The city was a blur beyond the glass, lights smeared by rain, and Ayan sat on the edge of his bed like the floor might open up if he moved too fast.
The patch on his arm was useless now—a dead thing clinging to skin. His pulse throbbed hot and violent under his ribs, every breath scraping like smoke.
He told himself it would pass.
It never did.
The buzz of his phone sliced through the silence.
Once. Twice.
Ayan's gut twisted as he reached for it, fingers cold, though the rest of him burned.
Screen glowing soft blue. One name.
Kairo.
He shouldn't look.
He did.
> You ran fast tonight.
Want to see if you can outrun me twice?
The words hit like a hand at his throat.
Playful on the surface, but sharp underneath, carrying the weight of last night—the dark, the heat, that voice by his ear.
Ayan's grip tightened until his knuckles ached.
Delete it. Ignore it.
Easy.
So why was his thumb trembling like a lie?
Why did his body betray him with every short, stuttered breath?
Because a part of him wanted to answer.
Wanted to see what would happen if he didn't run this time.
A bitter laugh broke out of him, raw and wrong. He slammed the phone down on the desk like it burned, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes.
Pathetic.
He was pathetic.
He'd stay away.
He'd lock the doors, kill the world, drown in work until his bones froze again.
Anything to keep from burning alive.
But deep down, under the rage, under the pride—
He already knew.
You can't outrun a storm when it's under your skin.
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