Chapter Thirty-Six


Plush red carpet beneath my feet, soft and warm, muffling my footsteps. Before me, a hallway stretched out. White painted walls with golden filigree. The windows were dark, wind howling in a winter storm just outside. Everything felt soft, hazy, everything in the corners of my vision just a little out of focus.

I walked forward with an intent I couldn't decipher.

"Why are you here?"

The voice echoed, distant and distorted. The hallway flickered — glittering Tsarist corridor to a dim, empty hospital wing — fighting back and forth like two memories colliding. It resettled on the red carpet and white walls, but the light had turned cold and blue.

I felt the change in my head, as well. A pounding, ringing back and forth like the tongue of a bell. Unsteadied, I nearly dropped to my knees. Something warm dripped down my face.

I pressed my fingers to my nose. My hand drew away, covered in blood.

Looking down. My other hand, clutching a pistol.

Still, I kept walking.

"How could you do this?"

That voice again, forlorn and wretched. Something in my throat locked up. I tried to find the source, find them and apologize (for what? What did I do?), but there was no one here.

I had to find them. That was my purpose here. Find him and finish this.

It all ended tonight.

"You ruined everything."

I went rigid, breath locked in my chest. Grip tightening around the gun, finger on the trigger. This time, the voice was little more than a whisper, a breath of air.

But it had been spoken directly into my ear.

An instinct ordered me not to turn around. I ignored it.

Spinning around, weapon raised with both hands, I rounded on thin air. The hallway behind me stretched out into darkness. No one was there.

Something brushed against my spine.

"Mia?"

Pain tore through my chest. I finally recognized the voice.

This time, when I turned, the ground shifted beneath my feet. Like the aftershock of an earthquake, I felt my body glitching a few degrees this way, a few inches that way.

The hallway disappeared. I stood in the doorway to a smoking room — velvet couches and a great fireplace, lit with glorious flames that gave no heat — gun pointed at the boy standing just a few feet in front of me.

Dmitri.

Instantly, I was struck by how beautiful he looked. The way the firelight turned his hair a burning copper; setting alight the green in his eyes; the deep shadows that accented the curves of his face, his lithe frame. The tears, ignited by the fire, glittering diamonds slipping down his face. The freckles scattered across his pale skin, a hand clutching his shoulder. The blood spilling up between his fingers and drenching his shirt. His form crooked and bent forward in exquisite suffering.

"Why did you come back?" Dmitri asked, face drawn with pain. Each word was filled with confusion, betrayal. Every second that passed, he grew paler and paler. "I told you not to come back."

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I didn't mean to, I didn't want this. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry at the sight of him. At the gun in my hand, still smoking, trigger hot under my touch. Every ache in my body begged to be released. My jaw remained locked tight; I didn't get to speak. I wasn't meant to.

Amelia isn't here anymore.

Shaking my head, I tried to put down the gun. To back up, to get away. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to do this. But I was frozen in place. I had no choice.

"Look at what you did." Dmitri said, dropping his hand — the blood flowing freely now, leaving the remaining arm limp and useless. "Look at what you did to me."

A scream burned soundlessly in my throat. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Almost as if he'd heard my thoughts, Dmitri's face pulled into an unnatural snarl. An expression I'd never seen him make before. His voice cut into my skin. "I wish I'd never met you."

The words hurt, but at the same time, I couldn't disagree. That only made it hurt more. He'd be safe if it wasn't for me. He'd still have his old life if it weren't for me. None of this would have happened if we had never met.

Or maybe it would have. But then, at least, we wouldn't have to know each other. It would've hurt less that way.

"What are you waiting for?" Dmitri demanded, in such a sharp tone it startled me. He lurched forward — again, I couldn't move, wanted to move back, away from him — reaching out and grabbing the gun. Startled, I tried to let go — for the first time, my body started to obey me, my grip loosening — but before I could succeed, Dmitri's hands wrapped around my own. Tightening, crushing, holding me there with a strength I couldn't overcome.

"Finish it." He said, the blood on his hands spreading mine. He jerked me forward when he forced the muzzle against his chest. Right over his heart.

Dmitri's eyes bored into mine. "Finish your mission."


~o~


I woke up with a start.

Early morning light streaked through the shades of my bedroom window.

Normally, weekends were a time to be sleeping in, but not for me. Sleep was irregular at best, nonexistent at worst.

The nightmares were the worst on cold nights.

Pressing my palms into my eyes, I tried to get the image of Dmitri out of my mind. The lines between reality and dreams were hazy — the memory I had, of shooting him blurring with the reconstruction in my head. It was wrong. It was all wrong.

I took a deep, shaky breath. And got out of bed.

My hands trembled as I reached for my dresser drawers. Everything on top shook thanks to my strong, hasty movements: a framed photo of my and Mom at the Zoo when I was ten; the half-empty perfume bottles Aunt May gave me; a hairbrush, some elastics, deodorant; the monogrammed jewelry box I'd gotten for my birthday; and a pair of brass opera glasses, also a birthday gift.

From Dmitri.

It'd come by mail, a week late. A handy tool, he'd written, in case I ever went to a show. Not even one of his. Just in general.

They weren't a cheap pair, either. Antique, white enamel painted with blue flowers, a little handle to hold it between your fingers. Pretty and delicate and feminine, and nothing I could afford in my lifetime.

It was far too sweet a gift. And a vicious punch to the gut.

My heart pounded, clean clothes clutched to my chest. In one sudden move, I opened the jewelry box, grabbed the glasses and stuffed them inside. Was about to slam the lid shut when the morning light glinted off something else inside, lying at the bottom.

Steve's compass. Bucky's dog tags.

I paused. Swallowed.

Took the compass, then closed the lid.

Fifteen minutes later I was on the sidewalk, dressed in sneakers, leggings, red bomber jacket and a small backpack. The sky was still turning blue, few cars on the streets and long golden shadows playing out before me. It was only just past 7AM. Breath clouding in the brisk morning air, I checked my phone for any messages from Steve (there were none).
Then I made myself put in my earphones.

It left me feeling defenseless, cutting off a valuable sensory organ just to listen to music — but I had to bring down my paranoia somehow. Dr. Siwa suggested it at our last session (the fourth one so far). Music to help me relax, and appreciate my surroundings in a new light.

He also suggested I start exercising more, to help get better sleep.

...Well, better late than never.

Selecting a playlist on the old iPod, I picked an energetic rock beat, hoping it'd bring me some amount of positivity. Or at least wake me up. I set off down the street at a light jog.

Another week and a half had passed since I'd last seen Steve — already off on his mission, all of the texts I'd sent him had gone unanswered. They weren't emergency texts, but a part of me wanted to see if he really meant it about the deep cover thing. Turned out, he was, and yet I was still disappointed. Maybe I should've asked him to stay.

It was because of him that I was jogging now. That time we raced together still ranked pretty high on the Good Memories list. I didn't really know what else to do; running felt natural. I was already pretty good at it; both in the physical and metaphorical sense. Why not try to have some fun with it?

After about ten minutes of this I decided running was a lot more fun when you had someone to enjoy it with.

But the morning streets of Queens were quiet and empty, and even though I kept checking my peripherals, I spotted nothing suspicious. Sure, the music meant I wouldn't hear it if someone was sneaking up on me, but I guess that was just a threat all regular people had to live with. I wasn't sure how they did it.

As I came to a stop at a crosswalk, I wondered if maybe the enjoyment came from the speed. I wasn't exactly going very fast — going thirty miles an hour wasn't really something I wanted to do in the neighborhood I lived in. Restraining myself, holding back. Trying to be normal. Maybe too normal. But as the little walking man blinked on, I decided I could still spice it up a bit.

First, a basic jog. Then pushing myself a little harder, picking up speed. Seeing the end of the next block, the crosswalk timer I had to beat.

Fifteen miles an hour was normal, right? It was slower than Usain Bolt, at least.

And that's the ticket. The hard thrust of my arms, the pounding of my heels, bouncing off the balls of my feet. Each stride long and powerful, pushing me forward and throwing my hair back. The sharp, cold bite of March air in my lungs, the blood warm in my cheeks and ears.

And for one long, glorious minute, I wasn't thinking about my nightmare.

I did have a destination in mind. The community center pool opened every day at 6, which meant it'd still be pretty empty at this time, especially on a weekend. It was about thirty minutes away by car, but I could halve that on foot.

(Subways, obviously, were not an option).

I wasn't entirely sure what kind of demented spirit possessed me to come here. I was definitely starting to regret it when I was in the women's locker room, putting on a new bathing suit and realized I never wore one in public since I was thirteen. No one else was in the room with me at the time, but I still ducked into a changing stall. Wrapped myself up in a towel before walking out. Thank God Aunt May had the wisdom to get me a simple black one-piece, otherwise I wouldn't have found the courage to actually enter the pool room.

Turned out, walking in was the easy part.

The hard part came soon after.

Water lapped at the edges of the pool, clear and warm. Sunlight beamed in from wide windows, set high up into the wall and ceiling. Chlorine wafted in the humid air, and the acoustics had sounds bouncing off every surface. Despite that, it was relatively quiet here; there was a small elderly aerobics class taking place at the center of the pool. It had a sort of U-shape to it, separating the shallow section where children typically played, from the deeper end, dropping down to twelve feet.

This was where I was crouched, on the tile rim, gazing into the rippling blue tones.

I could not get in.

If I thought nightmares of Dmitri were bad, I'd clearly forgotten how wonderful the experience was of almost drowning.

For fifteen, twenty minutes now, I'd been just staring at the water. Wondering if it was as simple as jumping in. I was an okay swimmer, I wasn't afraid I'd drown in my own skillessness. And there were lifeguards, people here who'd help, in case I did. Nothing wrong was going to happen here. I was completely safe.

But it didn't feel like it.

Dropping a hand, I traced a finger along the surface of the water. Dr. Siwa told me to face my fears in small ways. Listening to music outdoors, for example. Movie night with friends. Applying myself more in class. This was my idea. Maybe I should've run it by him first before attempting this. Hm. Too late now.

"You gonna get in or what?"

The voice came from behind me. Chills rocketed down my back as I pivoted around, still half-crouched, to the woman standing behind me. Cursed aloud before I could stop myself.

She cocked a single eyebrow at me. Red hair bouncing as she bobbed her head to the side. "Well, hello to you, too."

Reminding myself to chill out, I took a deep breath and rose slowly to my feet. Still, I couldn't fully smother my wariness at the sight of Natasha Romanov, standing in the middle of my town's indoor pool, casual as can be in a polkadot swimsuit. "What are you doing here?"

It came off more accusing than I meant it to. Still, there was no denying the fear thrumming in my veins. When was it ever good to get a surprise visit from the Black Widow herself? I glanced around, to see if anyone else noticed this, but no one was paying attention. If anyone recognized her, they didn't let on.

Like Steve, Natasha could be completely invisible. Maybe she taught him.

"Don't worry, we're safe here," She said, accurately reading my anxious look. "No one knows who I am. And I'm not here to hurt you, Mia. I just… wanted to see how you were doing, that's all."

I cut her a suspicious look. The instructor's calls danced off the walls. "Were you sent here by someone?"

Natasha didn't even blink, her face perfectly even. "What, a girl can't be curious? Maybe I'm here of my own volition."

I couldn't get a bead on her. If that had offended her at all, or why she was even here to begin with, Natasha Romanov didn't let a single thought slip. Least to say, she was not very reassuring. "Then I'd probably jump out the nearest window."

That got a small laugh out of her. A smirk as she shook her head. "I already said I'm not here to hurt you."

"Sure," I said, with a too-casual, too-quick shrug. Folded my arms across my chest. Dropped them again. Did not know at all what to do with my hands. Now I felt really exposed, but for reasons not at all having to do with the bathing suit. "Because if I had the opportunity to visit a former enemy who tried to kill me once, I wouldn't miss it, either."

The sarcasm was heavy; it masked the intense confusion, even the fear, I felt. I didn't know why she was here or what she expected to gain. If she wanted some good old foul play, this was an interesting way of going about it. I glanced at the slippery pool deck, the deep water. It wouldn't be hard to make a death here look like an accident.

Natasha studied me for a long moment. Her stance was casual and, I noted, not guarded in the same way Sam was when I last saw him; but that could mean anything. Natasha was a trained spy, an assassin. She was in perfect control of herself; no one saw what she didn't want them to see. At length, with that same inscrutable expression, she said, "I don't think you're my enemy, Mia."

Although her face hadn't changed, the tone of her voice had; unfortunately, I couldn't tell what it meant, only that it had gotten a little lower, a little softer.

"Good to know," I just mumbled and sidled past her. Coming to the pool was a definite mistake.

Had our positions been switched, I would not have been so carefree and willing to just visit someone that I'd been trying to kill, and had been trying to kill me back. I hadn't seen Natasha since that day in the museum. I only barely remembered the fight at the causeway; remembered enough that I'd attacked Natasha in the same way I had Sam, only she hadn't been so lenient. My finger went to the thin, pale line at my neck, where she'd cut me with my own knife.

Would've killed me, if given the chance.

"Would it help if I said I was here as a favor?" Natasha called after me. My footsteps came to a stop, splashing in a puddle. I turned slightly to look at her, my hand still at my throat, silent. Natasha took a deep breath, and said, "I just want to talk, that's all."

Hm. I couldn't deny it, I was curious. If she was here as a favor to Steve (who else would it be to? Who else would he ask?), then I had to believe he trusted her. And Steve didn't trust easy. Just as well, as I'd never really had a chance to talk to her one on one; if nothing else, I could clear the air, try to apologize. It was the least I could do after what happened.

At the very least, Natasha seemed more receptive to me than Dmitri. And that was a start.

I told myself I was doing this for Steve. That whatever I said or did here would be reported back to him somehow. I certainly couldn't contact him, but maybe Natasha could. I tried to let that be a consolation to what was undoubtedly going to be an awkward conversation.

Such a sucker. Shoulders sagging, I sighed. This was probably going to happen at some point, anyways. So I just threw out an arm. A silent gesture for her to continue.

Natasha gave me the faintest of smiles; I was almost pleased to get it, before remembering myself. Something about her set every muscle in my body on edge, and I wasn't sure if that was an aftereffect of SHIELD's fall, or just her natural air in general. Natasha just nodded her head towards the left and began to walk along the edge of the pool. I glanced once at the doorway, then back at her, before following. I came up on her left side, but Natasha didn't speak right away, even after I had matched pace with her. A slow, leisurely walk.

Watching her, I was surprised how short Natasha really was when she wasn't wearing shoes; the top of her head just barely past my shoulder. But she moved with far greater ease and fluidity, my movements sharp and tense next to hers, and I didn't doubt for one second who was the more experienced one here.

"I know this seems weird to you, and it's not exactly… normal for me, either," Natasha began slowly, appearing to choose her words carefully. She wasn't looking at me, but rather at the ground, in a pensive manner. "Usually, circumstances aren't so forgiving when one party tries to hurt the other."

"Kill."

I felt silly for correcting her, and didn't say anything else. Natasha glanced up at me, her expression revealing nothing, but her gaze sharp. She lifted her chin slightly, then nodded. "Yeah. Kill. Glossing over things doesn't work much for you, does it?"

"No." Again, I didn't know what to say. But she was right. I didn't appreciate being patronized.

"Well, in that case," Natasha inhaled through her nose, turning her face forward again. "I'll say I'm glad I didn't kill you, Mia. And that you didn't kill me. Even though you certainly tried."

"Yeah. Me too. I guess."

"You're not much of a talker, are you?" Natasha cut me another look, this time a bit amused. "You make Steve look like a gossip queen."

I smirked slightly, but it faded fast. The humor seemed to be an attempt at lightening the mood, but it wasn't quite landing. I was also being terser than usual, not helped by the fact I was more than a little intimidated right now. Natasha Romanov had snuck up on me. That wasn't a great feeling to have right now. It was making me rethink the whole 'listening to music' thing.

I also had the distinct feeling that she was trying to figure me out, and that wasn't a very pleasant idea, either. Is this what I got for telling Steve to go? A private chat with Natasha Romanov? Comforting.

Perhaps seeing her that her attempt at levity failed, Natasha's smile faded. We rounded a corner of the pool, slipping around the lifeguard's post, the sound of our footsteps on wet tile the only noise between us. Finally, she said, "I'm sorry, by the way. For what happened. It shouldn't have… it wasn't fair."

The words caught me by surprise, and I pressed my lips together, wondering what I could say. Natasha sounded sincere, for whatever that was worth. Is that why she came here?

"It's fine," I muttered, scratching the back of my neck and feeling bad that I hadn't been the one to apologize first. I should have been. She wasn't the one aiding a criminal organization into killing hundreds of thousands of people. "You were just doing your job. No hard feelings."

How different would things have been if she had succeeded? We certainly wouldn't be here talking right now.

We came across the shallow end of the pool, where the deck gently angled into the water. The kid's area, although there were none at this hour. She approached the water with no hesitation, but I came to an abrupt stop as soon as my toes got wet, my heart leaping in my chest. Although the water here was very warm, my core body temperature dropped several degrees, and I inhaled sharply, feeling suddenly winded.

Natasha, sensing my hesitation, paused and threw me a curious look. "What's wrong? Is it me again?"

For once, no. I just shook my head, fighting with the intense vertigo I was feeling as the warm water lapped at my toes. Hands clenching and unclenching. "No, it's not you. It's… I can't go in."

"You came here at seven in the morning to not go swimming?" She asked me skeptically.

I opened my mouth to answer, but found my tongue frozen. It felt like there were cotton balls in my chest. Everytime I looked at the water, I saw great metal walls collapsing, a giant tsunami coming straight for me.

"That's right." Natasha mused after a moment, when I failed to answer. "You were inside when the bays filled up with water, weren't you?"

Having it told straight to my face wasn't exactly the best experience. I just closed my eyes and slowly nodded.

"So why did you come here?"

Shrugged again, this time with a side of nervous laughter. "Had to know. I was trying to find the guts to get in before you showed up."

"Ah," Natasha said, and when I opened my eyes again, she gestured to the pool before her. "Well, you're probably better off starting here than jumping into the deep end. Literally."

I stared at her, then at the water, then back at her. Suddenly, it seemed very convenient that she had led me to this side of the pool. Had she guessed I was scared? Did she already know why? Did she walk me to this end just to see if I could do it? My lips twisted in distaste. I didn't like the feeling of being manipulated, even in such a small way. If it was manipulation at all. I guess that was the point. It's not good manipulation if it's obvious.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," she added quickly, perhaps realizing that she'd have to explain to Steve how, after I just admitted to being scared of the water, she urged me to get in deeper. She ducked her head slightly, as if an admittance of wrongdoing. "I forget, sometimes, that people have had different experiences than me."

I frowned, not sure if that was the truth or not. Still, that sounded like a challenge, and I was a little miffed. "I'm not scared."

With that, I took a long, confident step deeper. Or it was meant to be confident. Another skip of the heart, my skin tingling as the water rose to my ankles. The gritty slope against the soles of my feet, preventing slippage. Something in my throat locked up.

"I never said you were," Natasha replied, now slightly behind me. But my gaze was focused on the water, the way the light reflected and rippled over my feet, tinging my skin with a faint teal. It looked so bright and clear here; the water in the Triskelion had been dark, murky, suffocating.

I didn't have this fear when taking a shower. Not even a bath invoked this much resistance. Hell, I didn't even know for sure I was afraid of water, after the Triskelion, until a few days ago, when I went over the Queensborough bridge, saw the wide, black water of the East River beneath me. It immediately brought me back to falling off of Tower Bridge — to falling out of the helicarrier, watching black waves coming up to meet me.

It would be something else I'd have to tell Dr. Siwa about, eventually. I didn't want to almost drown again; I wanted to become a better swimmer. But maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

"How did you get those scars?" Natasha asked me, rather suddenly. When I met her gaze, her brow was furrowed slightly, her eyes set at shoulder-level. Ah, those scars. "Those aren't from the battle."

"No," I murmured, my hand sliding over my shoulder to reach behind my back. At the small, circular patch of skin just over my scapula. "These are older."

The scar felt smooth to the touch, skin darkened and warped. The bathing suit had exposed them, too; it hit me, then, that Natasha must have seen them when she first approached me, when my back was turned. I watched her reaction, to see what that answer meant to her; Didn't tell her when or where. Natasha probably knew well enough what type of scar a bullet left without me having to explain it. That I'd been shot in the back, twice; the fact that it had been in Sokovia wasn't relevant, at least at the moment. Natasha pursed her lips slightly, a short nod. As if filing that information away for later. Maybe I was fooling myself, but she just looked the slightest bit relieved.

Natasha stepped into the water, too. As she passed me, I noticed a scar, too. One around her wrist. I blinked, startled to see it — Natasha didn't have a lot of scars, at least none that I could spot, and that one stood out to me. Worry built up in my gut.

"Did I hurt you?" I suddenly blurted, watching the water rise to her knees. When her head swiveled to look at me, then down to where I was looking, I jolted slightly, realized I'd been staring at that scar. I flushed, glancing away. "I just… I mean — I don't remember. If I did or not. And I'm really sorry, if I did. I-I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't — if I hadn't —"

My words were a mess, higher pitched, jumbled, and anxious and saying far more about me than I wanted them to. But I couldn't take them back now.

"You didn't hurt me," Natasha answered in a quiet tone, gently cutting me off before I could make a further fool of myself. Her hand rotated back and forth, as if working out a muscle. Then she shrugged. "Not in a way I couldn't come back from, at least." A long pause. "And it wasn't your fault, either."

I glanced back at her, my brow pinching together. Hands hanging at my side, my voice hoarse. "You don't know that."

Not the first time I heard that, but maybe the first person I wasn't expecting it from. If anyone had a right to blame me, I wouldn't have been surprised if it was Natasha. Of everyone I'd turned on, I expected her to be the angriest — only because I knew the least about her. Had no idea how she'd react, and thus based it on my own guess, how I'd feel. I remembered our first encounter in Stark Tower, and wondered if she regretted not acting sooner that day, if she had known who — what — I really was.

"Yes, I do," she said, and her tone had turned hard. Not in a harsh way, but confident. She returned to the shallow end with long strides, coming to stand to my left. "Because I've been there, too. I know what it's like to be unmade, Mia. And it's not something you get to choose. It's something you endure. And, if you're lucky, survive."

I tried to swallow but my throat was dry. Gaze focused on the water lapping at my ankles. I felt a little lightheaded. I could just barely make out my dark reflection below me. Self-consciously, my hand went to my shoulder, covering the red star. Unmade.

I'd been aware that my tattoo had just been out in the open, but I didn't feel truly ashamed to show it until now. Had kept walking on Natasha's left just so she wouldn't see it, so I didn't have to think about it. But that was no longer the case.

"Making a life, a home, after that was one of the hardest things I'd ever done," she said. "It took me years. When you grow up knowing only discipline, pain, and fear, it's hard to accept that there's more out there. A better life. It's even harder convincing yourself you deserve it. That you get a second chance. Sometimes you need someone to tell you, first. Give you that little nudge."

Very slowly, Natasha reached up and gently pushed my hand down, off of the tattoo. "Hardest of all is learning to forgive yourself."

I looked at the star, then back at her. "How long did that part take you?"

"Oh," Natasha gave me a coy smile, but her gaze was distant. "I haven't gotten around to it yet."


~o~


I couldn't get any deeper than my knees. It was as far as Natasha could coax me before I lost my nerve.

It was a start.

Leaving the community pool an hour later, I squinted up into the bright daylight. By my watch, Peter was probably still asleep; I could get home before he and Aunt May woke up. Not that I was keeping a secret from them, but I didn't want them to worry if they found me out this early.

Natasha was still inside. Probably.

I was feeling remarkably better, all things considered. I didn't expect our conversation to be positive, but I ended up getting more out of it than I thought. I wondered what Natasha got out of it.

As I was checking the messages on my phone, something flickered in the corner of my eye.

A man, standing at the corner on the other side of the street. Partially hidden under the shadow of the building behind him, but I still could make out the baseball cap and dark brown jacket.

Looking at me.

My gaze snapped to him, just as a bus sped in front of me, blocking my view.

When it passed, the man was gone.

I blinked, heart jumping. I scanned the surrounding street, but saw nothing.

"What's up?" Natasha said, appearing next to me. Dressed in plainclothes now, regular jeans and a black leather jacket. When I didn't answer right away, her hand went to my arm. "Are you alright, Mia? You're all pale. Please don't tell me I pushed you too hard back there. Steve's not going to forgive me."

Her tone was only mildly humorous, making her concern seem unimportant and maybe even a little selfish — but the way her brows furrowed ever so slightly said it was more than just a joke.

"A little," I mumbled, hunching up my shoulders. How could I tell the Black Widow I was seeing things? "I'll be fine, though. Thanks."

I glanced back at the corner. No one was there.

Another ghost.