The door clicked shut behind Alison, and Amber leaned against it for a moment, letting out a quiet sigh.
"Be safe, Ali," she murmured to the wood grain.
Alison had barely spoken as she slipped on her heels and adjusted the silver hoops in her ears. She didn't have to explain. The way her hands trembled slightly when she did her mascara said enough. The club wasn't for fun—it was a desperate attempt at feeling something else.
Alison had dressed sharp tonight—tight leather pants, silver boot heels, and an attitude that screamed I need this. She hadn't said much, but she didn't have to. Amber saw it in her eyes. That need to dance off the chaos, to sweat out the grief, even just for a night.
Amber pulled the edge of the curtain back just enough to watch her friend strut down the sidewalk toward the rideshare parked under the dim streetlamp. The city's pulse was distant but constant, like a heartbeat trying not to flatline. Once the car disappeared around the corner, Amber let the curtain fall back into place.
The silence that followed was loud.
She padded into the kitchen, barefoot on cold tile, and stared at her phone on the counter. A name hovered in her mind like a fragile ghost: Kyro.
She hadn't spoken to him in three days.
Three days since he packed up his apartment, withdrew from his classes, and drove back to the coast, where the air was saltier and his childhood home waited with stillness and shadows.
Not since the day he left, face pale and eyes rimmed red, a bag hastily thrown together and no promise of return. Not since the day he muttered, "I can't keep watching people die," before closing the door behind him.
Three days since she'd seen the numb look in his eyes—like a man watching the world burn from behind thick glass.
Amber picked up her phone and called.
It rang. Once. Twice. A third time.
She nearly hung up.
"Amber." His voice came through—low, rough. Tired, like it had clawed its way out of a cavern.
"Hey, Kyro" she said softly. She took her coffee to the window and stared out into the dark. "I just wanted to check in."
There was silence on the other end. She imagined him sitting on his porch, hoodie pulled up, thumb tracing the edge of his chipped mug.
"Don't," he said. "I'm not good company."
"You don't have to be. I just need to know you're still… there."
There was a pause, then the sound of a distant door creaking. A television buzzed in the background—low static.
"I'm okay," he finally said, whispered.
"Yeah, I'm here." He continued.
Liar.
"You don't have to be," she replied. "Okay, I mean."
He exhaled. The sound cracked through the speaker.
"It's quieter here. No sirens. No body bags. Just waves and silence. It's better, but it's not... it's not easier."
Amber swallowed. "I didn't expect it to be."
Another pause. She could hear him fidgeting, maybe rubbing the heel of his palm against his forehead—he always did that when thoughts got loud.
"They keep looking at me like I know something," he said, barely audible. "Like I'm not just the guy who watched his friends die, but maybe the guy who let it happen."
"You're not," she said quickly. Fiercely. Her fingers tightened around the mug. "You were there, Kyro. You fought like hell to save them."
"It wasn't enough."
Amber closed her eyes. She heard the truth in his voice—raw, bitter, and broken.
"They were my people, Amber. I saw things that won't go away just because I'm home. And now I'm this… this empty thing they keep interrogating, poking like I might confess to something I didn't do."
Her chest ached. "You don't have to carry that alone. I know what they're saying. I know how they're twisting it."
"I didn't come back to be a suspect," he whispered. "I came back to survive."
"And you will survive," she said, stronger now. "But not by running. When you're ready… when it doesn't feel like breathing hurts—come back. Not to the case. To us. To the people who know who you are."
There was a long silence.
"Amber… thanks for not forgetting me."
She blinked away sudden heat from her eyes. "I could never."
"Let Alison dance for both of us tonight, will you?"
Amber managed a small laugh. "She's already halfway there, heels first."
"I'll call again tomorrow," he said. His voice was steadier now, even if just a little.
"I'll be here."
The line clicked off, and the quiet crept back in. But it wasn't so empty anymore.
Amber turned toward the hallway, toward her own reflection caught in the mirror.
One down. A thousand breaths to go.
**************************************************
In the dim upstairs hallway of the Wren family home, Kyro sat hunched on the floor outside his childhood bedroom, staring at a spot on the wallpaper that didn't exist. His mother stood at the end of the hall, clutching the stair rail, watching him in helpless silence.
He mumbled to himself, voice too low to make out, eyes wide and unblinking.
His father had tried to drag him into the shower earlier, muttering that the boy smelled like dust and decay. Kyro screamed—said the water was full of blood. That the steam was choking the ghosts.
At night, he wouldn't sleep. He sat by the window instead, whispering names of the dead like a litany. Micha. Zade. James.
Once, they found him pacing barefoot in the garden at 3 a.m., muttering orders to people who weren't there.
"I saw her, Mom," he said last night. "Micha was in the mirror. She was crying."
His parents didn't know what to do. They tried therapy. Prayer. Begging. But Kyro only got quieter. He barely ate. His skin was pale, his eyes ringed with purple hollows.
And worse—sometimes, he laughed. Out of nowhere. Short, choking bursts of amusement that made his mother leave the room shaking.
**************************************************
Twenty minutes had not passed when Kyro called Amber, after the phone call they just had.
"Amber?" Kyro's voice echoed in his room.
"Yeah, I'm here."
"They think I'm losing it," he said, not quite whispering. "I think they might be right."
Her heart thudded. "Why? What's happening?"
"I keep… seeing things. Shadows moving when they shouldn't. I hear footsteps in the attic, but there's no one there. And sometimes… I smell blood. Strong. Like it's on my hands, even when I just washed them."
Amber closed her eyes, not knowing what to do.
"Kyro, listen to me. That's trauma. It's not madness. You've seen more than anyone should—your brain's trying to make sense of the pain. You're not crazy."
There was a silence. Then, softly:
"What if I am, Amber?"
"No," she said, firmly. "You're drowning. But drowning doesn't mean you belong at the bottom."
He let out a soft sound—maybe a sob, maybe a laugh. She couldn't tell.
"I want to come back," he whispered. "But I'm afraid if I do, the ghosts will follow."
She breathed in through her nose, slow and careful. "Then let me help you face them. One at a time."
Another long pause.
Then: "I miss you."
"I miss you too."
And before the call ended, Amber said it again, like a vow:
"You are not alone."