CHAPTER FOUR

It’s been three days since that night.

Three days of pretending everything is fine.

But every time I step outside, I feel eyes on me.

The street is quiet, too quiet for a weekday morning. I clutch my coffee cup, trying to convince myself it’s just stress. Still, the sound of footsteps behind me makes my pulse jump. When I turn, there’s no one there—only a few cars passing, a man reading a newspaper at the corner café, nothing unusual.

Nothing unusual except the cold crawling up my spine.

By the time I reach my office, I’ve rehearsed a dozen excuses for why I haven’t called the police. None of them sound convincing, even to me. Maybe it’s because I want to understand him. Maybe because I need to know what he is.

I switch on my phone, and the screen flickers strangely—too long, too slow. A chill passes through me. Someone’s in there, somewhere behind the glass. I can almost feel him watching.

Instead of panic, I take a breath and force myself to sit at my desk. I’m a psychologist. I deal with fear for a living. If I show any weakness now, I’ll lose the only advantage I have.

He’ll be here soon, and when he arrives, I’ll look him in the eye, smile like always, and keep listening—

as if I’m the one in control.

The clock ticks past eleven when the door opens without a knock.

Leonardo steps inside, slower than usual, his shoulders heavy, his eyes bloodshot. The air changes the moment he enters—thick, uneasy, wrong.

“Good morning,” I say carefully, watching the way he stumbles before sitting down. His movements are sluggish, almost uncoordinated.

Something isn’t right.

He presses his palms against his temples. “They won’t stop whispering,” he mutters. “They don’t sleep. They never sleep.”

“Who?” I ask quietly.

He looks at me, eyes dull and glassy. “I took them… from someone. I wasn’t supposed to.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I used to sell them. Never took them myself.”

The word sell rings in my ears. My pen stills over the paper.

“Drugs?” I ask softly.

He nods once, a sharp, pained movement. “They make the voices fade,” he says, then adds, almost to himself, “but now I see more.”

His breathing quickens. I watch his hands tremble slightly as he grips the edge of the chair.

“Leonardo,” I start gently, “these things can worsen what you’re already experiencing. You said before that you see people who aren’t there—”

He interrupts, his voice cracking. “I didn’t lie. They don’t exist anymore,” he says. “I ended them. Every one.”

A chill crawls down my spine.

He leans back in the chair, exhausted, his next words barely a whisper.

“My name isn’t Leonardo.”

He pauses. “It’s Dimitri.”

His words hang in the room like a shadow. "My name isn’t Leonardo. It’s Dimitri."

I blink, trying to piece it together. My mind flashes back to our first session—how he had given me a French-sounding name, how his accent had seemed… off, just slightly. I remember my hesitation, the tiny doubt I had brushed aside.

“Russian?” I ask slowly, testing the thought.

He freezes, then tilts his head. “How did you know?”

“You… your accent,” I say quietly, keeping my voice steady. “It didn’t sound French. Not really.”

A small, almost imperceptible smirk flickers across his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Clever,” he mutters, leaning back in his chair. “Most people don’t notice. Most people just listen to what I say, not how I sound.”

He leans slightly forward, his gaze locking onto mine. His voice is low, almost teasing.

“You’re such a good girl…”

“Huh?” I murmur, tilting my head, careful not to let fear show.

“You know what kind of person I am,” he continues, his eyes darkening, “and even when you were home… you never called anyone for help.”

I swallow, keeping my expression calm. My fingers tighten around my pen, but I don’t move. “I… I didn’t feel the need,” I answer carefully. “I trust myself to handle what I need to handle.”

“That’s why I can’t stop thinking about you… every second, every minute, every day, you’re in my mind. The ones who are gone… they only haunt me in my dreams. But you, those deep blue eyes, that sharp mind, that fearless look, you’ve been haunting me since the day I first stepped into that room.”

I look at him, unsure if it’s the drugs talking or his heart finally breaking open. “You’re not making sense…” I whisper.

“I am, for the first time,” he breathes out, his face getting closer. “Everything else was noise. Selling, fighting, running… but you— you made it quiet inside me.”

“You should’ve called the police that night, Elise…”

My breath catches.

“Because now it’s too late.”

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