Page 139 of Dream On, Liar

A sound left me—half gasp, half something worse.

He stepped closer.

The knife came up again, not rushed now, not chaotic.

Controlled.

Intentional.

“Where?” he asked.

My mouth was dry.

“The small wallet,” I managed.

He didn’t even look at where I pointed.

He just moved and ripped it open.

The sound of the zip tearing felt too loud, too intimate, like something being broken that couldn’t be fixed.

Clothes spilled out across the floor in a mess of colour and fabric.

He dug through it like it owed him something.

Throwing things aside.

Anger turning into efficiency.

Violence becoming method.

“Please,” I whispered again, but it didn’t sound like a word anymore.

It sounded like air leaving a collapsing body.

Once he found my wallet, he pulled it out like a prize and flicked it open.

Cards, and whatever pennies I had left from when I’d grabbed a coffee at the airport.

His breathing changed, not calmer…just satisfied.

Like something inside him had been fed.

For a second—just one—I thought it was over.

That this was the end of it.

That he would leave.

That the room would stop feeling like it was spinning.

Then he looked at me again.

And whatever satisfaction had been there drained out of his face.

Replaced by something worse.

Something deciding.