The man was gone.
But his voice… it lingered. Clung to her like static. Heavy. Inescapable.
I sat on the thin mattress, eyes fixed on the white wall in front of me, hands curling into the stiff fabric of my hospital gown. Something inside me had been taken. Ripped away. Not gently. I could feel the empty space it left behind — sharp, jagged.
The memories were there, I knew they were. I could almost see them. Like shards of a broken mirror just out of reach, flickering with light when I got too close.
I shut my eyes hard.
The flickering neon above me buzzed like a wasp in my skull. There was a taste in my mouth — metallic, bitter. A voice echoed in the back of my mind, distant and warped.
Zoya… run.
My eyes flew open.
Nothing.
I sucked in a breath that barely made it past my ribs. My chest ached. My whole body felt wrong.
Why had he helped me?
I pressed my palms against my temples and tried to shove the noise out. That man — he knew things. About me. About Rayan.
Rayan.
The name punched through my chest like a steel fist. I knew him. I knew what happened to him.
Didn't I?
I dropped my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet meeting the ice-cold tile. The routine was the same every day. Breakfast. Meds. Crafts. Back to the room. Repeat. But something was different today. The fog wasn't as thick.
I wasn't floating anymore.
I wanted answers.
And only he had them.
The craft room reeked of glue and cheap paint. People were slouched at tables, cutting out magazine clippings, rolling clay, painting meaningless blobs. I sat down, eyes half on the nurse in the corner. She always watched me like I was about to snap. She wasn't wrong.
I picked up a pencil.
And then my hand started moving. Fast. No thought. Just instinct.
Lines. A jaw. A lean frame. A cigarette dangling from fingers. Smoke curling like something alive.
I stared down at the paper.
Him.
The lights flickered.
The air shifted. Subtle, like a storm deciding whether or not to touch down.
Someone giggled. I turned. A girl sat hunched over her page, drawing spirals. Nonsense. No one had laughed.
I looked at the nurse.
"I need to see him."
She blinked. "Who?"
I held the paper up. "The man. He was in my room."
"There's no one like that here, Zoya."
Liar.
I could hear it in her voice. The gentle, plastic calm they used when they thought I was about to break.
"Call him."
Her fake smile didn't budge. "Call who?"
"Him!" I slammed my fist on the table. "He knows things!"
Heads turned. Sedated, sleepy stares. The nurse stepped toward me, gentle hand extended like I was a deer about to bolt.
"Zoya, I think you should—"
I shoved the chair back and stood. "You're lying to me."
"Sit down."
"CALL HIM!"
My voice cracked. I grabbed the nearest cup of water and hurled it across the room. It exploded against the wall. Shards. Shouts. Footsteps. Hands were already on me.
I screamed. Fought. But I was drowning in cloth and arms and pressure.
"He was here! He was real! HE—"
The needle bit into my arm.
Darkness swallowed me before I hit the floor.
When I opened my eyes again, everything hurt.
My head. My throat. My pride.
And him — the bastard — he was sitting across from me, looking like the devil on lunch break. Leaning back, legs stretched out, smoke drifting from the cigarette in his hand. Smug. Amused. Infuriating.
"You begged me to talk," he said, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. "Now you look like you're ready to kill me."
"Just tell me," I snapped. "I don't have time for your bullsh*t."
His lips curled. "Sweetheart… we've got all the time in the world."
I clenched my fists. If there was something heavy in this room, I would've thrown it straight at his head.
"Slow down," he said, cutting me off before I could speak. "The story's long. And if you want the truth, every last little drop, you'll have to be patient."
He was enjoying this. The power. The control. It oozed from his voice.
"Good girl," he murmured when I said nothing. "Now, where do I begin…"
I wanted to slap that smirk off his face.
"This story starts with a man," he said, drawing on the cigarette. "A man who thought he could outsmart the devil. Greedy. Reckless. Owed more than he could ever repay."
"And the man he owed?" he chuckled darkly. "Wasn't the forgiving type."
I stopped breathing.
"He ran. Tried to disappear. But debts don't vanish. Not really. Not when there's something else you can take."
He looked me dead in the eyes. And smiled.
"So the devil took something else. His son."
Rayan.
It hit me like a punch to the gut. I knew this. I had always known.
"But here's the twist," he said, leaning in. "The devil didn't come up with that plan on his own."
My fingers froze.
"Someone suggested it. A young man. Smart. Cold. Ambitious. He noticed… something interesting."
My mouth went dry.
"He saw that the devil's daughter—" his voice dripped — "had a very inconvenient little crush."
I froze. No. No, no, no.
"And so," he grinned, "he made a trade. Said, 'Why go after the coward, when you can take his son instead?'"
Rayan. Because of me?
I remembered the whispers. The warnings. Eva's voice in the dark. The Mafia took him.
I remembered the basement. His eyes. Empty. Defeated.
"And when she saw him again…" The man's voice softened, almost fond. "Chained. Starving. Forgotten…"
My throat closed.
"What did she do?" he asked. "Did she scream? Run?"
"No," he answered himself, grinning wider. "She tried to save him."
I blinked away the blur in my vision.
"She couldn't do it alone. So she turned to someone else. Someone she hated."
My stomach flipped.
"She offered him the one thing he always wanted. Public engagement. Her name. Her body. Everything."
I felt sick.
"And the fool? He believed her. Helped her."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"But here's the part you never figured out," the man whispered, tossing away his cigarette. "She thought she saved him."
He leaned forward, his voice like ice.
"She didn't."
I stared, frozen.
"Because the second she made that deal…" His gaze burned into me.
"…he stopped being hers."
The words shattered something inside me.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
He stood. "That's enough for tonight."
"No." My voice cracked. "You don't get to stop."
I lunged, grabbing his wrist. "Tell me everything."
His eyes flicked down to my hand.
"You're desperate," he said softly. "I like that."
"Tell me," I begged.
He smiled — slow and wicked. Pulled away like I was nothing but smoke.
"Patience, sweetheart," he said, already walking.
"This is just the beginning."