RACHEL

I'm still buzzing when I crawl into bed, my mind racing faster than my body can keep up. The room is quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of wind against my window. But inside my head, it's anything but. Every second of the night replays in a loop—the firelight flickering over Marco's face, the feel of his hand on my waist as we danced, the way his eyes softened just before he kissed me.

I touch my lips, half-expecting them to still be warm. Marco. I kissed Marco. Or he kissed me? Does it matter? Either way, it happened. And it was… perfect. The kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and your heart forget how to beat properly. My whole body still hums with the memory of it, like some kind of aftershock.

But then, the elation starts to dip, replaced by a thread of unease.

What are we doing?

I stare up at the ceiling, my fingers clutching the edge of my blanket. This is a war. We're soldiers. We don't get to have normal lives, much less moments like tonight. I should know better. I do know better.

Marco and I… we're distractions for each other. Aren't we?

But then I think of the way he looked at me tonight, like I was the only person who existed in that moment. I think of how his touch grounded me, how safe I felt in his arms. I think of his dark eyes, so full of warmth, of mischief, of something deeper. And for a second, it feels like maybe, just maybe, it's okay to be happy. Even in the middle of all this chaos, even with the weight of the world pressing down on our shoulders. Maybe Marco isn't a distraction. Maybe he's… something more.

The thought makes my chest ache in a way that's both terrifying and wonderful.

I close my eyes, letting the memories of the night wash over me—his laugh, his smile, the warmth of his hand in mine. Slowly, the tension drains from my body, and I feel myself start to drift, the edges of sleep pulling me under.

At first, my dreams are soft and warm. I'm back by the fire, Marco's hand in mine, his voice low and teasing. The flames flicker, casting a golden glow over everything, and his eyes shine with that familiar warmth. He pulls me closer, his touch gentle, his breath warm against my skin.

But then, something shifts.

His hand tightens on mine just a little too hard. His voice, when he speaks, is lower now, rougher. "You trust me, don't you, Rachel?" he asks, his tone sharp, almost mocking.

I blink, confused. "Of course," I say, but the words feel wrong in my mouth.

Marco's smile fades, replaced by something colder, harder. His grip on my hand tightens even more, and I wince.

"You always make the hard choices, don't you?" he says, his voice almost a growl. "That's why you trapped me. Because you couldn't handle it."

My heart stutters. "What are you talking about?" I whisper.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he pulls me closer, his face inches from mine. His dark eyes are no longer warm—they're cold, unfeeling, like polished stone. His hand moves from mine to my wrist, gripping it like a vise.

"You think you're strong, but you're not," he says, his voice dripping with disdain. "You'll always be trapped, Rachel. Just like me."

And then I realize—it's not Marco.

It's David.

My stomach drops, and I try to pull away, but I can't. His grip is too strong, his presence too overwhelming. The fire around us dims, the warmth replaced by a chilling cold that seeps into my bones.

"You can't escape me," David says, his voice low and menacing. The dark brown eyes have turned icy blue. "You think you've won, but you haven't. I'm always with you. No matter where you go, no matter what you do, I'll be there. Watching. Waiting."

"Stop," I whisper, my voice trembling. "You're not real."

He laughs, a cold, hollow sound. "Aren't I?"

The fire dies completely, leaving us in darkness. His face looms closer, blood streaked across his pale skin, his eyes gleaming with a cruel light.

"You'll never be free of me, Rachel. You'll never forget."

I can't move. I can't breathe. His grip tightens, cold and unrelenting, and I feel like I'm sinking, the darkness closing in around me.

"Let me go!" I scream, thrashing against him, but it's no use. He doesn't budge. His grip only tightens, pulling me deeper into the void.

"You trapped me," he says, his voice echoing in the darkness. "But you're the one who's really trapped."

The world spins, and I'm falling, the cold consuming everything.

[You're mine, Rachel. Never forget.]

I wake with a jolt, my body drenched in sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. The room is dark, the shadows long and heavy, and for a moment, I don't know where I am. The nightmare clings to me, thick and suffocating, and I swear I can still feel David's icy grip around my wrist. I clutch it, pressing my fingers into the skin, but the sensation doesn't fade.

The silence is oppressive, broken only by the sound of my shallow, ragged breathing. My eyes dart around the room, searching for something—anything—that will anchor me. The familiar shapes of my dresser, my bookshelf, the chair in the corner slowly come into focus, but they don't bring comfort. They seem distorted, warped in the pale moonlight filtering through my window.

And then I see it.

A shadow.

It shifts at the edge of my vision, near the foot of my bed. My breath catches in my throat. My pulse pounds in my ears, so loud it drowns out everything else. For a moment, I can't move, my body frozen in place as my mind races.

Someone's here.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to sit up, my movements slow and deliberate. My hand trembles as I reach for the lamp on my bedside table, my fingers brushing against its cool surface. I can't take my eyes off the shadow. It doesn't move, but it's there— solid and dark, an outline of something, or someone, just beyond the reach of the moonlight.

With a sudden burst of courage or maybe desperation, I lunge for the lamp and flick the switch. Light floods the room, banishing the shadows. I whip around, chest heaving.

No one's there.

The room is empty, the silence now deafening. My gaze darts to the window. Closed. The wind hums softly, a low, mournful sound that sets my teeth on edge. I stare at the window, my mind spinning.

Was it the dream? Or was he here?

I get out of bed slowly, my legs shaky beneath me, and cross the room. The floorboards creak under my weight, the sound unnervingly loud in the quiet. I reach the window and look outside. Nothing but darkness. But the sense of unease doesn't fade.

I turn back toward my room, scanning every corner, every shadow. The chair in the corner is empty. The space under my bed is clear. Nothing is out of place. And yet, I can't shake the feeling that I'm not alone.

I climb back into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin, my eyes fixed on the darkened room. My heart is still racing, my mind replaying every second of the nightmare, every moment since I woke. The shadows seem to shift again, just slightly, but I force myself to stay still, to keep breathing.

Eventually, the adrenaline fades, leaving only exhaustion. My eyelids grow heavy, but I don't let myself fully relax. The question lingers, sharp and unsettling:

Was it just a dream?

Or was David here, watching, waiting—reminding me that no matter how far I run, no matter how tightly I lock the doors, I'll never truly be free of him?

The room remains silent, the wind outside now a faint whisper. But sleep doesn't come easily. And when it does, it's restless, filled with shadows that never quite disappear.