---
Weeks passed, people started disappearing.
The first disappearance is easy to ignore.
Your neighbor across the hall—the one who always smells faintly of cigarettes and reheated noodles—stops leaving his trash outside his door. The hallway stays clean for days. Too clean.
You tell yourself he's on vacation.
People leave all the time.
The second disappearance is harder.
The delivery man who always knocks twice and waits—who once joked about your packages arriving too often—never comes back. Your orders switch to different names. Different faces.
When you ask the new guy what happened, he shrugs.
"Don't know. He just… stopped showing up."
Stopped.
Not quit.
Not transferred.
Stopped.
You feel the word lodge somewhere uncomfortable.
The third one breaks the illusion.
The apartment caretaker.
The man who jingles his keys too loudly, who fixes things slowly but thoroughly, who once warned you about a loose stair near the back exit.
You wake up one morning to police lights flashing faint blue against your curtains.
The building buzzes with hushed voices and wide eyes. A cluster of tenants stand outside, whispering theories into the cold air.
Gone.
Not missing.
Gone.
No body.
No struggle.
No explanation.
Just absence where a person used to be.
You don't need to look at him to know he's there.
"You did this," you say quietly, staring out the window.
He's leaning against the wall behind you, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"No," he says.
Your chest tightens. "They were near me. All of them."
"So are many people," he replies evenly.
"Then why them?"
He doesn't answer.
That silence is worse than denial.
Over the next few days, you notice something terrifying.
No one mourns properly.
There are no vigils. No candles. No sustained grief. People talk about the disappearances like inconveniences—confusing, yes, but oddly forgettable.
As if memory itself slides away from the missing.
You try to hold on.
You repeat their names to yourself at night.
It feels like pushing against a tide.
Then Mira calls you.
She's crying.
Not quietly. Not politely.
Breaking.
"I need you," she sobs. "Please. Something's wrong."
You're out the door before she finishes the sentence.
Her apartment is a mess when you arrive—drawers open, furniture shifted like something large moved through the space without caring about obstacles.
Mira sits on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, shaking.
Her eyes snap to you the second you enter.
"It keeps happening," she says hoarsely. "At night. I feel like something's watching me. Like it's waiting for me to sleep."
Your stomach drops.
"What kind of something?" you ask carefully.
She laughs weakly. "That's the worst part. I don't know. I can't see it. I just—" Her voice cracks. "I wake up and I can't breathe. Like something's sitting on my chest."
Cold spreads through your veins.
"You need to stay somewhere else," you say. "With me."
Her eyes fill instantly. "Yes. Please."
On the walk back, you feel him before you see him.
Not inside.
Around.
Taut.
Alert.
Predatory.
You stop short in the stairwell.
Mira frowns. "What's wrong?"
You turn slowly.
He stands a few steps below you, human form flawless and controlled—but something about him is different. Sharper. Tensed like a drawn blade.
"This is about her," you say.
His gaze flicks briefly to Mira.
Calculating.
"She is not under my protection," he says.
That's the first time he's ever said that.
Something inside you snaps.
"You're lying," you hiss. "People are disappearing. She's being attacked. And you expect me to believe you're not responsible?"
His jaw tightens.
"I remove threats," he says carefully. "I do not create them unnecessarily."
Mira looks between you, confused. "Who are you talking to?"
You flinch.
You forgot.
You step in front of her instinctively. "You did this," you repeat, louder. "You said you'd guard me. Is this what that means? Killing everyone who gets close?"
His eyes flash—not anger.
Offense.
"You think so little of me?" he asks quietly.
"Yes," you say without hesitation. "Because I don't trust you."
The words hang heavy between you.
For the first time since you met him, he looks… wounded.
"You are alive," he says. "Untouched. Unharmed. Unclaimed by others. That is my doing."
"At what cost?" you shout.
Mira grabs your arm. "Hey—hey, calm down—"
He steps back.
Actually steps back.
"I did not touch her," he says firmly. "And I did not erase those people."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"Yes."
His gaze shifts—not to you, but past you.
Down the stairwell.
His posture changes instantly.
Rigid.
Focused.
Dangerously still.
The air tightens.
You feel it too.
Something new.
Something wrong.
He inhales slowly.
Then, very softly, almost to himself, he murmurs—
"It's him."
Your heart slams against your ribs.
"Who?" you whisper.
He doesn't answer immediately.
His eyes track something you cannot see, following a movement that does not disturb the air, does not make a sound.
For the first time since you met him—
You feel fear radiating from him.
Not panic.
Recognition.
Old.
Bitter.
"He found you," he says at last.
Mira's grip tightens on your arm. "You're scaring me."
You don't take your eyes off him.
"Found me how?" you ask.
His gaze finally returns to you, dark and intent.
"Through the absence," he says. "Through the space I cleared."
A chill crawls up your spine.
"You mean the disappearances."
"Yes."
"You didn't cause them," you realize slowly. "You responded to them."
His silence confirms it.
Mira whimpers softly. "I don't like this. I don't like any of this."
He looks at her again.
This time, not as a variable.
As a liability.
"She is already marked," he says.
Your blood runs cold.
"By who?" you demand.
His jaw tightens.
"By something older than me," he says. "And far less patient."
The lights in the stairwell flicker.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
They go out.
In the sudden darkness, you feel it.
Another presence.
Not protective.
Not possessive.
Hungry.
And from somewhere very close, something unseen exhales—
Slow.
Delighted.
Waiting.
He moves instantly, stepping in front of you both, body a barrier, voice low and lethal.
"Stay behind me," he orders.
"For the first time," he says without looking at you,
"this is not about choice."
And you realize, with sickening clarity—
The thing guarding you
has been fighting something else all along.
And it just stepped into your territory.