The air was heavy with heat, thick with smoke.
A car blazed in the distance, its metal frame shrieking as it warped.
He ran toward it, every step pounding in his chest.
The girl was there — trapped, coughing, her hands clawing at the seatbelt.
He pulled hard, dragging her free. Her weight collapsed into his arms.
Her face was impossible to see — blurred like smeared paint.
Her lips moved, but the sounds were gibberish, sharp and broken.
The heat pressed closer, almost swallowing them whole—
Black.
The alarm on Dr. Adrian Voss's phone rattled on the nightstand, playing the faint crackle of an old rotary ring tone. He groaned, dragging a hand across his face before reaching for his glasses.
The apartment was small but warm, lined with tall shelves sagging under the weight of books, framed degrees, and photographs of old colleagues. Sunlight tried to creep in through the blinds, dust drifting in its path.
From the kitchen came the clink of dishes and the rich smell of coffee. He smiled faintly — that meant Lena was up. She always insisted on making breakfast before he left for campus.
Adrian shuffled in, still half in the dream's haze. Lena was at the counter, dark hair pulled into a loose bun, pouring coffee into his favorite chipped mug.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "You're cutting it close again."
"I lecture better with adrenaline in my veins," he murmured, taking the mug. The warmth in his hands felt grounding.
She laughed, and for a moment, life felt steady.
By nine, Adrian was in Lecture Hall B, pacing in front of fifty students. His topic today: Moral Responsibility in a Modern Age. He loved the subject — not just because it mattered, but because he could see it click in real time with the bright ones.
One of those was Owen, a sharp-minded senior with a knack for pulling connections from thin air. Adrian had invited him over a few times for dinner, proud to mentor him. It felt good to pass the torch.
When class ended, Owen lingered, leaning against the desk. "Great lecture, Dr. Voss. I've been thinking about your point on moral gray areas. You ever wonder if some people just… don't have a moral compass at all?"
Adrian chuckled. "Oh, I've met a few. But most people convince themselves they're doing the right thing, even when they're not."
Owen smirked at that, as if the words had a private meaning.
The day rolled on — meetings with colleagues, grading papers, coffee refills. Between tasks, the dream kept flickering back in his head: the fire, the blurred face, the nonsense whisper. It left him uneasy, like a word he couldn't quite remember.
By the time he reached his apartment building that evening, rain had started, tapping gently on his coat. He unlocked the door quietly — Lena liked surprises.
But the first thing he noticed was the sound. Not the TV. Not music. Voices.
He moved down the hallway, each step heavier than the last. The bedroom door was half-closed, the voices clearer now — a laugh he knew by heart, and another he knew from countless office hours.
His chest went tight. He pushed the door open.
Lena was in bed, her hair spilling over the pillow. Owen was beside her, shirtless, both of them freezing in place at the sight of him.
For a moment, no one spoke. Rain hammered the window behind them.
Adrian's voice came out low, almost calm. "Owen. Out."
Owen stammered, reaching for his clothes. Lena sat up, clutching the sheet, eyes wide but not with guilt — more with frustration, as if he were the problem for walking in.
Owen left without another word, the front door shutting too loudly in the quiet apartment.
Adrian sat at the edge of the bed, his back to her. "How long?"
Lena's silence was answer enough.
"You knew I trusted him. I brought him into this house," he said, the words cracking halfway through.
Her voice was cold. "Maybe you should've spent less time mentoring your students and more time paying attention to me."
The sentence hit harder than anything else she could have said. Not because it was true, but because it sounded rehearsed — like she'd been storing it for the moment she could use it.
That night, Adrian sat at his desk, a half-empty glass of whiskey beside him. The rain had stopped, but the air still felt heavy. Photographs stared at him from the shelves — Lena smiling on a trip to Venice, him shaking hands with Owen at an academic award ceremony. Each one now a shard of glass in his memory.
He thought about his father, who had once told him, "The worst betrayals don't come from enemies. They come from the ones you'd bleed for."
The words felt too real now.
He opened his laptop and began to type. No dramatic goodbye. No explanation that would make sense to anyone else. Just the truth: I loved you both. You made sure that wasn't enough.
When he was done, he closed the laptop gently, as if afraid to wake someone.
He stood, looking once more around the apartment — the home that had been built on trust, now hollow.
In the drawer by the bed was the revolver he'd inherited from his grandfather, still polished from years ago when it was meant for nothing but display.
He sat on the couch, the gun in his lap, and closed his eyes.
For a moment, the dream returned. The fire. The girl in his arms. The whisper he couldn't understand.
And then — black.