The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the old ceiling fan and the uneven rhythm of her breath brushing against my shoulder. She lay beside me — dangerously close — and yet, miles away in her gaze.
"I lied," she whispered.
I didn't flinch. I just waited.
Her fingers traced the scar on my chest, slow and deliberate, as if trying to read it like a language she once knew but had long forgotten.
"About what?" I asked, voice low, like a dare.
She bit her lip. "About who I am."
Earlier that day.
The morning sun spilled through the cracked blinds like golden claws tearing into the dim apartment. My shirt hung over the back of the couch, still damp from last night's rain. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as the front door creaked open.
She stepped in.
Towel wrapped tight, drops of water still sliding down her collarbone. Her hair clung to her shoulders. She didn't meet my eyes. Not at first.
"I used your shower," she said flatly.
I stretched, unbothered. "That makes us even. You used the water. I used your silence."
She scoffed but didn't deny it.
"I'm not like the others," she added, drying her hair with calculated grace.
"That's what all the dangerous ones say before they burn your world down," I replied, watching her.
Her brow twitched. A flicker of something. Guilt? Or curiosity?
"Your world is dying," she said suddenly, staring out the window.
I raised an eyebrow. "And yours?"
She turned slowly, something dark behind her smile. "Already dead."
Her name was Elira.
Or at least, that's what she told me.
She spoke seven languages. Her laugh was fake, but her silences screamed. She could eat fire with her eyes and freeze time with her smirk. And I was hooked.
That night, we didn't kiss. We didn't even touch. But something passed between us — raw, unfiltered. Something bigger than lust, more dangerous than trust.
"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" she asked as we sat on the couch.
"Because I don't know if you're here to save me or destroy me."
She didn't deny either.
"Do you believe people can run from what they are?" she whispered.
I stared into her eyes, feeling the layers she hid behind. "People don't run. They just change the mask."
She laughed quietly, the kind of laugh that felt like it hurt. "Then I guess I've run too long."
The next morning she was gone.
No note. No text. No goodbye.
But on the kitchen table was a single crimson feather.
And on my phone: one message from an unsaved number.
"Don't trust the girl with the golden tongue. She's not alone."
My heart clenched. Because I'd seen it — a golden tongue tattoo behind her left ear.
And now, I wasn't sure if she walked into my life out of chance… or design.
I spent the day restless. Tried tracing the number. Nothing. Burned. Wiped. No history.
Every sound outside felt amplified. Every passing stranger suspicious. And by evening, I was sure I was being followed.
At the metro station, the shadow appeared again.
A woman. Same height. Same walk.
"Elira?" I called out.
She stopped. Then turned slowly.
Not Elira.
The eyes were sharper. Meaner. Colder.
"Sucks, doesn't it?" she said with a twisted grin. "Falling for the wrong twin."
Before I could react, a sting pricked the side of my neck.
I turned—blurry vision, spinning world—to see her tucking a thin, metallic needle into her coat.
"I warned you," Elira's voice echoed in my mind. "But you listened to my touch, not my words."
The world faded. My knees buckled. Her silhouette the last thing I saw.
Darkness. Cold. Metal. Dripping.
I woke up restrained.
Not ropes. Something more advanced — cuffs with embedded circuitry, faint blue light pulsing along the edges.
The room was sterile. Underground. No windows. No sound but my own breath.
Then, she walked in.
Elira.
Or her twin. I couldn't tell anymore.
"Sleep well?" she asked.
I spat to the side. "You drugged me. What the hell do you think?"
She didn't flinch. "Good. Anger's a better reaction than fear."
"Why am I here?"
"You're not ready for that answer," she said, walking around me slowly. "But let me make something clear — the woman you met, the version of me you trusted, was a test."
"A test?"
She leaned close. "You passed. Barely."
I laughed bitterly. "You call this passing?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You felt it too, didn't you? That pull. That connection. Don't pretend you didn't."
Silence.
Because she was right.
But that didn't make me trust her.
"Who are you?" I asked, voice raw.
She paused. "Someone who should've killed you. But didn't."
Then she dropped something on the table — a file.
My name. My history. My military record. My family. My birthplace — blacked out in multiple sections.
"What the hell is this?"
"A lie," she said. "One they fed you since birth."
I stared at her, breath shallow.
"I was sent to extract you," she continued. "You're not who you think you are. And neither am I."
The door hissed open.
A third figure entered — tall, suited, face obscured by a visor.
"You have one chance to prove your loyalty," he said in a voice that sounded digitally distorted.
"To who?" I asked.
Elira answered.
"To the rebellion. Against the Syndicate."
My world — already cracked — shattered.
The life I thought I lived, the woman I thought I loved, and the enemies I thought I knew — all flipped upside down.
And the worst part?
Somewhere deep inside me, I felt like I'd known this was coming all along.