No answer. Of course there’s no answer. Bryan wouldn’t be this quiet if it was him. He doesn’t carry the silence like a weapon. I inhale slowly and keep walking.
Three steps. Then, a faint scrape behind me. Not from the front. From the direction I just left. I turn. The corridor is empty, a long, white tunnel of nothingness. But something is wrong.The air feels… occupied. Dense. As if someone is standing right in my blind spot.
My fingers curl slightly at my sides, brushing against the pocket with the note. I should call security. I should laugh this off as a tired mind playing tricks. I should stop letting a psychopath live rent-free inside my head.
And then, it happens. So close to my ear I feel it before I can process it.
“Mali.”
My name. Not spoken. Breathed. Warm and intimate. Right behind me. My stomach drops, a sickening lurch of adrenaline. Every muscle in my body locks, turning me to stone.
No. No, that’s not possible. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Silence stretches. I tell myself if I turn around, there will be nothing there. Just light. Just walls. Just my imagination feeding on the remains of my sanity.
“Mali.”
Closer. Certain. My body reacts before my mind can even process the threat.
I spin, but I’m already too late. A hand slams over my mouth. Hard. Gloved. My back collides with a chest as solid and unyielding as a stone wall. Black fabric. Cold and terrifyingly real.
Before I can even draw a breath to scream, a second arm cages me in, pinning my arms to my sides. The voice that whispered my name is no longer distant. It’s right against the shell of my ear, his breath a ghost of heat against my freezing skin.
“Not Bryan, baby. Try again.”
A low, dangerous vibration brushes against my neck, and the realization hits me like a physical blow. I know exactly who is holding me. God, please let this be a nightmare. Let me wake up in my lonely apartment, safe from the man who turns morgues into his personal playgrounds.
“Oh my God,” I stutter, the words muffled and useless against the leather-clad hand still clamped over my mouth.
His breath ghosts along the curve of my neck, lingering there as if he’s tasting my terror.
“I will be,” he growls, and I can hear the obvious satisfaction in his tone. He’s enjoying this. Every second of my paralysis.
“Last try, Madeline.”
His hand slides slowly from my mouth down to my throat. His grip is rough, possessive, but calculated. Just enough to keep me in place. Not enough to hurt.
“The Arbiter,” I whisper, my voice trembling so hard I can barely get the words out.
My eyes widen as I try to wrap my head around the impossible. How? How did he get past the security? How is he here, in the middle of a lit corridor, holding me like I’m the only thing that matters in this world of corpses?
“Mhm.”
He hums softly, the sound vibrating through my entire spine.
“Smart girl.”
His voice drips with dark approval, thick and heavy.
“You already knew, didn’t you? That brilliant mind of yours pieced it all together the moment you found my note. You didn’t just find a piece of paper, Mali. You found an invitation.”
“You were here before.”
I state. No tremor this time. Just a cold, hard certainty that settles in my gut.
He ignores it. His grip shifts. One hand settles at the back of my neck, possessive, keeping my spine pressed firmly to his chest. The other slides slowly over my sternum, resting against the frantic rhythm of my heart.
“Feel that?”
He murmurs against my ear.
