I sink onto the couch, unable to tear my eyes from the screen. Photos of him—of us—flicker across it. Headlines paint him as a monster.Ghost.The city’s phantom killer.
My stomach twists so violently I think I might be sick. My throat closes, every breath a fight. Even before I can sort the storm in my head, even before I can rationalize the news blaring from every screen, one truth rises above the chaos and sears itself into me - our future is gone.
The noise in my head is deafening; sirens, whispers, that damned news anchor’s voice echoing over and over.Prime suspect. Ghost. Serial killer.
And then the door to my apartment slams open so violently, it rattles the hinges.
Lucian stands there. Wild-eyed. Hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His shirt untucked, wrinkled, messy in a wayI’ve never seen him before. His chest rises and falls too fast, like the whole world is chasing him down the hall.
“Nadia,” he chokes, my name breaking out of him like it’s torn from his lungs. It sounds like desperation and heartbreak, and it slices at something deep inside of me.
I’m on my feet before I know it, the chair screeching across the floor. Tears burn hot down my face, but they’re not soft, not pleading. They taste like fury and betrayal.
“What have you done?” The scream rips out of me so raw it scrapes my throat bloody.
His face folds in pain, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he reaches for me, hands trembling, fingers spread like if he can just touch me, everything will rewind, everything will make sense.
I stumble back, my shoulder slamming the wall, my palms pressed so hard against my chest I can feel my ribs bow. Like I’m holding myself together by bone alone.
He stares at me, lips cracked, eyes wild with something unreadable - fear, guilt, desperation.
“They don’t know what they’re saying,” he rasps, voice breaking. “You know me. Youknow me, Nadia.”
The words that explode next out of me are acid-hot, unstoppable. “You know better than anyone that people don’t just get accused without evidence. They wouldn’t name you without having something to bury you with. Notyou.Not someone with your genius level. So tell me how they could possibly accuse you if it isn’t true?”
He falters. Just for a breath. And in that sliver of silence, the floor caves in.
The Lucian I love, the man who whispered plans for our future into my hair, who brushed ink off my fingers during study sessions…flickers and fades just as quickly as he appeared. In his place stands someone I don’t recognize. His jaw clenches, eyes darkening like shutters slammed closed, shutting me out.
“I can’t tell you,” he whispers. And that’s worse than any confession.
The room tilts. My chest cracks open, and the sound that tears from me is half-scream, half-sob, something inhuman. Our future is gone. Our love is wreckage. And all that’s left between us is a deafening silence thick enough to choke on.
The end of everything we were is standing in this room. Breathing. Watching me fall apart.
“Can’t, or won’t?” I whisper, my voice jagged, my throat shredded. “They’re saying you’re a serial killer.”
Lucian shakes his head too fast, too hard, like if he moves violently enough, he can beat the accusation out of existence. “No. Nadia, no. I’m not. I swear to you, I’m not who they claim I am.”
But then - God help me - his lip trembles. Just for a second. But it’s enough for me to notice. And I feel my heart split down the middle, the crack so loud I swear it echoes in the room.
“Have you ever killed anyone?” The question tears out of me, ripped raw from the deepest place inside me, where hope is already dying.
The silence that follows feels like a dark grave. Then, so soft I almost wish I never heard it, he answers “Yes.”
The word guts me. My knees weaken, the floor tilts, my legs turn to water.
“Who?” My voice is a ghost of itself, barely breathing.
His eyes find mine and burn, searing with fury and confession, with pride and shame tangled so tight I can’t tell them apart. “You know I can’t tell you that, Nadia.”
I stagger, clutching for air, the room spinning until the walls and ceiling blur. My chest rips open, lungs collapsing. I feelhollow, gutted, nothing but the sound of my own blood rushing in my ears.
I snicker. “Always one fucking step ahead,” I hiss, knowing there’s only one reason he won’t tell me. Because a confession is as good as a noose around his neck.
“I never hurt anyone that didn’t deserve it, Nadia. You and I both know the world is full of cruel monsters.”
Foolishly, hearing his words, a small, jagged part of me is hopeful. Hopeful that he isn’t the serial killer. Because I’m delusional enough to believe that an innocent man won’t be sent to prison. But that relief drowns in devastation as I realize the world won’t care. The police won’t care. To them, he’s Ghost, and every life lost is his to carry.
