The man twitched again. His arms buckled beneath him as he collapsed sideways, curling instinctively. His face was turned just enough that she saw the angle of his jaw, the stubble along his throat — and the expression breaking across it in stark unbridled loss.

  Shock. Pain. Disorientation. Terror.

  His mouth moved, but no sound came. His eyes flicked around the room, unfocused at first, then snapping open wide.

  “Wh—” He choked on the word. Coughed. Swallowed. Tried again.

  “What the f—…”

  He flinched violently. Grabbed at his chest. His palm slapped flat against the skin above his heart and stayed there, pressing in.

  His breath hitched. His pupils shrank. His whole body spasmed.

  “I’m—” His voice cracked. He looked down at himself, then at the floor. “No… no, no, no—”

  He scrambled backward, slipping on the tile, pushing with his elbows until his back hit the bathroom wall. His hands patted his chest again, then his arms, his ribs, his face — frantic, like he didn’t trust his own skin.

  Riya took a step back into the hall, heart pounding like it wanted to leave her ribcage. Her fingers still clutched the locket, but her mind couldn’t catch up. This wasn’t just a manifestation. This wasn’t an illusion.

  It was him.

  The man from the warehouse. The one she’d seen tied down, begging silently, stabbed through the chest by a woman now lying in the morgue. The one who had exploded — no, disintegrated — right in front of her. She’d recognise those terrified eyes anywhere.

  And now he was here.

  Shaking. Alive. Still terrified.

  “I was dead,” he rasped, his voice high and cracking at the edges. “I felt it. I—she—God, what the fuck is this?”

  He looked at her now. Really looked. Like maybe he was seeing her for the first time. His eyes flicked over her daggy tracky dacks, crumpled shirt, her stance, and the hallway behind her. None of it gave him any answers.

  He opened his mouth again — a question forming — but no words came.

  Riya didn’t answer. She didn’t move.

  Her gaze locked on him, just breathing. Just watching.

  Because what else could she do?

  The man in front of her was supposed to be dead.

  And here he was.

  Riya forced herself to move.

  Her limbs didn’t want to obey — like her whole body was trying to delay the moment just a little longer, to pretend that what she’d seen hadn’t happened. But her training kicked in, if only as a mask to wear while her brain caught up.

  She took one careful step into the bathroom doorway. Just enough to see his hands — open, shaking, pressed against the wall behind him like he was trying to keep the world away.

  He didn’t lunge. Didn’t speak.

  He was clearly terrified.

  More than that, he looked shattered. Not just confused, but existentially unseated, like he wasn’t sure which part of this world he was allowed to exist in anymore.

  “Don’t move,” Riya said quietly.

  Her voice surprised even her — low, level, measured. Cop tone. But softer than usual. Not commanding. Not quite.

  The man flinched at the sound. His eyes snapped to hers, wide and red-rimmed.

  “I…” He shook his head, swallowed. “I don’t know what— I was—”

  His voice cracked hard, and he doubled over again. Breathing fast. One arm wrapped around his torso, the other braced on the tile. Riya could see the sweat slicking his skin now, and a rawness behind his eyes that made him look both older and younger than he had seemed in the warehouse.

  Still naked.

  Still very much real.

  She glanced sideways toward the kitchen bench where her phone sat, plugged in. Too far. No line of sight from here. And she wasn’t about to take her eyes off him long enough to dash for it.

  The man coughed. Tried to speak again, failed. Then his eyes landed on her hand. She followed his gaze — and saw the locket.

  Still hanging limp from her fingers.

  But now she noticed something else. The way his breath caught when he saw it. Recognition... something like fear. Or pain.

  He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. But his whole body leaned away from it, as if whatever strength he had left was instinctively telling him to get as far from it and her as possible.

  Riya slowly lowered her hand. Not to hide it — just to make it stop hanging there like bait.

  “I don’t know your name,” she said.

  He blinked. Swallowed.

  “I… I don’t know if I do either,” he said. Then: “I think I was drugged. Or—fuck, maybe I’m still drugged—”

  His words were coming faster now, the pieces tumbling out of him. “There was a woman… Camilla... She said—she said I’d be safe. And then she—she took me somewhere. There were candles. A knife. I couldn’t move. I remember the blade. I remember her face. Then—”

  He stopped.

  His breath hitched again.

  “I died,” he whispered.

  Riya didn’t respond. She didn’t have anything to give him. She’d seen what happened. Seen him disintegrate in a swirl of dust and light, right before her eyes. She’d seen the scorch mark, the explosion.

  Now she was seeing him again.

  And her brain had no idea how to reconcile that.

  She glanced at the floor beneath him. Clean. A perfect circle. Not a speck of dust beyond the boundary. It wasn’t just symbolic — it was surgical. Like something had sterilised the space before placing him there.

  He looked up at her again, less panicked now, but still raw.

  “I don’t know where I am,” he said. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

  Neither do I, Riya almost said.

  Instead, she reached for the towel hanging beside the door and tossed it across the bathroom floor. It landed just in front of him. He flinched again, but didn’t move.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Cover up,” she said gently. “I won’t harm you.”

  She didn’t know if that was true. She just knew it was what he needed to hear.

  He grabbed the towel with both hands and wrapped it around his waist, clumsily, shaking.

  Riya looked around at the laundry, her heart still racing, glancing at the small pile of clothes by the washing machine — her ex’s stuff. She picked up a loose shirt and sweatpants, judging they’d be tight but better than nothing.

  “Here,” she said softly, holding them out. “My ex left these. You’re a bit bigger than him, but maybe they’ll work.”

  He looked at her, eyes glazed but nodding slowly. He took the clothes with shaking hands.

  Riya stepped back, giving him space.

  He dressed slowly, movements stiff and uncertain. The shirt stretched tight across his shoulders and chest, sleeves creeping up past his wrists. The tracksuit pants clung too close around the thighs and hips, pulling awkwardly. He tugged at the fabric, frowning slightly, as though something didn’t sit right — not just the fit, but the feel of his body underneath.

  Riya quietly directed him to the lounge, suggesting he take a seat on the couch. She lifted a blanket beside it, soft and old, draping it over him. It swallowed most of his frame, but his hands still clenched the edges like he was bracing for the floor to fall away. His breathing was uneven. Not panicked now — just cautious, like the whole room might dissolve if he let his guard down.

  “Do you want a tea?” she asked, standing near the kitchen archway.

  He looked up, surprised — as if he hadn’t expected her to offer anything.

  “Yes,” he said softly, after a moment. “Please.”

  She nodded once. “Sugar?”

  “One teaspoon.”

  “Milk?”

  A pause. Then a small, almost embarrassed smile. “Yes, please.”

  She gave a faint smile in return, then turned away, filling the kettle and grabbing a couple of mugs. The familiar ritual calmed her: boil the water, drop in the tea bags, add the sugar, pour. A quick stir. Bags out, milk in, spoon gone. She carried one back and offered it to him like it was a peace offering.

  He took it carefully, cupping it with both hands like he needed to be sure it was real. He didn’t drink right away — just let the warmth sink into his skin. She sat opposite him, arms folded loosely across her knees.

  “I’m Constable Riya Lennox,” she said gently, sipping her own tea. “I work for Victoria Police. You’re, ah—unexpected company. But you’re not in trouble. Not here. I just… need to figure out what happened to you. And how you got into my bathroom.”

  He looked down into the tea. His voice, when it came, was quiet and raw.

  “I don’t know how I got here,” he said. “One second I was... I was somewhere else. Tied down. There was this woman I know, Camilla. She was speaking in a language I didn’t know. And then—” He swallowed hard, like his throat had caught fire. “Then she stabbed me. Through the heart.”

  Riya didn’t interrupt. She just let him speak.

  “I felt it,” he said, almost to himself. “The knife. The pain. Everything dropped away like I was falling. And then I wasn’t. I was… on the floor. In your bathroom.”

  He finally met her eyes. “That was minutes ago. Just now. I saw you there too! How…?”

  She nodded once. Slowly.

  “You’ve been missing since yesterday,” she said. “There was no trace of you. No body. No evidence. Just a scorch mark and corrupted bodycam footage.”

  His fingers tensed slightly around the mug.

  “I remember nothing since that moment. How am I still here?”

  Riya studied him in silence. He was articulate. Calm, despite everything. And polite — almost too polite for someone who should be screaming or crying.

  “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, blinking. “I should’ve said before. My name’s Elias. Elias Rowe.”

  She gave a small nod. “Alright, Elias. Thank you.”

  He looked down again at his clothes, tugging gently at the fabric stretched tight across his arms.

  “I don’t remember being this… big,” he murmured. “I expected these clothes to be huge on me.”

  Riya tilted her head. “Big how?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Just… thicker, taller. Like I’m wearing someone else’s frame. But it’s me.”

  His eyes flicked up toward her again, cautious. “I don’t know if I’m making sense.”

  “You're making as much sense as anyone would in this situation,” she said reassuringly.

  He finally took a sip of tea. The heat made him flinch slightly, like it caught him off-guard, but he swallowed it down and let out a shaky breath.

  The tram outside rattled past, indifferent. The world was still turning. The city still breathing.

  Riya said nothing. Her fingers tapped against the kitchen bench, then stopped. She glanced at the locket, still warm against her collarbone, then back at him.

  She didn’t remember his build. His face had been contorted in pain. Bound. Bleeding. She hadn’t had time to take in the details.

  But she remembered his eyes.

  Not the colour — the expression. Wide. Human. Raw with silent pleading as he looked at her across that warehouse floor, moments after Camilla plunged the knife into his chest. Those same eyes were looking at her now. Different lighting. Different posture. But the same core. The same person, if not the same body.

  She walked to the hallway, opened the shallow drawer in the hall table, and pulled out a small handheld mirror she rarely used. Came back. Held it out.

  He took it with a puzzled look. “What’s this for?”

  “Look.”

  He tilted it. Examined himself. At first, nothing. Then his brow tightened.

  “What the hell…?”

  His fingers touched his face — his cheek, his jaw, the line of his nose.

  “I don’t… this isn’t right. I had a scar here. Just under the eye. My nose was slightly crooked. I—my face wasn’t this symmetrical.”

  He looked up at her, and for a moment, his voice almost failed him.

  “Did I look like this before?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. I didn’t really… see you. Not properly. But this doesn’t feel the same.”

  “It’s not,” he said. “It’s like someone polished the edges. Made a cleaner version. Like I’m someone’s idea of who I should be.” He turned the mirror again, examining himself with a growing unease. “I’m not saying I look bad. That’s the problem. It’s too perfect. Too... intentional. Like a plastic surgeon's idea of the perfect me.

  She watched him for a moment. Then asked, “You don’t feel like yourself?”

  He exhaled sharply. “No. I feel… wrong. My weight’s off. My centre of balance is different. Some movements feel heavier than they should. Others feel too light. It’s like I’ve been… recalibrated.”

  Then, quieter: “I don’t even feel entirely human anymore.”

  Elias sat slouched on the couch, the blanket bunched around his waist, both hands wrapped around the mug like it was the last solid thing in reach. The warmth seemed to anchor him, but his posture still held the edge of someone half-braced for reality to shift again.

  Riya sat opposite, one arm draped over her knee, watching him with an expression caught somewhere between concern and calculation. She let the silence do its work for a moment, gave him the space to breathe.

  Then, slowly, she reached into her hoodie, unclasped the locket, and drew it out to show him.

  She didn’t hold it up like a dramatic reveal, just let it rest against her palm; the chain pooled between her fingers. But her grip was careful, like it might bite.

  “This showed up on me after the incident,” she said. “Didn’t notice it right away. Just this pressure, like something threaded into my skin.”

  Elias stared at it. His brow tightened, but he didn’t look surprised.

  “I tried to get rid of it,” Riya went on. “Took it off. Left it across the room. Next time I looked, it was back around my neck.” She paused. “Tried chucking it. Tried burying it. Even took a hammer to it on the laundry floor. Didn’t so much as scratch it. Just sat there. Same as now.”

  Elias let out a breath, quiet but shaken. “It’s part of it,” he said. “The ritual. I think I saw it… earlier. Camilla was wearing it. In the taxi, before everything. I remember the shape of it. I thought it was just jewellery.”

  Riya said nothing for a moment, just watching the way his gaze didn’t quite meet the locket now.

  “She’d been planning this for a while,” she said. “This wasn’t spur of the moment.”

  “She said stuff I didn’t understand,” Elias murmured. “About power, about binding. I didn’t think she meant it. I didn’t think she was serious.”

  “She was.”

  He looked up. “Where is she now?”

  Riya hesitated. “She’s dead.”

  That landed like a slap. “What?”

  “She was about to stab you. We were already on-site. My partner shouted for her to drop the knife. She didn’t. I saw it—I saw her bring it down.” Riya’s jaw flexed. “We fired. But it was too late.”

  Elias sat back, stunned. “She’s dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  He blinked slowly. “I didn’t see it happen. I just remember the knife. The pain. Like falling out of the world.”

  Riya gave a slight nod. “Whatever she was trying to do… it didn’t end when she did.”

  “There was a voice,” he said. “Not hers. Not even human. It started just before the knife came down.”

  Riya’s posture shifted. Still, but alert.

  “Not loud,” Elias said. “Just… inside everything. Inside me. It wasn’t shouting. It was calling. Like it had always been waiting, and she’d finally given it access.”

  He looked up at her, voice raw.

  “It felt wrong. Like the air got thick with odd sensations. Like it had lungs, but they were full of water. And it laughed, Riya. It laughed. I felt it in my spine.”

  Riya gave a slow nod. “I heard it too.”

  Elias froze.

  “Not all of it,” she added. “Just the last few moments. It wasn’t coming from her. It wasn’t from anywhere in the warehouse. It was under it. Or behind the walls. Or inside… inside you… I think”

  He swallowed, throat tight.

  “I saw you,” she said. “Right before it happened. You looked straight at me. And then she—”

  He shook his head, cutting her off. Not in anger. Just... too much.

  “I didn’t even get to scream,” he whispered. “All I could think was: this is real. This is actually happening. The piss, the shit, the knife, the voice. All of it.”

  Riya didn’t speak. She didn’t flinch. Just sat with it. With him.

  After a moment, he looked at the locket again. “It didn’t die with her, did it?”

  “No,” she said. “She died. But something passed it on.”

  She closed her hand slowly over the locket and pocketed it without ceremony.

  Then she stood, brushing her hands against her jeans. “You can stay here tonight. Couch’s yours. We’ll figure something out in the morning.”

  He looked up, surprised. “I—” He hesitated, swallowed. “Thanks. I didn’t say that before. For not… calling it in. For letting me stay.”

  Riya gave a faint shrug. “Didn’t seem like a situation a standard call out would fix.”

  He let out a breath, half a laugh, then nodded. “Fair.”

  She turned and headed into the hallway, her steps steady, controlled, but the locket still rested in her pocket, quiet and weightless, like a secret waiting to wake.

  Behind her, Elias sank deeper into the couch, eyes still fixed on the blank television screen, lost in thought.