The city felt wrong.
Not wrong like a rainy Monday morning, wrong like someone had tilted the skyline and left the streets bleeding. Ethan's senses were screaming, even before the first shadow fell across his path.
He ran. Not for exercise. Not for clarity. For survival.
The alleyways were slick with rain, their puddles reflecting flickering streetlights. Footsteps echoed behind him—two, maybe three—but he dared not look. Every instinct screamed: don't stop. Don't turn around. Don't die.
Ethan didn't know who was following him, only that they had watched him since morning. That she had been watched. That someone had tried to erase her once—and almost succeeded.
And now, he realized with a chill, he might be next.
He skidded around a corner, nearly losing his balance, when he saw her: Amara—no, Mara—standing in the shadows beneath a flickering streetlamp. She looked smaller, more fragile, but her eyes burned with something darker than fear. Rage. Desperation. Survival.
"Ethan!" she hissed. "Behind me. Move!"
He obeyed instinctively. A bullet ricocheted off the brick wall where he had been standing seconds ago. Sparks flew. He swore.
"Who's after you?" he demanded, keeping his voice low as they ran together into the maze of streets.
"No one you can stop," she replied. Her words were clipped, deliberate. Her gaze darted to every window, every doorway. "They'll kill anyone who touches me."
Ethan's chest tightened. He had faced death before as a journalist—but this was different. This was intimate. Personal. And it was his fault. She was alive because someone had intervened—and he had drawn their attention back to her.
"Who?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
Another shot rang out somewhere behind them, closer this time. The sound cracked the night air, bouncing between buildings. Ethan flinched.
She grabbed his hand, yanking him down a narrow stairwell into a basement of some abandoned building. The smell of damp concrete and mildew filled his lungs. He pressed himself against the wall, shaking.
"You're insane," he whispered.
"I'm alive," she shot back. "And that's all that matters."
Ethan pressed his palms to his face. "You were supposed to be dead. I… I mourned you. I went through three years thinking I'd lost you forever."
Her eyes softened for the tiniest fraction of a second. Then they hardened again. "You don't get it. I didn't survive for you. I survived because they made a mistake."
A scraping sound made them both jump. Somewhere above, footsteps moved slowly. Patiently. Watching. Waiting.
"They're inside," she muttered. "They know you followed me. And now, Ethan… now you're part of the problem."
"Then what do we do?" he asked, his voice tight with panic.
She glanced at him with sharp intensity. "Do exactly what I say. No mistakes. No heroics. If you die tonight, it won't matter how brave you are."
Her hand brushed his arm—lightly, but it sent a jolt through him. Their proximity, the fear, the adrenaline—it all tangled into something raw. Something dangerous.
"You're reckless," he muttered.
"Not anymore," she replied. Her words were cold, but her eyes betrayed her. They had to move. Now.
A shadow detached from the stairwell above—a man in a dark coat, his face hidden by the hood. Ethan barely had time to react before Mara pushed him back, yanking a small handgun from her jacket.
A single shot rang out. The shadow disappeared.
Ethan's stomach lurched. "Where did you learn—?"
"Does it matter?" she snapped. "Move!"
They ran again. The streets blurred past, neon reflections in wet asphalt flashing like warning lights. Every corner was a potential ambush, every passerby a threat. Ethan realized suddenly: they weren't just running from death—they were running from someone who enjoyed it.
Hours later, they found temporary refuge in an abandoned subway station, a place where the city's noise seemed to die before it even reached them. The fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed overhead. The silence was oppressive, pressing against Ethan's ears.
Mara collapsed against the wall, head bowed, shoulders shaking.
Ethan approached cautiously. "Talk to me. Please. Who is hunting you?"
She looked up, her eyes hollow, haunted. "You want the truth?" she whispered. "It's worse than you think."
"Try me."
"They aren't human—not really. They're controlled by him… Julian Cross. He's the one who saved me that night. He's the one who made me… his. And now, he wants to erase anyone who knows the truth."
Ethan's chest tightened. "He… he saved you?"
"Yes. And he almost killed me," she hissed. "I thought it was protection. It was manipulation. I was a pawn, Ethan. A pawn he decided was useful."
He felt the weight of her words press into him. The world had shifted, and the ground beneath him was more unstable than ever.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked quietly.
"Because you don't belong in this," she said. Her voice was trembling, yet determined. "Because if he wants me dead—and now that you know—I can't protect you. And I won't survive this night unless we play by his rules… carefully."
A distant sound drew their attention. Footsteps. Orders whispered under breath. They were close. Too close.
Mara stood abruptly, hand still gripping his arm. "We move. Now."
As they ran into the subway tunnels, Ethan realized something terrifying. He had chased a ghost tonight. But the ghost was real—and so was the danger.
The darkness ahead was thick, swallowing light and sound. Mara's pace was relentless. Ethan struggled to keep up. And all the while, the truth weighed on him heavier than the rain soaking his jacket: he didn't know who he could trust. He didn't know who would kill him first.
And most of all, he didn't know if she would survive the night.
Outside, the city continued, indifferent and cruel.
Inside, the shadows were alive.
And tonight, someone would die.