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.
Elliot Graves woke to the faint strains of Chopin from his alarm clock, the notes flowing softly through the marble-walled bedroom. For a moment, he lay still, the afterimage of the dream hanging over him like smoke. He had been having it for weeks now — always the same, always leaving him with the same restless ache in his chest.
He sat up, letting the silk sheets fall away, and stared out at the city skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. Even at six in the morning, the streets below were a slow-moving river of headlights. His empire was out there — skyscrapers, logistics hubs, global trade routes — all built by his hands and his will.
Elliot Graves had been born in a two-room apartment above a corner store. He had clawed his way up with nothing but relentless work and a refusal to be outdone. People called him ruthless. He called it necessary.
By the time he stepped into his private elevator, he was dressed in a tailored navy suit, cufflinks polished to mirror perfection. His assistant, Clara, was already waiting in the lobby, tablet in hand.
"Morning, Mr. Graves. Meetings with the Singapore partners are confirmed for next week. The board review is at two p.m., and the anniversary dinner reservation is at eight."
He gave a small nod. "Make sure the flowers are delivered to the restaurant by seven. White lilies."
Clara smiled faintly. "Mrs. Graves will love that."
He didn't respond, but inside, a small flicker of warmth passed through him. Annabelle had been with him long before the billion-dollar valuations and magazine covers. She had known him when his suits were off-the-rack and his car stalled in the winter.
The workday moved like clockwork. Contracts signed. Calls taken. Stocks rising. But through every deal and handshake, he kept glancing at the clock, feeling the strange anticipation of the evening ahead.
By eight, he was seated across from Annabelle at the corner table of Aurelia's, the most exclusive restaurant in the city. The view behind her was breathtaking — all glass, overlooking the river glittering under the city lights.
Annabelle was elegance personified, dressed in a deep red gown, her hair swept up in a way that exposed the diamond earrings he had given her two years ago.
"To us," she said, raising her glass of champagne.
"To us," he echoed, his voice softer than it ever was in the boardroom.
They talked — or rather, she talked, recounting a charity gala she had attended while he was abroad. He listened, watching the way her hands moved, the way her smile seemed to brighten the room. For a while, the years between them felt as solid as the day they had said "I do."
The first sign came subtle. A faint heat creeping up his neck. He brushed it off, sipping his wine.
Then came the cough. Light at first, then sharper, deeper. His chest tightened as if someone had cinched a belt around his lungs.
He reached for the water glass beside him, but before his fingers closed around it, another hand slid it away.
He looked up.
Annabelle was watching him — not with panic, not with concern, but with a small, deliberate smile.
It was the kind of smile she used when she had outmaneuvered an opponent.
The realization hit him harder than the tightening in his chest.
His voice came out hoarse, strained. "Why?"
She didn't answer. Didn't need to. Her eyes said it all.
His body betrayed him. Muscles weakened, control slipping away. The sounds of the restaurant became distant, warped, as if coming from underwater.
He fell sideways, his chair skidding out from under him. The marble floor was cool against his cheek, the faint scent of lilies reaching him even here.
Annabelle's voice rose suddenly, perfectly pitched to draw every eye in the room.
"Help me! Somebody help me! My husband — he just collapsed!"
The performance was flawless. Gasps, the scrape of chairs, rushing footsteps.
Elliot tried to speak again, to call her out, but no sound came.
His vision blurred, the chandelier above warping into shifting light. And then — like a cruel echo — the dream came back.
The fire. The girl in his arms. The whisper he could never understand.
For the first time, he thought maybe the dream wasn't just a dream.
Then — black.