I rushed to the bathroom.
That's the first thing I notice about myself—I move slowly, like if I pretend nothing is wrong, nothing will be.
My hand is shaking, though. I see it when I reach for the light switch.
Click.
The bathroom lights turn on. Too bright. Too honest.
For a second, I feel stupid. It's just a mirror. Just my reflection staring back at me, eyes tired, skin pale, lips pressed together like I'm bracing for impact.
Then I see it.
Not carved. Not dramatic. Just… there.
Four faint words, written backward, like someone stood behind me once and breathed them into the glass.
YOU WERE NEVER SAFE.
My chest tightens so suddenly I have to grab the sink to steady myself.
My breathing goes shallow, fast, embarrassing. This is the kind of fear that doesn't scream—it sinks in quietly and makes a home in your ribs.
"I didn't imagine him," I whisper.
I hear footsteps behind me and flinch so hard my shoulder hits the doorframe.
"It's not fresh," he says gently. Too gently. "And he wasn't here tonight."
I turn to face him. "Then explain it."
He looks at the mirror the way someone looks at a scar they've learned to live with.
"He knows how to leave marks without being seen."
That doesn't help. Not even a little.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I almost drop it pulling it out.
Unknown: He still hasn't told you the truth.
My throat tightens. "Why does he keep messaging me?"
"Because he wants you scared," he says. "And because fear makes people careless."
"Or honest," I snap.
He doesn't argue.
That scares me more.
I sink down onto the edge of the bathtub, suddenly exhausted, like my body finally understands how much it's been holding in.
"I can't do this," I say quietly. "I can't live like everything around me is a trap."
He crouches in front of me, keeping his distance, like he's afraid one wrong move will send me running.
"You're not weak for feeling this," he says.
"You're reacting exactly the way a normal person would."
Normal.
The word almost makes me cry.
"Then why do I feel like I'm failing some test I didn't sign up for?" I ask.
"Because you're surrounded by people who stopped being normal a long time ago," he replies.
I look up at him. Really look.
There are dark circles under his eyes I hadn't noticed before. A tightness in his jaw that isn't anger—it's restraint.
"You know him," I say.
He nods. "Yes."
"More than you've told me."
"Yes."
The honesty knocks the air out of me.
I take a breath. Then another. "Did my father… did he really do something that bad?"
He hesitates.
And that hesitation hurts more than a lie would have.
"He made choices," he says
carefully.
"Choices that cost people their lives."
My vision blurs. "And now I'm paying for them."
"No," he says immediately. "You're paying because they think you're the last loose end."
The word makes my stomach turn. "And you?"
He doesn't answer right away. He looks down at his hands, flexes them once, like he's grounding himself.
"I was supposed to hand you over," he admits. "Clean. Unbroken."
The room feels colder.
"But I didn't," he continues. "And now I'm dealing with the consequences of that."
I laugh quietly, but there's no humor in it. "So this is your guilt?"
"No," he says, meeting my eyes.
"This is my responsibility."
Another knock sounds at the door.
Not loud. Not aggressive.
Polite.
My heart jumps into my throat.
He's on his feet instantly, body tense, alert.
"Stay here," he says.
"Is it him?" I ask.
"Yes."
The word lands like a punch.
"What happens if he comes in?" I whisper.
He looks back at me, and for the first time, I don't see control. I see fear—sharp, contained, real.
"Then you'll see who we really are," he says. "And there's no coming back from that."
I wrap my arms around myself, nails digging into my sleeves, trying to stay solid, trying not to disappear into the panic rising in my chest.
I don't feel brave. I don't feel special. I feel human.
And as the lock begins to turn, one thought cuts through everything else—
I never wanted this story.
But somehow, it already knows my name.