A faint hum filled the small apartment—the kind that came from the refrigerator when the world outside was still half-asleep. Dawn had barely brushed its pale colors over the blinds, slicing thin bars of gold and blue across the room.
Elijah stirred under the quilt, his eyelids twitching before they reluctantly opened. The ceiling fan rotated lazily above him, its quiet rhythm syncing with the dull buzzing in his skull. For a moment, he didn't recognize where he was—the softness of the sheets, the faint scent of jasmine and coffee in the air, the warm pressure of a quilt tucked over him.
He blinked, then turned his head slightly. He was wearing a clean gray shirt and a pair of cotton shorts. Someone had dressed him.
A dry laugh escaped him, almost too weak to form sound.
Janet... it must've been her.
He pressed a hand to his temple, feeling the slow ache pulsing behind his eyes. Everything felt heavy, as though the weight of water still clung to his lungs. The memory of the shower—or rather, that nightmare within it—returned like a slow tide. A child's hands pulling at the current, a stream swallowing him whole, another boy's face pushing him down. The more he tried to recall the details, the fuzzier they became, until all he could feel was that horrible suffocation and the panic that had come with it.
The door to the room creaked open. Janet stepped inside, her hair tied in a loose bun, eyes carrying traces of exhaustion yet still gentle. She moved carefully, as if not to startle him, and went straight to his side.
"You're awake," she said softly, tucking the quilt around him again when he tried to sit up. "Don't push yourself. Lie down properly."
Elijah obeyed with a faint exhale, resting his head back against the pillow.
"What… happened?" he asked, his voice dry, almost hoarse.
Janet's brows knit slightly, but her tone remained calm. "When I got home, you were in the bathroom," she began, brushing a few strands of damp hair from his forehead. "You were—well, you were convulsing under the shower. I thought you were having some kind of seizure. You weren't breathing right, Elijah."
He looked away, embarrassed by the thought of her seeing him like that. "And?"
"I turned off the water and… held you until you calmed down." Her lips curved into a small, weary smile. "You passed out after that. I didn't want to leave you on the cold floor, so I cleaned you up and dressed you before laying you here."
For a long moment, silence filled the room, broken only by the faint sound of cars in the far distance.
Elijah's gaze unfocused slightly, drifting to the window. "That thing you saw… that's never happened before," he murmured. "I've never experienced anything like that in my life."
He paused, his mind sinking inward.
That memory—or whatever it was—it didn't feel like a dream. That place… I've never seen it, yet I can feel the cold of that river, the hands that held me down. It's like something was trying to remind me of itself.
He frowned. But what?
Meanwhile, Janet had moved to the mirror near the dresser, already dressed in her work attire—a sleek dark-blue blazer over a white blouse, black pencil skirt hugging her figure, the subtle gleam of a silver press badge clipped to her collar. She was halfway through applying her lipstick, her reflection composed, professional. The contrast between her calm, polished appearance and the wild confusion in Elijah's head was almost cruel.
She noticed his gaze and smiled through the mirror. "I left breakfast on the table," she said lightly. "Toast and eggs. Eat before it gets cold, alright?"
Elijah stared at her reflection for a moment, then asked, "Why are you taking this… whatever we have… seriously?"
Janet paused, turning slightly to face him. "What do you mean?"
He gave a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You've experienced some unpleasant things with me—you can't deny that. And yet, you're still here, acting like we're normal."
Janet chuckled softly, putting down the lipstick tube. "Maybe because I don't think of you as unpleasant," she said. "You're complicated, Elijah. But not unpleasant."
He snorted. "No, Janet. You're here because you did a background check on me. You found out my adopted parents are multimillionaires, and now you think you've hit some kind of emotional jackpot."
She didn't flinch. Instead, she walked closer and leaned one hand on the edge of the bed, lowering her voice. "If that's what I wanted, I'd be gone the moment you stopped pretending to care. But you know what keeps me here?"
Her lips curved faintly, the kind of smile that could make the air heavier. "It's the way you command me when we're together. That intensity… it turns me on, Elijah."
He blinked, momentarily thrown off by her bluntness. She smiled again, returning to the mirror, sliding in her small pearl earrings.
And I thought I was the sick one, Elijah thought bitterly. Turns out there are people far worse than me.
He turned his head toward the ceiling again, his expression softening into something almost pitiful. She doesn't understand what she's saying. If she ever finds out who I really am… if she ever learns what kind of person I've become… she'll run faster than anyone else.
He exhaled slowly, brushing a hand through his hair. I should check on Chloe later. The hospital should have her vitals by now.
His voice broke the quiet again. "Why are you leaving so early?"
Janet glanced at him through the mirror as she fastened the last earring. The light caught the sharp line of her jaw, the confidence in her posture. "It's five in the morning," he added, eyes narrowing. "You've never gone this early before. Not since I've been here."
For two weeks, their mornings had been slower—she'd laze in bed, complain about makeup, or linger in his arms. Today, she was crisp, ready, and far too awake.
Janet hesitated, one hand still near her earring. "Wait," she said, glancing back. "You didn't hear the breaking headline from yesterday?"
Elijah frowned slightly. "What headline?"
She reached for her phone on the nightstand and walked over to him, unlocking the screen with a swipe. "Here," she said, handing it over. "Take a look."
The glow from the phone lit Elijah's face as he read the headline:
Breaking News: Newly Appointed Crestwood PD Chief Declares Azaqor Killer Identified as Missing Runaway – Lucien Drayke, Son of Late Serena Drayke
Beneath the bold letters was a photo of the newly appointed chief—the same icy-eyed woman from yesterday's broadcast podium. Her presence in the image felt like frost itself; the calm poise, the faint glint in her gaze, a face that commanded attention.
Below her image was a smaller one: Serena Drayke, the late mother. The resemblance between the two was faint, yet uncanny in the eyes—both sharp, calculating, touched with sorrow.
Then Elijah saw the space beneath it—blank.
No photo of Lucien Drayke. Just a line that read:
"No verified image of Lucien Drayke has been found. The Crestwood Police Department is currently investigating leads regarding his whereabouts."
Janet stood beside him, watching his reaction. Her voice was casual, but her eyes were curious. "That's what everyone's talking about right now. Apparently, the chief made that statement live—said the murders weren't tied to the Halverns after all. It's a mess out there."
But Elijah didn't hear her.
His fingers tightened slightly around the phone. His face had gone blank—utterly, chillingly blank—yet the air around him seemed to grow heavier. Janet felt it first—a sudden, almost invisible pressure that pressed against her chest, like someone had stolen all the oxygen from the room. Her breath caught.
For a few seconds, she couldn't move, couldn't even think. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. The air turned normal again.
"Elijah…?" she whispered.
He blinked once, his face still pale, and handed the phone back slowly. His tone was calm, almost too calm. "Interesting," he murmured.
Janet tried to laugh it off, but her voice trembled faintly. She looked at him again, wondering if she'd imagined what just happened. It must've been my nerves, she told herself. Just nerves.
Elijah's gaze drifted to the window, his expression unmoving. But for a split second—one Janet didn't notice—his eyes reflected something entirely different.
A sharp, cold glint.
Anger, restrained and deadly.
The kind that didn't belong to the man lying under that quilt… but to something much older, much deeper.