The pressure began like a rumor.
Not loud.
Not sudden.
Just a wrongness in the air, the way skin knows rain before clouds arrive.
Evan was washing his hands when it brushed against him.
He froze with his fingers under running water.
The sink kept filling.
The sound was too loud.
His chest tightened—not crushing this time, not yet—but heavy, like someone had laid a warm stone inside him and forgotten to take it back.
He turned the tap off.
Stood still.
Listened to his own breathing.
Not again, he thought.
He pressed his palm against his sternum.
The feeling was distant. Blurred. Unfinished.
Someone was thinking about it.
Not doing it.
Not yet.
Evan dried his hands slowly, carefully, as if sudden movement might make the thought solid.
He walked back into the interrogation room.
Noah looked up instantly.
"You feel something."
It wasn't a question.
Evan nodded once.
"Small," he said. "Far away."
"How far?"
"Two days. Maybe three."
Noah exhaled.
That was time.
Not mercy.
But space to breathe.
"What kind?" Noah asked quietly.
Evan hesitated.
"Personal," he said. "This one isn't about rage. Or money. Or fear."
He swallowed.
"It's about proving something."
Noah's jaw tightened.
"Do you see them?"
"Not yet."
"Location?"
Evan shook his head.
"No shape. Just weight."
He pressed two fingers against his pulse.
"They're calm."
That scared him more than blood ever could.
Across the city, Kai stood on the hospital roof, coat pulled tight around his shoulders.
The wind was sharp up there.
Clean.
He liked it.
It reminded him the world still had edges.
Rhea pushed the door open behind him, hair tied messily, eyes tired.
"You're avoiding paperwork."
"I'm protecting my mental health."
"You forged three signatures yesterday."
"Efficiency is self-care."
She walked closer.
Stood beside him.
They didn't speak for a while.
The city glowed below them, broken into soft gold squares.
Rhea hugged her arms.
"I dreamed about that girl again."
Kai glanced at her.
"The seventeen-year-old?"
She nodded.
"She was laughing in it. Like nothing hurt."
Kai leaned his elbows on the railing.
"That sounds kinder than reality."
Rhea's voice dropped.
"I hate that I remember their faces."
"I hate that I forget them," Kai said.
She turned to him.
"You don't."
"I do," he said gently. "I just pretend not to."
The wind lifted his hair.
She reached out without thinking and smoothed it back.
Her hand stilled when she realized what she'd done.
Neither pulled away.
Kai spoke softly.
"You're not weak for caring."
Rhea swallowed.
"I know."
A pause.
Then, quieter:
"I just wish it didn't feel so lonely."
Kai didn't answer with words.
He stood a little closer.
Enough to share warmth.
Enough to mean something.
That night, Evan couldn't sleep.
The pressure hadn't grown.
But it hadn't left either.
It sat behind his ribs like an unanswered question.
He lay on his side, staring at the wall, counting his breaths.
Eight in.
Seven out.
Again.
He wondered who was walking around with death folded gently inside their pocket.
Who they loved.
Who they smiled at.
Whether they knew what they were becoming.
A thought slipped through him, cold and sharp:
What if one day it's me?
He turned his face into the pillow to muffle the sound he made.
Not a cry.
Just a broken breath.
Outside his door, Noah stood for a long moment before walking away.
Inside the city, somewhere quiet, someone was still deciding.
And Evan's body already knew.