𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙫𝙚: 𝙃𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨

                                    

                                          
I pulled my hoodie tighter around my head, but it did nothing to stop the icy droplets from sliding down my neck. My bag felt like a dead weight on my shoulder, and my heart felt heavier. I couldn’t go home. Not tonight. Not with everything that had happened.
There was only one place I could go, even if it wasn’t exactly welcoming.
Conor’s house stood at the end of the street, a looming silhouette against the storm. The old structure looked more like it belonged in a Gothic novel than in a suburban neighborhood, with its ivy-covered walls and narrow, arched windows. Lightning flashed as I reached the gate, illuminating the dark iron that twisted into shapes that almost seemed alive.
I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the latch. He hadn’t invited me. In fact, he’d probably tell me to leave the moment he saw me. Conor wasn’t exactly known for his hospitality. But I couldn’t turn back now—not with the memory of John’s voice still echoing in my ears and the feeling that I was being watched every time I closed my eyes.
Gathering what little courage I had, I pushed the gate open, wincing as it creaked loudly. The walk to the front door felt endless, each step accompanied by the thunder above. By the time I reached the porch, I was shivering, more from the cold than from fear.
I knocked, three times, my knuckles barely making a sound over the storm. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer, that maybe he wasn’t even home. But then the door opened, and there he was.
Conor stood there, shirtless, his jeans hanging low on his hips, his damp hair falling messily over his eyes. He looked like he’d just woken up, and his expression was a mix of annoyance and confusion.
“Nya?” he said, his voice rough and deep. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I…” My voice cracked, and I had to swallow hard before trying again. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
His eyes flicked over me, taking in my soaked clothes and trembling form. For a second, something like concern flashed across his face, but it was gone as quickly as it came.
“You’re dripping all over my floor,” he muttered, stepping aside to let me in.
I hesitated, unsure if this was a good idea, but the warmth of the house was too tempting to resist. As soon as I stepped inside, the smell of wood smoke and something faintly metallic hit me. It was oddly comforting, in a way that didn’t make sense.
Conor grabbed a towel from a nearby chair and tossed it to me. “Dry off before you catch pneumonia. And don’t touch anything.”
I wrapped the towel around myself, grateful for the warmth. “Thanks,” I murmured, my voice barely audible.
He didn’t respond, just leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching me like I was some stray animal that had wandered into his home. The silence stretched between us, heavy and awkward.
“Why are you  here, Nya?” he finally asked, his tone softer but still guarded.
I hesitated, staring at the floor. “I just… I can’t go home. Not tonight.”
He didn’t press further, but I could feel the weight of his gaze. “Fine,” he said after a long pause. “You can stay. But don’t expect me to entertain you.”
I managed a small, shaky smile. “I’ll try not to be a bother.”
He snorted, pushing off the wall. “Too late for that.” But there was no bite to his words.
As he walked away, leaving me standing there in his entryway, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. For the first time that day, I felt like I could finally breathe.
I sat on the worn leather couch, hugging my knees to my chest. My heart raced, not just from the storm but from the storm inside me—one fueled by fear, confusion, and an ache I couldn’t quite name.
“Why did you really come here, Nya?” Conor’s voice cut through the silence, low and deliberate. He never spoke loudly; he didn’t have to. There was something about the weight of his words that demanded attention.
I hesitated. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not telling me the whole story.”
He was right, but how could I explain the feeling of being hunted in my own home? Of shadows that didn’t belong and whispers that crawled under my skin? Even now, I could still smell the faint traces of burnt wood and something metallic—like blood.
Conor moved closer, his steps silent, his presence overwhelming. “If you’re in trouble, you need to tell me. Half-truths won’t help you here.”
The words caught in my throat. “Conor… I need a place to stay. My home—it’s not safe anymore.”
He didn’t react at first, just stared at me with that unreadable expression of his. For a moment, I thought he’d refuse, that he’d send me back to the place that now felt more like a graveyard than a sanctuary.
Then came the knock.
It wasn’t loud, but it was deliberate. Three knocks, perfectly spaced, as if whoever was on the other side wanted to announce themselves without urgency. My stomach flipped.
Conor tilted his head, his brows furrowing. He moved to the door without a word, his movements more cautious now. I stood, my legs trembling as I followed him.
“Don’t,” he said sharply, holding up a hand to stop me. “Stay back.”
I froze, watching as he opened the door. There was no one there—only the rain and wind. But then he looked down, and so did I.
A single envelope lay on the doorstep, the paper soaked at the edges but still intact. Conor picked it up, his fingers brushing against the blood-red wax seal that held it shut.
Without a word, he brought it inside and handed it to me. My name was scrawled across the front in sharp, almost violent handwriting that I knew too well.
It was from John.
My brother, who had been gone for months.
I opened it with trembling hands. The paper inside was damp but legible. The words were few, yet they sliced through me like a blade:
“You’re not safe anywhere. Don’t trust him.”
My breath hitched as I stared at the note, my mind reeling. The handwriting was his, but the warning didn’t make sense. I glanced at Conor, whose eyes had darkened as he read the words over my shoulder.
“You said your brother was gone,” he murmured, his voice colder than I’d ever heard it.
“He is,” I whispered, clutching the note tightly. “At least… he’s supposed to be.”
"What secrets is Conor hiding within these walls, and can Nia truly trust him to protect her when his own past is shrouded in darkness?"
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