The dead don't whisper.
They don't press their presence into the walls, or stir the air with the scent of smoke and ruin. They don't leave shadows in places they have no right to be.
But he did.
Serena woke with his breath still lingering on her skin—though he hadn't touched her in over a year.
The room was dark except for the city bleeding through the curtains—yellow streetlights casting liquid gold across silk sheets, flashing red from the traffic below catching in the reflection of the mirror above the dresser. Outside, life moved on, sirens and laughter tangled in the humid air. Inside, the silence pressed against her ribs.
She sat up, pulse hammering against her throat.
It was just a dream.
But it wasn't.
Her body knew before her mind did—before the realization curled its way through her gut like ice.
Something was wrong.
She reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, fingers brushing the cool rim, but her breath stilled.
The water wasn't still.
Ripples danced across the surface, tiny and delicate, responding to something unseen.
She set the glass down with a sharp inhale. The sheets were damp beneath her, clinging to the back of her thighs, but it wasn't just sweat. It was something deeper—an animal instinct clawing at her spine.
The penthouse was locked. It always was.
But the air was different.
She turned her head slowly toward the doorway.
Nothing.
Still, she felt him.
She pressed her palm against her chest, trying to steady herself. Breathe. She was safe. She was untouchable.
And yet…
Somewhere beneath the city's pulse, beneath the weight of a thousand stories playing out in the darkness, she swore she heard him.
A single word.
Soft. Certain.
Checkmate.
Her stomach twisted.
She glanced at the mirror again. And this time—
A shadow.
Not a trick of the light.
Not a fragment of memory.
Not a nightmare.
A shape in the dark, standing just beyond the reach of the city's glow.
Watching.
Waiting.
Her breath caught.
When she blinked, it was gone.
But the cigarette smoke still lingered in the air.