Iris was running.
The wind whipped past her face, though there was no wind. Her bare feet pounded against a floor she couldn't see, a cold, echoing surface that seemed to stretch on forever. She didn't know where she was or what she was running from. All she knew was that she had to run. That something behind her was getting closer.
Faster.
She stumbled into a vast, dark chamber. Towering black pillars rose all around her like ancient sentinels. Their jagged edges curved inward, surrounding her like the ribs of some massive beast. The ceiling was lost in darkness. The air was thick, heavy, humming with something old. Something wrong.
She turned in circles, heart hammering, breath catching in her throat. Shadows slithered across the walls. The silence was suffocating—oppressive, as though even sound had fled in fear.
Then—movement.
A blur darted past her peripheral vision. She spun.
Nothing.
Her heart was thudding so hard it echoed in her ears. Sweat clung to her skin. She was in a simple white dress, delicate and flowing, the kind someone might wear to a ceremony.
She didn't remember putting it on. She didn't remember anything.
Where am I?
Something passed behind her again—faster this time. Closer.
She turned sharply—but again, only darkness.
Then her breath caught.
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. A terrible chill traced her spine.
Something was behind her.
She couldn't move. Her legs had turned to ice. Her arms felt numb. The fear rooted her to the spot like chains made of shadow.
Then—pain.
A sudden, white-hot sting—sharp and deep—seared into the crook of her neck. It wasn't just a cut; it was something pulling at her, draining, invading. She let out a strangled cry, the world spinning—
And Iris bolted upright with a gasp.
Her body was slick with sweat. Her shirt clung to her skin, damp and cold. She blinked into the lightness of her room, chest rising and falling in panicked bursts. Her sheets were tangled on the floor. She wasn't in a dark hall of pillars anymore, she was on the floor beside her bed.
She reached up to her neck, hand trembling.
Nothing.
No blood. No wound. No mark.
But the pain—so sharp and real—still echoed faintly, like a ghost trailing its fingers across her skin.
She stared at the floor, trying to breathe.
The door creaked open, and light poured into the room.
"Iris?" came a familiar, gentle voice. "Wake up, sweetheart. Breakfast is ready. I've been calling you for ten minutes. And… why are you on the floor?"
Iris blinked up at her mother's silhouette in the doorway. Her voice was warm and concerned, grounding her.
"I'll be down," Iris said quickly, forcing a tight smile. "Just… fell off the bed, I guess."
Mrs. Millerson raised an eyebrow but smiled kindly. "Well, come on. You'll be late for school. And cold eggs are a crime."
She closed the door with a soft click.
Mrs. Millerson. Her adoptive mother. A woman so kind it almost didn't make sense she lived in a place like Hillenwood. She was gentle, loving, the kind of person who always smiled with her whole face. Iris had been seven when she was adopted. Seven, and quiet, and broken in ways she didn't fully understand.
Mrs. Millerson never asked too many questions. She just loved.
Her husband had died years ago, before Iris even came into the picture. And with no children of her own—unable to conceive—she'd decided to open her heart to someone who needed it. Iris never forgot that.
But there were things she did forget.
Her real parents.
She couldn't recall their faces. Couldn't remember their voices, their names, anything. And the few times she tried to reach for those memories, her body would rebel. Her hands would shake, her throat would close, her chest would feel tight like she couldn't breathe. It was like her mind had locked those memories away and thrown the key into some abyss.
And she wasn't sure she wanted it back.
Still rattled, she pulled herself together, showered off the sweat, and dressed slowly—faded jeans and a soft pink top. Something normal. Her dark brown hair fell naturally around her face, framing her golden eyes. She tried not to look at them in the mirror. They made her feel like she was looking into someone else.
By the time she stepped into the kitchen, breakfast was already laid out—toast, eggs, a mug of warm tea.
Mrs. Millerson beamed. "Eat up, love."
Iris forced a smile and obeyed. Her stomach turned with every bite, the taste of dream-fear still coating her tongue. But she said nothing.
By the time she reached school, her head was down, steps soft, movements careful. She blended into the crowd as best as she could. Her locker creaked open and she began pulling out her books in silence.
"Iris!"
Olivia's voice rang out like sunshine piercing through fog.
Iris looked up just in time to catch a flash of blonde hair and a grin as her best friend came bounding toward her, waving something small and glittery in her hand.
"You are not gonna believe this," Olivia said breathlessly, slamming the card down onto Iris's books. "We. Are. Invited. To THE party."
Iris blinked at her. "…What party?"
"Lora Leigh's!" Olivia said, her voice a mix of squeal and awe. "She's throwing one at her uncle's lakehouse. Everyone will be there. I mean, like, half the football team already RSVP'd this morning!"
Iris gave a wary smile, tilting her head. "That's great. For them."
"Oh no no no," Olivia said, eyes wide. "You're not doing that thing where you say no and hide in your room with your weird little murder documentaries. We're going."
Iris started to object. "I don't—"
"When was the last time you went to a party?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
Olivia raised a brow. "Exactly. Never."
Iris sighed, knowing what was coming. "My mom's not going to let me go out on a school night, you know that."
"She doesn't have to know," Olivia whispered with a mischievous grin. "Come on. Just this once. We'll be home by, like… 9:44. Okay, 9:30. No later."
Iris hesitated, staring into her locker.
That feeling again.
That prickling at the back of her neck. That slow, suffocating sense that someone was watching.
She turned subtly, scanning the hallway. Students bustled past in typical morning chaos. No one stood out. But still… the feeling persisted.
A chill crept up her spine. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.
"…Fine," she said at last. "But if I want to leave early, we leave early. Deal?"
"Deal!" Olivia practically jumped, saluting. "You got it, boss. You are so not going to regret this!"
Iris gave a small smile, waving her friend off as Olivia skipped down the hall.
But the smile faded quickly.
That sense of unease hadn't gone away. If anything, it had grown. Her dream clung to her like fog. The phantom pain on her neck still pulsed faintly beneath her skin.
And somewhere in the crowded hallway, hidden in plain sight, a pair of reddish-brown eyes lingered on her like a curse.
Unblinking.
Watching.
Waiting.