TWO YEARS BEFORE

  The first winter after I left felt like punishment. Not for what I’d done, but for what I hadn’t figured out yet. Canada was cold in a way that made you hear yourself too clearly. No noise. No interruptions. Just me and the thoughts I’d been avoiding.

  I tried to build a routine. Wake up. Shower. Work. Walk home. Write. Sleep.

  People say routine keeps you sane. I think it just keeps you predictable.

  The room above the laundromat was small, but it was enough. A bed. A desk. A window that looked out onto a street no one cared about. I liked that. Being unimportant is a kind of freedom most people never earn.

  Some nights I’d sit at the desk and stare at a blank page, trying to write something normal. Something human. Something that made sense. But the words never came out right. They came out sharper. Cleaner. Too honest.

  I’d catch myself thinking things I didn’t mean to think.

  Or maybe I did mean them.

  Maybe I just didn’t want to admit it.

  I’d say, You’re overreacting, and then immediately think, No, you’re not. They are.

  I’d say, Let it go, and then think, Why should I? They never do.

  I’d say, Be normal, and then think, Normal is just another word for boring.

  It wasn’t an argument.

  It was… commentary.

  Running parallel to everything I did.

  ?

  January 22, 2019

  At work, I stocked shelves and nodded politely. People liked me because I didn’t talk much. They assumed silence meant kindness.

  It doesn’t.

  It just means I’m listening.

  And I listened to everything.

  The way people lied without blinking. The way they apologized without meaning it. The way they dismissed things they didn’t understand.

  Every time someone snapped their fingers at me or talked down to me, something in my jaw twitched. A tiny tick. Barely there. But real. A leftover reflex from a life I didn’t want anymore.

  I wrote in notebooks. Not journals. Not memories. Observations. Patterns.

  I pulled out my Guide and wrote:

  People reveal themselves when they think no one is watching.

  Underneath it, I scribbled:

  Especially the stupid ones.

  I didn’t know when the split started.

  Maybe it was always there.

  Maybe I just finally had the silence to hear it.

  Two years passed like that — slow, cold, deliberate.

  By the end of it, I could walk through a crowd without being noticed.

  I could walk through my own thoughts without getting lost.

  And the voice in my head?

  The one that corrected me, challenged me, sharpened me?

  It wasn’t separate. It wasn’t someone else.

  It was just me.

  The part I stopped pretending wasn’t there.

  The part that didn’t apologize. The part that didn’t flinch. The part that didn’t lie to make other people comfortable.

  Two years taught me how to disappear.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  They also taught me who I am when no one is looking.

  And I liked him.

  ?

  Bloodvex Entry — “The Quiet Blade”

  Not all villains roar.

  Some sharpen in silence.

  A blade that announces itself is rarely the one that cuts deepest.

  The most dangerous storm is the one that never needed thunder.

  If you must speak, speak only when it alters the room.

  — From Mother’s Stories, Night 18

  ?

  He steps inside like he owns the place.

  People like him always do. They walk in with their shoulders first, like the world is supposed to move out of their way.

  The bell above the door jingles. The lights buzz overhead.

  The store feels too small for the two of us.

  I’m wiping down the counter.

  He’s pretending he needs something.

  He doesn’t.

  He came back because he likes the sound of his own voice.

  Most people do. They confuse noise with presence.

  He picks up a pack of screws he didn’t look at long enough to actually read.

  Drops it on the counter.

  Smiles like we’re old friends.

  I look at him.

  Not long.

  Just long enough to see the shape of him.

  The posture. The careless confidence. The way he fills silence with opinions he didn’t earn.

  A familiar type.

  A familiar echo.

  I ring up the screws.

  He watches me like he’s waiting for something.

  The radio behind me murmurs about Veronica again.

  Her name cuts through the air like a thread pulled too tight.

  He glances at the radio.

  Then at me.

  And I know.

  I know he’s about to say something stupid.

  People like him always do.

  They can’t help themselves.

  My jaw ticks once.

  Small. Sharp.

  A leftover reflex from a life I don’t talk about.

  I breathe in.

  Slow.

  Even.

  I tell myself to let it go.

  I tell myself it doesn’t matter.

  But the other part of me — the part that doesn’t lie to make people comfortable — leans forward.

  Waiting.

  Because whatever he says next?

  It’s going to be wrong.

  And I already know I’m not going to let it slide.

  Not today.

  Not after two years of silence.

  Not after the news.

  Not after the way he laughed earlier.

  He opens his mouth.

  And I smile, because I already know I’m going to say something I shouldn’t.

  ?

  He taps the screws on the counter like he’s drumming on a bar table.

  “Man, they’re still talking about that Veronica girl,” he says, shaking his head like he’s personally exhausted by the tragedy. “This Red Wraith dude? Total clown. Probably some basement freak who got lucky once.”

  He laughs at his own joke.

  “Seriously, you’d think the cops would’ve caught him by now. Guy’s sloppy as hell. Leaves all that weird crap behind like he wants to get caught.”

  He leans in a little, lowering his voice like he’s letting you in on something smart.

  “My brother says it’s probably some wannabe genius who thinks he’s sending messages. You know the type. Overcompensating. Trying too hard. Real pathetic.”

  He waits for you to agree.

  He expects you to agree.

  Then he adds, with a shrug that’s almost insulting:

  “Bet he’s not even that bright. Just another psycho who thinks he’s special.”

  I look at him for a moment.

  Not long.

  Just long enough for him to realize I’m not laughing with him.

  Then I say, calmly:

  “You’re mistaking confidence for competence.”

  He blinks.

  I keep going.

  “People like you always do.”

  It comes out smooth. Almost conversational.

  Like I’m explaining the weather.

  Like I’m doing him a favor.

  He frowns, confused.

  “People like me?”

  I tilt my head a little.

  A habit I picked up somewhere I don’t talk about.

  “Loud,” I say. “Wrong. Certain anyway.”

  He laughs again, but it’s thinner now.

  “Alright, man. Chill. I’m just saying—”

  “You’re not saying anything,” I cut in. “You’re repeating something you heard from someone who also didn’t know what they were talking about.”

  His mouth opens.

  Closes.

  Opens again.

  I watch him try to decide if I’m joking.

  I’m not.

  “You think he’s sloppy?” I ask, voice low, steady. “You think he’s leaving things behind because he’s stupid?”

  He swallows.

  “Well… yeah?”

  I smile.

  Not wide.

  Just enough.

  “No,” I say. “He leaves things behind because he knows you won’t understand them.”

  The silence after that is thick.

  Heavy.

  Almost warm.

  He stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.

  And I can tell.

  Something in him shifts.

  Not fear.

  Not yet.

  Just the first flicker of doubt.

  The first moment he realizes he might not be the smartest person in the room.

  He clears his throat.

  “You’re… uh… you’re kinda intense, man.”

  I shrug.

  “Only when people are wrong.”

  He grabs his bag too quickly.

  Mumbles something that isn’t a goodbye.

  Walks out faster than he walked in.

  The bell jingles behind him.

  I stand there for a moment, letting the air settle.

  My jaw doesn’t tick this time.

  It’s quiet.

  Still.

  Almost peaceful.

  Because for the first time in a long time, I didn’t swallow the truth.

  I let it out.

  And it felt good.

  ?

  He leaves in a hurry, the kind of hurry people pretend isn’t a hurry. The bell above the door jingles behind him, too bright for the mood he’s walking into.

  I stay where I am, hands on the counter, watching him through the glass as he steps onto the sidewalk. He adjusts the bag in his hand like it suddenly weighs more than screws.

  He takes a few steps.

  Stops.

  Something makes him turn.

  Maybe curiosity.

  Maybe ego.

  Maybe that thin thread of doubt I slipped under his skin.

  He looks back at me through the window.

  And I look back at him.

  Not the way I’m supposed to.

  Not the way Evan would.

  Not soft.

  Not harmless.

  Just… me.

  The part of me I stopped pretending wasn’t there.

  The part that doesn’t blink first.

  The part that doesn’t apologize for being right.

  His expression shifts — barely.

  A flicker.

  A tightening around the eyes.

  A small, instinctive step back, like he’s not sure what he just saw.

  People always think they’re reading your face.

  They never realize your face is reading them back.

  He looks away first.

  Of course he does.

  I watch him go.

  Just observing.

  Because for one brief second, when he turned around, he didn’t see the version of me I let the world have.

  He saw the one I keep for myself.

  And he didn’t have a name for it.

  But I do.