves. Cuts the sweat right off my skin. I wrap my arms around myself, but it’s pointless. My body’s cold, sure, but the chill’s inside now.
And then I say it.
“He said I belonged to him.”
I don’t look up.
My voice comes out small. Child-small. Like I’m seven again and trying to explain to a teacher why I didn’t speak up when the other girls started bleeding first.
“Why would he say that?”
Marcus looks away. Won’t hold my eyes. His jaw’s tight. That same muscle twitches, over and over, like something under his skin is trying to get out.
I ask again. Louder this time, but not—stable. “Why would he say that, Marcus?”
He doesn’t jump to answer. Just breathes. Like every inhale has splinters in it. And then finally: “It’s a claim.” He hesitates, like the word itself tastes wrong. “Primal. Once made, it’s... not easy to reverse.”
I laugh. It’s not funny, but my mouth’s doing what it wants again. “I’m not a f*****g object.”
“I know.”
“He can’t just—claim me. That’s not how people work.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t say you’re right or he won’t. Just stands there, arms loose at his sides like he’s trying not to move.
“What did he do to me?”
Marcus’s voice is quieter now. “I don’t know yet. But stay away from him.” He says it like it’s a math equation. Like gravity. “Dominic Kane is dangerous.”
He doesn’t add anything to that. Doesn’t explain how or why or what kind of dangerous. He doesn’t have to.
“He takes what he wants,” I say, not sure if I’m quoting or guessing or just—spitting the dread out loud.
He doesn’t deny it.
—
Hospital lights again. Fluorescent. Too clean. Too white. Everything smells like bleach and copper pennies and latex gloves pulled on too fast.
The new transfers aren’t real. I mean—they’re here. I charted them. Touched them. But the names don’t track. No files. No next of kin. One didn’t even have an intake bracelet.
One of them watches me.
Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t stop. His eyes—something wrong. Yellow around the edges like a sick dog. And his lips move, but there’s no sound. No language I know. Just—noise. And somehow I feel it in my molars.
He goes limp when the sedative hits. But I swear—swear—I still hear the sound.
It follows me.
Even when I strip my gloves. My hands are shaking so bad I nearly rip one. My scrubs are sticky at the thighs, not sure if it’s blood or something else. I can smell it.
Break room. I scrub my arms like I’m trying to dig into bone. I don’t stop until the antiseptic drowns everything. My skin’s red. Doesn’t matter.
Another nurse comes in, all casual. Holding coffee like the world isn’t splitting open. “You okay?”
I lie. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She looks at me longer than I want her to. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
I force something out. “Something like that.”
—
My apartment’s wrong. I don’t know how else to say it. It just feels wrong. Every corner feels like it’s leaning closer. Every noise too loud or too far away. I leave the TV on because—hell, I don’t know. Noise is better than thinking.
The envelope’s still on the counter. I don’t touch it.
I step into the shower. Hot water. Scalding. I want it to hurt. I want the night peeled off my body.
Then it hits me.
The back of my neck—searing. Like a hot coin pressed flat against the skin. I freeze.
My hand’s still on the faucet.
Then a sound. Low. Deep. It doesn’t belong to the pipes. It doesn’t belong anywhere in this building. It’s a growl.
I spin. Barefoot. Wet. Water dripping down my spine, cold now.
And he’s there.
In my living room.
No blood. No bruises. No oxygen mask or IV. Just presence. Like the air around him bends.
His hood’s low. His eyes—gold. Not hazel. Not warm. Gold like a warning.
He looks at me like I already made a choice I don’t remember making.
“I told you, little nurse,” he says, voice rough as gravel and smooth as smoke, like both at once, “you’re mine now.”
I don’t scream. I don’t move.
But my pulse is thundering. Loud enough I can hear it in my teeth.
- Writer
