The Man Who Asks the Wrong Questions
1350 Words
Nyra tells herself she imagined the knock.
The night bleeds into morning in fragments, sleep broken by half-formed dreams of hands grabbing her, of Rowan’s voice saying her name like it meant something dangerous. When sunlight finally slips through the blinds, she feels wrung out, hollowed.
She checks her wrist first thing.
The mark is quiet again. Faint. Dormant. As if it never flared at all.
“Liar,” she mutters to herself, to her body, to the city that keeps pretending it doesn’t know her.
She showers, dresses, and leaves her apartment early. Staying still feels worse than moving. Stillness gives fear room to breathe.
The café on Ninth is small, crowded, and anonymous. She likes it for that reason. She orders black coffee, takes a seat near the window, and positions herself so she can see the door without looking obvious.
Her leg aches when she sits.
She barely notices it anymore just a dull reminder of the night she doesn’t remember clearly enough. But as she shifts her weight, pain flickers sharper than usual.
“Old injury?”
The voice comes from too close.
Nyra looks up.
He’s already sitting across from her.
She didn’t see him approach.
That alone makes her pulse jump.
“Excuse me?” she says coolly.
The man smiles, faint and polite, as if he’s already apologizing for something he hasn’t said yet. He’s handsome in a quiet way clean-cut, dark hair, eyes too observant to be warm. A tweed coat hangs neatly over the back of his chair, untouched coffee steaming between his hands.
“Your leg,” he says. “You favor it when you sit.”
Her fingers tighten around her cup. “I don’t remember inviting company.”
“You didn’t,” he agrees. “But every other table was taken.”
She glances around. The café is busy but not that busy. There’s an empty table two seats over.
She looks back at him. “Then you should move.”
“I could,” he says mildly. “But then I’d miss the way your accent just slipped.”
Her stomach clenches.
“What accent?” she asks.
“The one you don’t realize you use when you’re tired,” he replies. “Just now. On ‘excuse.’ It wasn’t local.”
Her pulse spikes.
She feels it and apparently, so does he.
His eyes flick to her throat.
There it is. The look. Not interest. Not curiosity.
Confirmation.
“Who are you?” she asks, sharper now.
“Silas Crowe,” he says. “Psychology professor. I teach three blocks from here.”
“I don’t care.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you care that I noticed.”
She stands abruptly, chair scraping. Pain flares in her leg and she winces despite herself.
Silas rises too but slower, careful not to crowd her. “Sit,” he says gently. “You’re not ready to put weight on it yet.”
Anger flashes hot and fast. “Don’t tell me what I’m ready for.”
“Fair,” he says. “Then let me rephrase. If you leave now, you’ll limp. You hate that.”
Her breath stutters. She hates that he’s right.
Nyra sits.
Silas resumes his seat, folding his hands neatly. “I’m not here to scare you.”
“Then you’re doing a terrible job.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m here because you’re interesting.”
Her laugh is hollow. “You have no idea.”
“Oh,” he says softly. “I think I do.”
She studies him over the rim of her cup, forcing her expression into something flat. “You sit down at random tables and psychoanalyze strangers?”
“Only the ones who lie with their bodies while their mouths stay quiet.”
She stiffens.
Silas’s gaze tracks it, attentive. Hungry, but not in the way she expects.
“When you walked in,” he continues, “you scanned the exits twice. You chose a seat with your back protected and your dominant hand free. Your shoulders are still tight, even now. You slept badly.”
Her jaw clenches. “Congratulations. You’ve described anxiety.”
“I’ve described someone who’s running,” he corrects. “But hasn’t decided from what.”
She leans forward. “You don’t know anything about me.”
His eyes darken. “Then tell me something true.”
The request lands heavier than it should.
“Why?” she asks.
“Because when people tell the truth,” Silas says, “their pulse steadies.”
She doesn’t answer immediately. She thinks of Rowan. Of the way he said her name like it was already written somewhere else.
“My name is Nyra,” she says at last.
Silas watches her throat, not her eyes.
Her pulse spikes anyway.
His brow furrows, just slightly.
“That,” he murmurs, “hurt.”
Her breath catches. “What?”
He blinks, as if surprised by his own words. “Nothing. Go on.”
She swallows. “I moved here for work. I like quiet places. I keep to myself.”
Each sentence feels rehearsed. Safe. Empty.
With every word, Silas’s expression tightens.
By the time she finishes, he looks… unsettled.
“You’re lying,” he says quietly.
“No,” she snaps. “I’m not.”
He flinches.
Actually flinches.
It’s subtle, but undeniable like someone just pressed on a bruise she can’t see.
He inhales sharply, fingers curling against the table.
Nyra freezes. “What’s wrong with you?”
Silas exhales, slow and controlled, regaining composure with visible effort. “That doesn’t usually happen.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Pain,” he says. “When someone lies.”
The café noise rushes back in around them, too loud, too bright. Nyra’s heart pounds so hard she’s sure everyone can hear it.
“That’s not funny,” she says.
“I’m not joking.”
She stands again, this time steadying herself deliberately. “This conversation is over.”
“Nyra,” he says and the way he says her name makes her skin prickle. Not possession. Recognition.
She pauses despite herself.
“You weren’t attacked last night,” Silas says. “At least, not for the reason you think.”
Ice spreads through her veins.
“You don’t know anything about last night,” she whispers.
“I know trauma,” he replies. “And I know patterns. And I know when something old has resurfaced.”
Her wrist tingles beneath her sleeve.
“Stay away from me,” she says, voice shaking now. “You’re not as clever as you think.”
Silas doesn’t move. He just watches her, eyes searching her face like he’s trying to solve a problem he never expected to see again.
“You’re right,” he says softly. “I’m not clever.”
She turns to leave.
“Nyra,” he calls after her. “Your limp gets worse when you’re afraid. You lean right when you lie. And you stopped breathing for exactly two seconds when I mentioned pain.”
She stops at the door, heart in her throat.
“I don’t know what you are,” Silas continues, calm but intense, “but someone like you doesn’t stay hidden by accident.”
She doesn’t look back.
Outside, the air feels too thin. She walks fast, then faster, ignoring the ache in her leg, the burn in her chest. She doesn’t stop until she’s two blocks away.
Only then does she realize her hands are shaking.
Her phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
Her stomach drops.
She answers without speaking.
Silas’s voice comes through the line, closer now. “I won’t follow you.”
“Then why are you calling?” she demands.
“Because you should know,” he says, almost apologetically, “that most people don’t feel pain when someone lies to them.”
The line goes dead.
Nyra stands frozen on the sidewalk, the city blurring around her, one terrible thought echoing louder than the rest.
What kind of man does?
- Writer
