The moon hung low over Oslo's upscale district, casting silver across the cobblestone streets. Angel drifted through the evening crowd like smoke—present, but not fully there. Her midnight-blue gown fluttered around her, elegant enough to blend in.
But something inside her felt…off.
She didn't remember choosing this dress.
She didn't remember the walk here.
She barely remembered the street before this one.
Just cold.
Sidewalk.
Then the café door.
Everything in between was a blur—fogged over, like someone had wiped the memory clean.
She shook the thought away and stepped inside the café. Golden light spilled onto the floor, laughter mingling with the soft murmur of conversations. It was warm, bright, safe.
Her gaze swept the room, searching for somewhere—anywhere—to sit.
Then she froze.
Damarcus.
He sat alone in the corner, a book open in his hand, posture relaxed but radiating a quiet power that made the small room feel too small for him. Even surrounded by strangers, he looked like the only person who mattered.
Angel's breath caught in her throat.
Not because he was striking.
Not because of the calm authority rolling off him.
But because—
she had seen him before.
Somewhere.
Somehow.
A flicker.
A flash.
Grey eyes in a dark hallway.
A hand on her wrist.
A voice calling her name—low and commanding.
It was gone in an instant, slipping from her grasp like water.
Angel blinked hard, steadying her breath. She must be imagining things. Exhaustion, nerves—something was messing with her mind.
Still, her feet moved on their own.
She approached his table, the air thinning with every step. By the time she reached him, her pulse fluttered like trapped wings.
"Excuse me…" Her voice came out softer than intended. "Do you mind if I join you? It's crowded."
Damarcus lifted his gaze.
And the world tilted.
Recognition flickered in his grey eyes—not surprise, not curiosity…recognition.
A slow, knowing smile touched his lips, as if he'd been waiting for her.
As if he already knew she would come.
"Of course." He gestured to the empty chair with a smooth, controlled grace. "I'd be glad for the company."
Angel hesitated.
A strange warmth pooled in her chest—familiar, almost comforting—but she couldn't place it. Couldn't explain why sitting across from a stranger felt like slipping into a memory she couldn't fully access.
She sat anyway.
His gaze stayed on her for a breath too long. Intense. Studying. Like he was taking inventory of the smallest details—her lashes, her dress, the slight tremble in her hands.
"What's your name?" she asked quietly.
He tilted his head, that small smirk deepening, as if the question amused him.
"Damarcus."
Her stomach dropped.
She knew that name.
She had heard that name, whispered like a warning in the back of her mind.
But from where?
From who?
Angel swallowed. "I'm…Angel."
Damarcus' lips curved.
"I know."
She stiffened. "You—?"
He didn't let her finish.
"You look like an Angel."
Smooth. Effortless. Too quick to be genuine.
That flicker of unease returned, sharp and cold.
Still, the conversation flowed easily. Books. Music. A comment on the city. His voice wrapped around her like velvet—deep, steady, certain. He listened as though her words mattered, even though she wasn't sure they did.
Something about him pulled at her.
Something dangerous.
Something inevitable.
Just when the silence stretched between them, his fingers brushed the corner of his book and he asked:
"Have you ever been to my favorite bookstore? It's a hidden gem. A few blocks from here."
Her heart stumbled.
She had heard those words before.
She was sure of it.
A faint echo in the back of her mind.
She blinked hard. "I—I don't think so."
His smirk sharpened.
"You'd love it."
Angel hesitated. Every rational instinct screamed at her to stay put. To find her footing. To make sense of her fragmented memories.
But something deeper—something she couldn't name—answered for her.
"I'd love to."
Damarcus rose smoothly, offering his arm. She stared at his hand for a moment, then slowly placed hers in it.
The touch sent a shock through her system—
Familiar.
Dangerous.
Like coming home to something she didn't remember losing.
As they stepped out into the night, a cold shiver ran down her spine.
This felt like fate.
But deep down, in the quiet part of her mind she tried desperately to ignore, Angel sensed the truth:
This wasn't fate.
This was déjà vu.
This was a script she'd already lived.
She just didn't remember it.
And as she walked beside Damarcus into the night, one haunting thought whispered through her mind—
This wasn't the first time she'd followed him.
It was just the first time she believed it was her choice.