The hand in mine was wrong. Not because it was cold. Not because it was unfamiliar. But because it did not hesitate.
Kessler always hesitated. Not in movement, but in intention. There was always a fraction of control behind everything he did, a pause so small it was almost invisible, but it was there.
This had none. “You let the wrong one go.” The voice settled against my ear, soft enough to feel personal, steady enough to feel certain.
I did not turn. Not yet. Because turning meant acknowledging it. And I was not ready to give it that.
Kessler stood in front of me. His gaze locked onto mine, sharp and focused in a way that cut through everything else.
“Mabel,” he said. “Do not move.” The command landed. But something inside me had already shifted inward, Like a space I had not known
