The first thing Ethan Cole noticed was the blood.
It streaked down the woman's arm in a thin, dark line, disappearing beneath the sleeve of her jacket. She stood in the middle of the crowded train platform, surrounded by noise, movement, and life—yet completely still.
Bleeding.
And very much alive.
Ethan froze.
His brain screamed at him to look away, to stop staring, to stop letting his mind jump to impossible conclusions. But his body refused to obey. Because the woman lifting her eyes to meet his wasn't just familiar.
She was impossible.
Amara Hale.
The girl who had died three years ago was standing ten feet away from him, injured, terrified, and staring at him like she had just seen a ghost.
For half a second, neither of them moved.
Then her expression changed.
Fear — raw and unmistakable — flashed across her face.
She turned and ran.
"Wait!" Ethan shouted.
Too late.
She disappeared into the moving crowd just as the train roared into the station, metal screaming against rails. People surged forward, blocking his view. Panic slammed into his chest so hard it stole his breath.
No.
No, no, no.
Ethan pushed through bodies, ignoring angry protests. The doors slammed shut. The train pulled away. When the platform cleared, she was gone.
The spot where she'd stood was empty — except for a single drop of blood smeared on the concrete.
His knees nearly buckled.
Dead girls didn't bleed.
Three hours later, Ethan sat in his apartment staring at the wall like it might explain what he'd seen.
He replayed the moment again and again. The face. The eyes. The scar above her eyebrow. You didn't forget the face of the woman you loved. You didn't hallucinate scars.
His phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
Stop looking for her.
Every muscle in his body went cold.
He typed back with shaking fingers.
ETHAN:
Who is this?
The reply came instantly.
You were warned once. Next time, we won't miss.
A knock hit his door.
Hard.
Ethan jumped to his feet. His heart slammed violently as he glanced at the peephole.
No one stood there.
Another knock.
Slower.
Deliberate.
Ethan swallowed and opened the door a crack.
The hallway was empty — but taped to his door was a small plastic bag.
Inside it was a bloodstained white sleeve.
His vision blurred.
It was hers.
He knew it was.
His phone buzzed again.
She's alive because we allow it.
The bag slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.
Ethan didn't sleep that night.
At dawn, he left the apartment with a single thought burning in his head:
Find her before they do.
He went to the one place Amara had always loved — the old public library near the river. She used to joke that if she ever disappeared, that's where she'd hide.
He never believed he'd test that theory.
The building was nearly empty when he entered. Dust floated in the air. The silence pressed down hard. He moved between shelves, pulse loud in his ears.
"Amara," he whispered.
A hand clamped over his mouth.
A blade pressed lightly against his ribs.
"Don't scream," a familiar voice said. "Unless you want us both dead."
Ethan went still.
Slowly, the knife lowered.
The hand released him.
He turned.
She stood there — thinner, paler, eyes sharp with exhaustion and fear. The blood was gone, replaced by a hastily wrapped bandage.
Alive.
"Touch me," he whispered. "Please."
She hesitated — then nodded once.
He touched her arm.
Warm.
Real.
His breath broke. "You're alive."
"Not for long if you keep saying my name," she snapped.
"You're hurt."
"It's not important."
"It's bleeding."
"So am I, Ethan. Just not where you can see it."
Footsteps echoed outside the aisle.
Her head snapped up.
"Listen to me," she said urgently. "You saw me today because something went wrong. I wasn't supposed to be visible."
"Who did this to you?"
"The same people who buried me."
"Your father?"
Her jaw tightened. "He's not the worst one."
A shadow moved between the shelves.
Amara grabbed his hand. "Run."
"What?"
"NOW."
A gunshot shattered the silence.
Books exploded off a shelf inches from Ethan's head.
They ran.
They burst out the emergency exit into the cold morning air, alarms screaming behind them. Amara didn't slow until they reached the riverbank.
She doubled over, breathing hard.
"You were dead," Ethan said again, voice breaking. "I mourned you."
"I know."
"You let me think—"
"I didn't have a choice!"
She turned on him, eyes blazing. "They were going to kill me. Erase me. Make it look clean. Someone interfered, but survival came with conditions."
"What conditions?"
She looked away.
"They own my silence."
Another gunshot rang out — closer this time.
Amara grabbed his face. "If you want to live, forget me."
"I can't."
"Then you'll die with me."
She shoved him toward the trees. "Run."
"I'm not leaving you again."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You never left. That's why they're watching you."
She kissed his cheek — fast, desperate, unfinished.
Then she pushed him away and disappeared into the fog along the river.
The sound of footsteps followed.
Ethan stood frozen, heart pounding, one truth burning brighter than fear:
Amara Hale was alive.
And someone was hunting her.