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Mira doesn't sleep after that night.
Not truly.
She drifts—slipping in and out of shallow half-consciousness, her body resting while something inside her remains alert, listening for a voice it no longer hears but still remembers.
You sit beside her bed as dawn bleeds weak gray through the curtains. The apartment smells like dust and ozone and old fear. Cracks vein the walls where the fight scarred reality itself.
He stands near the window, back to you, shoulders tense.
You can see it now—the weight he carries. Not power.
Responsibility.
"She's still marked," he says quietly. "Even without him here."
You tighten your grip on Mira's hand. It's warmer than usual. Too warm.
"Then remove it," you say. "Whatever he left behind."
"I can't," he replies.
The words feel like a blade sliding between your ribs.
"You said you'd protect us."
"I said I would guard," he corrects. "Protection has limits."
Mira stirs, brows knitting together. Her lips move.
"No doors," she whispers. "Too many doors."
Your breath shakes.
"What does that mean?" you demand.
He turns to face you.
His expression is stripped bare now—no confidence, no divine calm. Just brutal honesty.
"He did not possess her," he says. "Not fully. He planted something worse."
You swallow hard. "Say it."
"A threshold."
The word hums in the air, wrong and heavy.
"He hollowed her just enough to make her… permeable," he continues. "She can be entered. By him. By others like him."
Your chest feels too tight. "Then seal it."
His gaze flicks to Mira.
Then to you.
"To seal her," he says slowly, "I must anchor her to something stronger than what calls to her."
Your stomach drops.
"No," you whisper. "No, you're not—"
"You," he says.
The room goes silent.
Mira's eyes flutter open.
She looks at you, confused, frightened, but lucid.
"What's happening?" she asks softly.
You can't speak.
"She is already tethered to you," he says. "Your presence slows the intrusion. Your voice grounds her."
"That's not—" You shake your head violently. "I'm not special. I'm just—"
"You are seen," he interrupts. "That is enough."
Mira's fingers tighten weakly around yours. "I don't want to die," she whispers.
Tears spill down your face.
"You're not going to," you promise, even as dread coils deeper in your gut.
"There is a ritual," he says. "Not ceremonial. Psychological. Existential."
"Explain," you choke.
"She must be bound to a living anchor," he says. "Someone the threshold cannot cross without consequence."
"And the consequence is…?" you ask, already knowing.
He holds your gaze.
"If it comes for her again," he says, "it will have to go through you."
The room tilts.
"No," you whisper. "Absolutely not."
"You already carry its attention," he says quietly. "This does not create danger. It redirects it."
"That thing tried to kill her," you snap. "What do you think it'll do to me?"
He steps closer.
"I will not let it take you," he says fiercely.
"You couldn't stop it last time."
Silence.
Mira starts crying.
"I don't want you hurt because of me," she sobs. "Please—there has to be another way."
He closes his eyes.
"There was," he says. "Before it chose you."
Your breath catches. "Chose me… for what?"
He looks at you again.
"To witness," he says. "To remember. To make decisions."
A chill crawls up your spine.
"That's why you," you whisper. "That's why only I could see you."
"Yes."
Mira trembles violently.
The air thickens.
You feel it before he speaks again—the pressure, the warning.
"He is watching," he says softly.
"Already?" you gasp.
"Not here," he replies. "But close enough to feel what we're about to do."
Mira's breathing grows ragged. Her eyes unfocus.
"No no no—" she gasps. "I hear him—"
You clutch her face, forcing her to look at you.
"Mira," you say firmly. "Listen to me. You're here. You're safe. Look at me."
Her pupils dilate, then snap back.
She sobs.
"I don't want to leave," she cries. "I don't want to disappear."
"You won't," you whisper. "I won't let you."
You look up at him.
"Do it," you say. "Bind her to me."
His jaw tightens.
"You do not understand what that means."
"I don't care."
"It will change how you are perceived," he says. "By them. By me."
"Do it."
A long pause.
Then he kneels in front of you.
"This is consent," he says quietly. "Once done, it cannot be undone without loss."
You nod, tears streaming.
"Yes."
He places one hand over Mira's chest.
The other over yours.
The contact burns—not hot, but deep, like something old pressing its thumb into your soul.
"Look at her," he instructs.
You do.
Mira's eyes lock onto yours, wide and terrified.
"Stay with me," you whisper.
"I'm trying," she sobs.
The room folds.
Not collapsing—inverting.
You feel something open inside you, a hollow space you didn't know existed.
Pain blooms.
Not physical.
Identity-level.
Memories blur at the edges. You forget your age for a second. Your name feels distant.
Mira screams.
Then—
Stillness.
The pressure snaps shut.
You gasp, collapsing forward.
Mira's breathing evens out.
Her eyes clear.
She blinks.
Looks around.
Then looks at you.
"You're bleeding," she says faintly.
You touch your nose.
Blood coats your fingers.
But you feel… present.
More than before.
He withdraws his hands slowly, shaking.
"It's done," he says hoarsely.
Mira exhales, body finally relaxing into real sleep.
You sit back, trembling.
"What did you do to me?" you whisper.
He looks at you with something dangerously close to reverence.
"I made you a door," he says.
"And a lock."
Your heart pounds.
"And now?"
He glances toward the darkened hallway, eyes narrowing.
"Now," he says quietly,
"if he wants her—"
The lights flicker.
A whisper brushes your ear, intimate and furious.
You chose beautifully.
Your blood runs cold.
He steps closer to you instantly.
"No," he snarls into the dark. "She is not yours."
The whisper laughs softly.
Not yet.
Silence returns.
You hug yourself, shaking.
"What happens to me if it comes back?" you ask.
He doesn't answer immediately.
Then—
"You will not face it alone," he says. "Not anymore."
And for the first time since this began, you realize something worse than fear—
You are no longer just being hunted.
You are being prepared.
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