Maryelle
The pale yellow walls of my room seem to close in, suffocating, shrinking. My pulse drums in my ears, panic rising like a tide I can’t push back. I stagger away from my desk, limbs unsteady, breath shallow. The screen—now black—still feels like it’s screaming at me.
Phantom was attacked.
Phantom was hurt.
Phantom might be—
No.
I grip the edge of my bed, forcing air into my lungs. My hands tremble as I fumble for my phone, dropping it twice before clutching it against my chest. My heart beats like a warning, a clock ticking down to something I can’t stop.
Breathe, Maryelle. Phantom can handle himself. He’s strong. He’s alive.
I repeat the words like a prayer, like an anchor keeping me from drowning. But every unanswered call chips away at that fragile hope.
