Page 160 of Somno Slave

He came back.

I hate myself for that thought immediately.

The tension that has been wound inside me for days tears open all at once. My throat tightens so sharply I almost laugh, because the emotion is too big to fit neatly into one thing.

I stare at the glass because I am suddenly terrified of blinking, of doing anything that might give reality the chance to correct itself and take him away again.

How?

The question moves through me slowly, like something cold being poured directly into my bloodstream.

The facility is ten blocks away.

Ten blocks and reinforced steel and armed guards and cameras in every corridor and observation logs and sedation protocols strong enough to drop a man twice his size.

And yet....there he is. Standing behind me in the reflection like he has always belonged there.

Even through warped glass, even with the hood shadowing his face, I can feel it—the full weight of his attention settling over me like a hand at the back of my neck. That terrible focus. That unbearable certainty that when he looks at me, he is taking.

My pulse stutters, then climbs.

I’m moving before I realise it. Halfway across the road, I look up again.

But something about him feels different now, tighter. Even the morning light seems strange, too bright and too far away, like I am walking out of one life and into another.

I reach the other side.

Ten metres.

Eight.

Six.

Close enough that I should be able to see every detail of his face. But something strange happens. Someone brushes in front of him, a young woman with her dark hair pinned back. If she notices him, she doesn’t show it. Her eyes are fixed on the little boy in a small, blue raincoat. She holds out a napkin and tries to dab his face, but he squirms and protests. There’s glass between us, but I can almost hear his shrill squeal.

I look back at Deogal.

But when I do...it’s empty.

He’s gone.

I stop so abruptly it feels like something inside me snaps tight.

Gone.

For a second, my mind refuses it, still trying to force his shape back into that space, as if staring hard enough might make reality correct itself. The street stretches in both directions, too open. Not enough people for him to disappear properly, but just enough to make every stranger feel suspicious. Every dark coat. Every shadow. I turn, slower at first, then faster, dragging my gaze across everything that moves.

My heart is still slamming against my ribs. My pulse is sharp and frantic beneath my skin. I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.

He was there.

I know it.

Someone bumps into me.

“Sorry,” I manage, feet already moving. I move through the streets on instinct alone, barely aware of where my feet are taking me. Traffic lights change. People brush past my shoulder with muttered apologies. Somewhere in the distance, a siren rises and fades.

None of it reaches me.