The music leaked from Clyde's headphones with the impossible discretion of cheap equipment. The bass throbbed like an artificial heart, insistent, cutting through the air of the carriage and blending with the metallic grind of the moving train.
I can't feel the way I did before…
Linkin Park. I recognized it without effort. Not because I particularly liked it, but because that band always surfaced at the wrong moments in life — like an involuntary marker of transition. Adolescence. Long nights. Things that never quite went back into place afterward.
The riff repeated itself, aggressive, and something about it fit far too well with the constant throbbing behind my eyes. It didn't amplify the pain — it accompanied it. As if it were moving in the same tempo.
I looked away from the window. The tunnel rushed by too fast to reflect anything useful.
Eva slept beside me, her head resting on my shoulder with the natural ease of someone who doesn't hesitate before trusting their weight to another person. Her coat had slipped slightly, and a lock of light hair had escaped, swaying gently with the vibration of the carriage.
I slowly extended my hand and tucked the strand behind her ear. The gesture was automatic, almost unconscious. She didn't wake. Her face remained serene, her breathing calm and steady.
For a moment, I watched the scene as if it were borrowed. Something that didn't fully belong to me.
— What do you think she's dreaming about?
The question came out softly, more to the air than to anyone in particular. Only afterward did I realize I had spoken aloud.
Clyde didn't react immediately. He was still seated across from me, one leg crossed over the other, his hands busy with his knitting. The needles moved with a precision that always unsettled me — quick, confident, almost too automatic for someone who claimed to hate repetitive tasks.
I thought he hadn't heard.
Then he pulled one of the headphones from his ear, letting the music spill out louder for a moment.
— Probably integrals reproducing like rabbits, he replied, without lifting his eyes. — Or me receiving an award I won't pick up because I'd be too busy correcting a conceptual error made by the committee. I'm betting on the first option.
The electric-blue yarn slid between his fingers, forming something that still wasn't clear whether it would become a scarf, a cowl, or just another piece doomed to the back of some drawer.
He looked up, alternating his gaze between me and Eva. A quick smile appeared — the kind that doesn't ask permission to exist. It wasn't malicious. It was satisfied. Clyde always liked fitting people into internal narratives before they even realized they were being observed.
— Don't wake her.
He added it casually.
— She'll need all her energy intact to deal with the questionable genius of my projects. The beauty of sleep is fundamental to academic survival.
He went back to his knitting, as if the matter were settled.
Maybe it was.
It wasn't the moment to say anything. It had only been a few months since we had truly gotten to know each other, and even less time since that kind of closeness had become natural. Things still functioned within recognizable limits. The world, despite everything, hadn't completely broken apart.
The train kept moving forward, rocking in a steady rhythm.
My heart did not.
There was something out of sync in my body — a minimal delay between thought and sensation. Solomon's words, spoken days earlier in a context I was still struggling to understand, surfaced without warning. Not as a sentence, but as weight.
The lineage of Apollyon.
The name came without explanations. Only with the persistent impression that I shouldn't be there. Like a word written in the wrong place in an equation.
The pressure behind my eyes intensified.
It wasn't gradual. It was as if someone had pressed a specific internal point, trying to force a passage. I brought my hand to my face by reflex and straightened in my seat, my gaze sweeping the carriage.
Nothing seemed out of place.
A man in a suit carefully turned the pages of a folded newspaper. The woman beside him slid her finger across her phone screen, bathing her face in blue light. Two teenagers chatted quietly farther ahead, laughing at something that only made sense to them.
The train was the same.
— Graham?
Clyde's voice sounded different. The needles had stopped.
— What is it?
— Nothing, I replied too quickly.
The word came out thin, unconvincing even to me.
He studied me for a few seconds, assessing, as if deciding whether it was worth pushing. He said nothing, but he didn't return to his knitting either.
The train began to slow. As the station approached, the sound of the rails changed — lower, more drawn out. The interior lights flickered.
It wasn't a simple blink.
It was like a convulsion.
For a fraction of a second, the entire carriage was flooded with an amber flash, too dense to be just faulty lighting. The color spread across the metal surfaces, across faces, across the window glass.
And then I saw it.
Not ahead. Not behind.
In the reflection.
In the glass darkened by the tunnel, a silhouette stood out where there should have been nothing but my own face and the interior of the carriage.
Tall. Slender. Its contours imprecise, as if the image had been printed on a different layer of reality. Long hair, motionless despite the constant vibration of the train.
It didn't move.
It didn't need to.
The lights returned to normal.
The train stopped with a gentle jolt. The doors opened.
— South Kensington, announced the automated voice, as neutral as ever.
People began to disembark. The flow was natural, continuous. The world did not hesitate because of what I had seen.
I did.
— Graham?
Eva stirred, waking slowly. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, still caught between sleep and wakefulness. When she looked at me, her expression changed.
— You're pale.
Clyde watched in silence, the knitting abandoned on his lap.
— Is it the migraine again? Eva touched my arm, the gesture light but firm enough to anchor me.
— Yeah.
Neither of them believed it.
The streets of South Kensington were bathed in a golden light that was far too clean, almost theatrical. The buildings cast long, dense shadows, as if they occupied more space than they should.
We walked to the pub without commenting on what had happened. The noise of the street helped keep everything moving.
The interior of the pub was warm, saturated with the smell of old wood, grease, and alcohol. Conversations blended with the background music, creating a constant murmur that would normally have calmed me.
I chose a table against the wall without really thinking. The position felt right.
— I'll get the drinks, Clyde announced, already standing. — We need to celebrate surviving the week.
Eva stayed with me.
— Do you want to talk about the train? she asked quietly.
— It's over.
She studied me for a moment, then nodded.
Clyde returned with three pints of beer. The amber liquid reflected the ambient light in an uncomfortable way. I looked away.
— Cheers.
The first sip had a strange metallic taste. Not strong, but persistent.
The conversations continued. Laughter surfaced and faded. Everything worked as it should. And yet something felt slightly displaced, as if I were half a step behind everything else.
The shadows beneath the tables stretched when I wasn't looking directly at them.
— …right, Graham?
— What?
— You agree? Clyde asked.
— Sure.
They exchanged a brief glance.
Then came the smell.
It wasn't from the pub.
Ether. Something too sweet, mixed with a base of rotting flowers. The music distorted for an instant, as if someone had brushed a hand across the amplifier.
A low sound crossed the room — too deep to be clearly heard, but enough to make the air vibrate.
— Did you hear that? I asked.
— Just the guitar, Clyde replied.
The glass in front of me began to tremble.
The beer bubbled slowly, as if it were heating up. Small waves formed on the surface.
I leaned back, moving the glass away.
Whispers escaped from the liquid, almost imperceptible.
David…
My gaze went straight to the window.
And then I saw it.
In the window behind Clyde, reflected in the dark glass, stood the silhouette.
Tall. Slender. Made of absolute darkness. Two points of cold white light occupied the place where a face should have been.
It didn't move.
It simply watched.
Like a predator assessing its prey.
A decision had to be made.
But to avoid raising suspicion, I needed to stay calm. Organize my thoughts. Not let that madness take over — or at least, not more than it already had.
Without saying anything, I turned quickly and nearly stumbled, staggering toward where I assumed the bathrooms were. In my peripheral vision, I noticed Clyde's and Eva's worried faces, but I didn't stop.
I couldn't stop.
Every second at that table was another second for that thing to decide to act.
I pushed open the door to the bathroom corridor. My heart was pounding so hard I feared it would leap out of my mouth. The corridor was empty, dimly lit, smelling of cheap disinfectant — but it was enough.
Inside the men's room, the heavy wooden door closed behind me with a dry, final sound. I leaned against the sink. I needed to reorganize my thoughts, come up with a plan, anything that would get us out of there.
That was when the door opened again.
It was Clyde.
He didn't look frightened. Just alert. Watchful.
He knew something was wrong.
— All right, he said. — Tell me what happened, Graham. You look like you've seen a ghost. Or some shit like that.
It was impressive how he could stay calm in any situation. But then again, why would he worry? He wasn't part of this. He didn't know anything.
And he needed to stay that way.
— It was just an episode, I replied. — You don't need to worry. It'll pass.
Clyde didn't move. He just raised one eyebrow slowly. The skepticism was almost tangible.
— Migraine. He repeated the word as if tasting something spoiled. — Right. And migraines make you stare at an empty window like you've seen the devil and run off to lock yourself in a stinking pub bathroom?
He crossed his arms.
— Try again. A good one this time.
— Clyde, please… My voice sounded pathetic even to me.
— It's better if you don't know, I said. — Trust me. Go back to the table. Stay with Eva.
His expression softened for a moment, but soon hardened again.
— No.
The word was simple. Final.
I closed my eyes for a moment. He wasn't going to leave. His stubborn loyalty — the same thing that made him break into labs with me at three in the morning — was now putting us in danger.
A cruel paradox.
— Damn it, Clyde… what do I have to do for you to listen to me just once? I slammed my hand against the sink.
He stepped closer. There was no anger on his face. Only concern.
He came close enough to place a hand on my shoulder.
— I'll respect your space. This time.
He turned and opened the door. Before leaving, he paused.
— Try not to disappear. I don't think Eva would like that very much.
The door closed with a soft click.
The sound hurt more than any blow.
Clyde was gone.
I had gotten what I wanted. He was out of there. Safe.
So why did it feel like I had just made the biggest mistake of my life?
The image of him leaving, the resignation in his shoulders, the attempt at lightness in his last remark… all of it cut deeper than any truth I could have told.
I was alone.
Just as I had always believed I should be.
I leaned against the sink, my hands shaking. The silhouette. The voice. The whisper. Everything seemed to intensify in the void left by Clyde's departure.
The bathroom, which had been a refuge, now felt like a cell. The smell of disinfectant became nauseating.
A chill ran through my body. It didn't come from the air. It came from within.
A premonition.
I took a deep breath, staring at my pale reflection in the stained mirror.
I couldn't stay there.
I had to go back.
Even without being able to tell the truth.
My hand closed around the doorknob.