The apartment was quiet that night.
Outside, the neon signs across Crestwood's central block bled faint light through the blinds, cutting the darkness into narrow stripes that drifted across the floor. The only sound inside was the soft, steady hum of the shower.
Steam coiled out from beneath the half-closed bathroom door, spilling faintly into the living room. Inside, the air was thick and heavy with heat.
Elijah stood beneath the showerhead, his hair plastered to his forehead. The water cascaded over his face, down his neck, tracing the pale lines of old scars along his back before disappearing into the drain. He let it run for minutes—longer than needed—just standing there, motionless, eyes closed, his breathing quiet.
The warmth was supposed to help him unwind, but instead it seemed to sink deeper, stirring something beneath his calm exterior.
A flash—quick, uninvited.
It hit him like static behind his eyes.
He saw himself, younger, in a place that didn't feel like anywhere he'd ever known. The air was bright, green with sunlight through trees, and a narrow stream cut through moss and mud.
Two boys sat by it—one of them him. The other was about his age, dark-haired, eyes burning with mischief. Their laughter sounded distant, muffled like underwater echoes.
The scene shifted—the two were arm-wrestling over a flat rock. Elijah's smaller hand trembled against the other boy's strength. Then, in one sudden shove, the boy tipped him sideways.
Elijah stumbled, his foot slipping on wet grass—
—and the next second, water.
Cold. Sharp. Merciless.
The river swallowed him whole. A hand gripped the back of his head and pushed down. His lungs screamed. His small fingers clawed at the surface, searching for air, for light, for anything—
He couldn't breathe.
The world spun. The sound of rushing water filled his ears.
And then—it wasn't the river anymore.
It was the shower.
The water still poured down on him, hot and relentless, hitting his skull, his shoulders, his chest. But something inside his mind had flipped, and his body didn't know the difference anymore.
He gasped—sharp, panicked.
His hands shot upward as though trying to push the weight of water off his head, his lungs tightening. His breath came out in harsh, uneven bursts.
He stumbled against the tiled wall, one arm bracing himself, the other clawing at nothing. The shower thundered on.
To him, it wasn't Crestwood anymore. It was the river again.
Hands—grabbing him, holding him down.
His smaller self struggling to break free.
He saw it vividly—the little boy's terrified face under the surface, bubbles rising past his lips, arms flailing. He saw the shape of the other child pressing down, eyes cold and intent.
His chest burned. No air. No escape.
He coughed, choking on water that wasn't really there.
The front door creaked open.
Janet stepped in, tossing her bag to the couch with a sigh. She rubbed her eyes, exhaustion painting faint shadows beneath them. The day had been long, another set of briefings, another council statement.
She frowned when she noticed the light spilling from the bathroom. The sound of running water hadn't stopped since she'd entered.
"Elijah?" she called softly, kicking off her shoes. "I'm home. You there?"
No answer.
She moved toward the hallway, her steps hesitant. The faint echo of water against tile was joined by something else—harsh breathing, broken gasps.
Her chest tightened.
"Elijah?"
She reached the bathroom door and froze.
Through the steam, she could see him—his silhouette moving erratically under the shower spray. His hands flailed, striking at invisible shapes, his head jerking side to side.
Janet's heartbeat quickened. She rushed in.
The heat hit her first—thick, suffocating steam. She grabbed the shower handle and twisted it off. The sudden silence was jarring, broken only by Elijah's ragged breathing.
He was trembling, soaked, his muscles taut. His arms were moving wildly, as if fighting off something unseen. His eyes—wide, unfocused—stared at nothing.
"Elijah!" she called again, stepping closer. "Elijah, it's me!"
He didn't respond. His movements only grew more frantic, his hands slapping against the air, mimicking that desperate struggle from the memory buried in him. His body twisted as though submerged in invisible waves.
To Janet, it looked like madness—like he was locked in a nightmare with his eyes open.
Without thinking, she stepped in and wrapped her arms around him, pressing him to her. The water on his skin was hot, almost burning, but she didn't let go.
"Hey, hey… it's okay," she whispered near his ear. "It's me, Elijah. You're safe. No one's hurting you, you hear me?"
Her voice was soft but firm, a steady rhythm against the chaos.
Inside his mind, Elijah was still underwater.
He could see the river's bottom, murky and distorted by sunlight above. His smaller self reached upward, fingers brushing the rippling light—
—and then, faintly, through the bubbles and blur, he heard it.
A voice.
Warm. Familiar.
A woman's voice carried through the current, gentle but clear.
It's okay… I'm here.
The words rippled through the water, bending the world around them. The river shimmered, its surface quivering in wide, circular waves. The light flickered, and the scene began to dissolve—its edges melting like ink in water.
The pressure in his chest eased. His lungs opened.
The bubbles turned to mist, the riverbed to tile.
And then—reality returned.
He was in the bathroom again, the water now trickling faintly from the faucet, his face buried against Janet's shoulder. Her heartbeat was steady beneath his cheek.
His muscles relaxed, trembling fading into fatigue.
His eyelids fluttered.
He looked dazed, unsure of what had just happened. He tried to move, but a sudden wave of exhaustion hit him hard.
His body sagged against hers. His breath slowed.
Before he could form a word, his head tilted forward, and he fell asleep—just like that, still half in her arms.
Janet exhaled shakily, relief washing over her. She brushed a damp strand of hair off his forehead, her expression softening.
"You're okay now," she murmured. "You're okay."
Getting him to the bedroom, however, was another ordeal entirely.
He wasn't heavy, but dead weight had its own gravity. Janet looped his arm over her shoulder and tried to stand, grunting softly as she dragged him inch by inch out of the bathroom. The wet tiles made it harder—her socks slipping slightly with each pull.
"Come on, Elijah…" she muttered under her breath. "Help me out a little, will you?"
He mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep but didn't move.
They made it to the hallway. Janet paused, catching her breath, then readjusted her grip—her arm under his, her hand clutching his wrist. The movement was clumsy but determined.
The apartment was dim, the only light from a distant neon sign flashing through the curtains. Each flicker illuminated the scene—her dragging his half-limp body toward the bed, both leaving faint wet footprints on the floor.
When she finally reached the bedside, she exhaled a long, exhausted sigh.
She lowered him carefully, guiding his head to the pillow. His breathing was even now, peaceful.
For a long moment, Janet just stood there, staring down at him. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a quiet heaviness in her chest. She brushed his damp hair from his forehead, her fingers trembling slightly.
Then she sank down beside the bed, leaning against it, every muscle in her body spent.
Silence settled between them, broken only by the soft hum of the city outside.
She turned her head toward him, studying his face in the dim light. Even asleep, there was something about him she couldn't read—something that never stayed the same no matter how many layers she thought she'd uncovered.
A tired smile tugged at her lips, equal parts worry and disbelief.
"Seriously…" she murmured under her breath. "The more I think I've understood you, the more you prove me wrong."
Her eyes lingered on him one last time.
"Who are you really, Elijah Marcus Isley?"
Her voice faded into the quiet room.
Outside, the city lights flickered once, twice—and the apartment fell still again.