The silence wasn't normal.
The room felt too heavy.
Too full.
Like the walls themselves were holding their breath.
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to think. To focus.
I needed answers.
And he wasn't awake to give them to me.
My eyes flickered to the room around me.
Everything was perfect.
Too perfect.
The pens on his desk were lined up like they had been measured. The books sat in a precise row, spines unbroken, dustless, untouched. Even the chair was tucked in at an exact right angle.
Nothing human.
A person like him—someone this obsessed with control—wouldn't leave clues behind.
Unless he made a mistake.
I turned to his desk.
Locked.
I checked the nightstand. Empty.
I crouched down, running a hand along the underside of the desk. Nothing.
My pulse was unsteady now, the weight of everything pressing into my ribs.
There had to be something.
Something telling me why he was the way he was.
Why people kept dying.
I turned toward the bookshelf—
And then—
A whisper.
I froze.
It was so quiet at first that I thought I had imagined it.
But then—
"No—"
A sharp inhale.
"—not supposed to—"
A shiver passed through him.
"Let her go—Sae "
Me? Someone was holding me?
His voice was hoarse, strained.
And then—a name.
A name I had never heard before.
"Nihil."
The word crawled down my spine.
"Please"
I turned.
He was still out of it, still caught in whatever nightmare he was drowning in.
But his fingers—
They were digging into his wrist.
His breathing was uneven, his grip too tight, too deep.
His nails pressed down, harder, harder—
His skin was about to break.
My stomach twisted. "Hey—"
I stepped closer, reaching for his hands—
And then—
His body jerked up violently, like something had just yanked him out of the dark.
A gasp—not relief, not fear.
Something worse.
And then—he moved.
His arm swung out.
Something heavy flew toward me.
I flinched.
And our eyes met.
Everythingstilled.
His breathing was ragged, his hands still shaking, but for the first time, there was something other than panic in his gaze.
Recognition.
Me.
His pupils were still blown wide, chest still rising too fast. His fingers twitched against the blanket like he was still trying to ground himself.
And that's when I saw it.
His wrist.
He was gripping it now but not to hurt himself.
To stop himself.
Like he wasn't sure what his own hands would do if he let go.
My breath was too shallow.
And he was still looking at me.
Like he wasn't sure if I was real.
Or maybe—
Like he wasn't sure if he wanted me to be.
Then, his voice—low, rough, uneven.
"You shouldn't be here."
A warning.
Or maybe a plea.
Something cold curled in my chest.
I should've listened.
But I didn't.
" What did you see? "
He stayed quiet for a minute then in the same cold , detached tone he spoke " nothing that concerns you. "
Ishould've listened
I had already gone too far.
And now—there was no turning back.