The hallway was silent.
Unnaturally so.
Roman stared at the girl standing just beyond the threshold of his room—her pale coat catching the dying light from the corridor window, her bare arms unbothered by the draft curling in through the cracked walls.
Her face was pale, smooth, and expressionless. There was no warmth in her features. No fear. No irritation. Not even curiosity.
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
They were too calm.
Too certain.
"You don't know me," she said, voice steady. "But they're coming."
The air shifted in his lungs like glass.
Roman's hand hovered near the doorframe. "Who?"
"People you don't want to meet."
His fingers curled slightly. "And you are?"
The girl tilted her head ever so slightly, just enough to convey something. A whisper of amusement. Or perhaps something closer to calculation.
"You can call me Misha. I've been looking for you."
Her tone was simple. Plain. But something about that name—Misha—felt... off. Like a coat worn too perfectly. Roman said nothing. The wrongness hung in the air like perfume.
She stepped inside without hesitation.
Not waiting for his permission. Not even pausing to see if he'd let her.
Roman's body tensed. Not because of what she'd said, but because of what she didn't. Her presence was... muted.
Quiet in a way that wasn't natural. Like she wasn't even part of the atmosphere. No emotional trace followed her into the room.
And Roman felt that immediately.
He didn't feel her.
Not her heartbeat. Not her unease. Not even a flicker of intent.
It was like standing next to a perfectly lifelike statue that breathed.
That was impossible. He always felt people. Their emotions pressed against his skin like a thousand invisible hands. Rage burned. Joy flickered. Grief sank into his lungs like water. But this girl?
She was void. Silent. Flatline.
A ghost without a soul.
"I don't need your help," Roman said, his voice flatter than he intended.
Misha stepped further in, her eyes scanning the room—his bed, his cracked desk, the messy papers scattered near the window.
"You say that," she replied coolly, "but you haven't slept in four nights."
Roman froze. Just for a second.
She turned her head toward him. "The dreams are getting worse, aren't they?"
His jaw locked. "How do you know that?"
"I know a lot of things, Roman."
She said his name with a quiet familiarity, like someone who had read it dozens of times, maybe in a file somewhere—or a future. The way it rolled off her tongue made the hairs on his arms rise.
He took a cautious step back. "Are you following me?"
"No." Her voice remained calm. "But I knew you would be here. I knew you would help him."
"…the man outside?" Roman asked, blinking.
She nodded once. "The one who collapsed. That wasn't random. None of this is."
Roman stared at her. His breath thinned.
"Why do you talk like this is all scripted?"
"Because, to some extent," she said without missing a beat, "it is."
The words sat in the pit of his stomach like ice.
He didn't know why they scared him.
Maybe because some part of him believed her.
"I came here because you're about to be hunted," she continued. "Tracked. Erased."
His eyes narrowed. "Erased?"
"No records. No trial. No body. Armenia doesn't just arrest people like you. They remove them."
Misha's voice didn't shift. Not to scare him. Not to warn him. Just cold, hard certainty. A report read aloud.
"Armenia?!" Roman whispered, the name slipping past his lips like a curse. He stared at Misha, eyes wide, voice raw with disbelief.
"Why would one of the most powerful countries in the world want to erase me?"
It made no sense. He was no one—just a recent graduate with no past, no connections, and a soul he barely understood. Yet somehow, he had become a target of the mightiest hunters on the planet.
Roman backed up and turned, pacing without realizing it. He rubbed his temple as memories flickered behind his eyes—the man, the glowing text, the sensation of falling into another life. And the dream. That cursed, perfect dream that ended in a cold metal blade.
He was still trying to piece everything together.
And now this girl shows up, speaking like she's read the script before he's even seen the first act.
He didn't trust her. But fear had already sunk its teeth into his ribs, and it wasn't letting go.
Misha stood still, watching him with that same unsettling stillness.
She didn't need to feel anything to understand him.
She already knew.
She could see it in his posture, the way his hands clenched and unclenched, the way he didn't meet her eyes for more than a second. Fear was blooming—and fear always led to compliance.
She didn't blame him. If she were him—alone, hunted, changed by something he couldn't control—she'd be cautious too.
But Roman wasn't powerless.
That was the real problem.
He just didn't know it yet.
And Armenia would take advantage of that.
She had told him the truth—or at least, the version of it he could digest. That they would come for him. That they would erase him. No evidence. No mercy. Just erasure.
But what she hadn't told him was the part in between.
Because that part... was worse.
If Armenia caught him alive, they wouldn't kill him. Not at first. They would isolate him. Study him. Rewire him from the inside out. They'd show him kindness first. Dress it in false empathy. They'd say he was special—chosen. That he had a higher purpose. That the world needed people like him.
They would wrap the chains in velvet.
And once the leash was fastened?
They'd begin the training. The obedience tests. The punishments. The psychological remodeling.
Until Roman wasn't Roman anymore.
Until the soul inside him no longer fought the leash.
He'd become what they wanted. A living weapon. A loyal dog with no name, no will, no voice of his own. One they could use to rewrite the balance of power.
Until the day he slipped. Until the mutation surged beyond their calculations.
Then they'd get rid of him.
Quick. Quiet. Clean.
Just like she said.
So technically, she wasn't lying.
She just hadn't told him the whole truth.
He wasn't ready for it. Not yet.
If she told him everything now, he'd run—and run straight into their waiting arms. Or worse, he'd lash out with powers he didn't understand and burn himself out before the war even began.
No. Misha had to guide him slowly. Like coaxing fire from wet kindling. Like reeling a kite back from a storm.
He had to become someone who could survive this world.
Someone who could live long enough to help her.
That was why she came to him like this.
False calm. Fake name.
Not to manipulate him.
But to protect him—from them. From himself.
And maybe, someday, from what he might become.
Roman stopped pacing and looked at her again. His face was pale. Tight with doubt.
"You think I'm some kind of threat?" he asked.
Misha didn't blink. "You're not a threat yet. But you could become one. That's enough for them."
He turned away again. His mind was spiraling. The dream, the mutation, the man's envy, the glowing phrase—Looking Back at Times. The way it pulsed in his chest now like something alive.
And this girl.
This strange, soulless girl who moved like she'd rehearsed everything ahead of time.
He turned sharply. "What do you want from me?"
"To help," she said.
"Why?"
"Because no one else can."
There was no lie in her voice.
And no warmth either.
Roman stared at her, heart pounding.
"How do I know I can trust you?"
"You don't." She shrugged, stepping toward the door. "But staying here guarantees they'll find you. And if they do, it's already too late."
Too late…
And it was.
Because across the sea, four days ago, Armenia's Mutant Division had stumbled upon the name Roman Ravenscroft. It was a fluke. A coincidence. A flagged surname buried in an old welfare database.
But four days was enough.
Enough to light up encrypted networks. Enough to mobilize agents buried inside Othernesia like ticking mines. Enough to lock his location to a city block using satellite heat mapping and mutated gene tracing software.
Roman Ravenscroft was no longer just a glitch in their registry.
He was a target.
And the clock had already started ticking.
Then Misha said, calmly, "The alley behind your building. Three agents. One sniper on the rooftop across the street. You still have… thirty seconds."
Roman didn't hesitate.
He rushed to the window, pulled the curtain aside just enough to peek through.
A glint of metal. A shift in shadow. A figure crouched beneath the overhang.
His heart jumped.
She wasn't lying.
He turned back, eyes wide. "Who are you?"
Misha met his gaze. "Someone who wants to keep you alive long enough to learn what you really are."
Roman's hands moved before his mind could. He grabbed his old bag and shoved what little he had into it—half instinct, half desperation.
When he looked up again, she was already at the door.
She didn't look back. She didn't call for him.
She just opened it.
And Roman followed.
Not because he trusted her.
But because somehow…
she already knew he would.