The lukewarm water sluiced over Owen's skin, washing away the layers of grime, sweat, and despair that had clung to him. He stood under the spray for what felt like an eternity, letting the water drum against his skull, trying to scrub away not just the physical dirt but the lingering tendrils of terror. With each conscious breath, the chaotic roar in his mind diminished, receding to a dull hum, then to faint, ghostly whispers at the very edges of his hearing.
His body, though still heavy with exhaustion, felt lighter. The constant tremor that had plagued him for days, perhaps weeks, had finally subsided. He scrubbed his face, his arms, his chest, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of clean skin. But as the physical grime disappeared, the mental images flooded back, sharp and vivid. Sophia's sneering face, Lucy's corrupted innocence, the distorted figures in the street, the chilling abyss rising to meet him. And then, the inexplicable, terrifying power that had flared in his hand.
He stared at his right palm, turning it over and over under the running water. There was nothing there now. No flickering flame, no sense of immense, volatile energy. Just his own pale skin, slightly reddened from his vigorous scrubbing. What was that? A hallucination? Another symptom of his unraveling mind? But it had felt so real, so tangible. And then she had appeared. The girl. The unknown female who had simply held him, and somehow, incredibly, pulled him back from the precipice.
Shame, hot and stinging, returned with renewed force. He had been a complete mess, a crying, screaming, thrashing wreck. And he'd clung to her, a perfect stranger, like a drowning man. The thought made his stomach churn. What must she think of him? A lunatic, a freak. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cool tiles.
He couldn't face her. He couldn't face anyone. The desire to simply evaporate, to cease to exist, was overwhelming. Yet, beneath the shame, a fragile thread of curiosity, and something akin to awe, began to form. Who was she? And why hadn't she run?
He spent another ten minutes under the shower, prolonging the inevitable. The hot water eventually turned cool, then cold, and he shivered, goosebumps rising on his arms. He reluctantly turned off the faucet, plunging the bathroom into a sudden, echoing silence. He found a clean, fluffy towel hanging on a hook – clearly placed there for him. He dried himself, his movements still tentative, as if his limbs were not quite his own. He looked for his clothes, but they were gone. On a small stool, however, a pile of fresh clothes was neatly folded: a dark grey t-shirt and a pair of faded, but clean, jeans. They looked like they might fit.
He dressed quickly, the fabric soft and welcoming against his newly clean skin. He felt marginally better, but the knot of anxiety in his stomach remained. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, then reached for the door. It felt impossibly heavy.
In the living room, Faith sat on the sofa, the unique cross-sword necklace resting in her open palm. Its surface, smooth and cool against her skin, pulsed with a faint, internal light. It was currently a soft, almost imperceptible blue, a color of quiet and stillness. A stark contrast to the vivid pinkish-red it had displayed when Owen was drowning in shame. She had observed it intently, a silent, unblinking sentinel, as the sounds of the shower continued to hum from the bathroom.
Her mind, usually a whirlwind of calculations and observations, was unusually calm. She traced the delicate lines where the cross met the hilt of the sword. This wasn't just some random magical trinket. It was a manifestation, a physical representation of something deeply rooted in Owen. His emotions, his raw, unbridled power. She had seen glimpses of abilities before, unusual phenomena, but never anything quite like this. A living, breathing emotional barometer.
She thought about Owen. The terror in his eyes had been genuine, profound. He hadn't been faking it.
He had been utterly, completely lost. And in that moment, something within her had shifted. She was a creature of logic, of observation, of self-preservation.
Compassion wasn't usually in her lexicon. She had built walls around herself, higher and thicker than any concrete, to keep the world out, to keep herself safe and unburdened. Yet, when she saw him, a flicker of something she couldn't name had sparked. A resonance. He was broken, yes, but there was a raw, untamed energy about him that called to a similar wildness within herself. She had people, he had thought. But did he? From what she'd glimpsed, his "people" seemed to be the architects of his suffering.
She wasn't lying to herself about the necklace being "payment." Not entirely. It was a curiosity, a valuable artifact of a fascinating phenomenon. But the act of holding him, of pulling him back from the brink… that had been something else entirely. A choice born not of calculation, but of an unexpected, intuitive pull. It wasn't pity. It was a strange blend of fascination and a quiet understanding of his despair. She had known loneliness, a profound, chilling solitude. His, however, seemed to be a loneliness despite being surrounded by others. That, she mused, was far more insidious.
The shower sounds finally ceased. Faith's gaze darted to the bathroom door. He was coming out. Now came the hard part. The questions. He would have so many. About what happened, about her, about the 'demon' he'd seen. She already knew some of the answers, or at least, had theories that veered far beyond common understanding. But she couldn't dump it all on him. Not yet. He was still too fragile. She slipped the necklace back into her pocket, its soft blue glow disappearing beneath the fabric.
The bathroom door opened, slowly, hesitantly. Owen emerged, looking vastly different from the grime-covered, hysterical boy she had dragged into her house. He was clean, his hair damp and falling across his forehead, partially obscuring his eyes, just as he'd noted. The new clothes, though simple, made him seem less like a wild animal and more like a human being. Still, his shoulders were hunched, and he moved with an almost comical awkwardness, as if unsure where to put his limbs.
Their eyes met across the small living room. The silence that stretched between them was thick, weighted not with hostility, but with an immense, shared unspoken history. Owen's face was a mixture of residual fear, profound embarrassment, and a dawning, confused gratitude.
"Um," Owen started, his voice still a bit rough, but much clearer than before. He wrung his hands, then stopped, realizing how nervous he looked. "Thank you. For... everything." He gestured vaguely around the room, then at himself, then at the sofa, as if encompassing the entire bewildering experience. "I... I don't know what happened. Or how I got here. Or who you are."
Faith watched him, her calm, brown eyes unwavering. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. He was so transparent in his awkwardness, a stark contrast to the destructive power she had witnessed. "You're welcome," she replied, her voice soft, but with an underlying current of quiet authority. "You were... having a bit of a rough time. I found you in the alley." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "My name is Faith. Faith Anerdale."
Owen's eyes widened slightly, taking in her name, a name that somehow fit her quiet, steady presence. "Owen," he mumbled, as if she didn't already know. "Owen Windsor."
"I know," Faith said simply, a hint of something unreadable in her gaze. She tilted her head, observing him. "Are you feeling better?"
He nodded, a hesitant jerk of his head. "Yeah. Much better. The... the voices aren't as loud." He swallowed, then braved the question that burned at the forefront of his mind. "My hand... there was something... a fire?" He held up his right hand, flexing his fingers, a faint tremor still running through them.
Faith's eyes flickered down to his hand, then back to his face. She considered for a moment, weighing her words. "You were... experiencing a lot of emotions," she said, her tone clinical, almost detached, yet without unkindness. "Sometimes, intense emotions can manifest in unusual ways. It was part of your... breakdown." She avoided mentioning the necklace directly, or the 'demon' he spoke of. He wasn't ready for that.
Owen looked at his hand again, then back at her, a furrow forming between his brows. "But... it felt real. The fear, the things I saw... they weren't just in my head, were they?" He desperately needed validation, some confirmation that he wasn't completely insane.
Faith held his gaze, a quiet intensity in her eyes. "Fear is a powerful thing, Owen," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "It can twist what you see, and bring out what's hidden inside." She didn't lie, but she didn't reveal everything either. "You're safe here, for now."
The 'for now' hung in the air, a subtle hint of impermanence, of a future that was still uncertain. Owen felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him again, now that the immediate adrenaline had faded. He looked around the small, cozy living room, so different from the sterile, orderly prison of his own home. Faith was still watching him, her expression unreadable, but not threatening.
"Are you hungry?" she asked, her gaze drifting towards the small, open kitchen area. "I can make you something."
Owen's stomach rumbled loudly in protest, a shocking sound in the quiet room. He hadn't realized how ravenous he was. His cheeks flushed again, but he managed a small, embarrassed nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."
Faith rose from the sofa with a graceful, almost fluid movement. "Come on then," she said, a small, genuine smile finally gracing her lips. "Let's get some food into you."
As Owen awkwardly followed her, a strange sense of something new, something fragile and tentatively hopeful, settled in his chest. The voices were still there, faint and distant, but they no longer held their suffocating power.
For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel entirely alone. And he realized, with a jolt, that he trusted her. A complete stranger. The girl who knew his darkness, and hadn't run.