Chapter 2: The Man with No Shadow
The gallery buzzed with pretentious laughter and the clinking of wine glasses, but Evelyn barely heard it.
Her therapist had said that immersing herself in normalcy might help with the "post-trauma dissociation," so she'd come here—an art showcase in Manhattan curated by one of her classmates. The walls were dressed in charcoal smears, fractured figures, oil-painted screams. Ironically, they felt more familiar than her own reflection.
She sipped her wine, but her hand trembled slightly.
Ever since she'd left the hospital, her world had taken on a strange frequency—too vivid, too sharp. She could hear heartbeats in crowds. She could feel temperature drops when someone lied. And the dreams… the dreams of him hadn't stopped.
The man from the night of the crash.
Tall. Pale. Eyes like burning coals. A voice like a lullaby laced with violence.
She hadn't told anyone about him. Not the doctors. Not the police. Not even Harper, her closest friend and a med student who'd stayed with her those long nights in the ICU.
Because deep down, Evelyn didn't believe he'd been real.
Until now.
Because he was here.
Standing at the far end of the gallery, dressed in that same black tailored suit. Motionless. Observing her like he'd painted her pain onto the wall behind her.
Her breath caught.
How had she not seen him enter? How had no one else noticed him?
She blinked. He was gone.
Her heart thudded against her ribs like a warning.
"Eve?" Harper appeared beside her, clutching a program and a cocktail. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I... might have."
"You okay?"
"No. Yes. I—" Evelyn looked again. The space where the man had been was now filled with a laughing couple. "I need air."
She pushed through the crowd and slipped out onto the back terrace. The city hummed below—horns, footsteps, the distant whoosh of a subway.
"You found me quickly."
The voice came from behind her. Not a question. A statement.
She turned slowly.
There he was.
Close enough to touch, close enough to feel the heat (or lack of it) radiating from his skin. Moonlight kissed his features—sharp cheekbones, lips carved with intent, and those eyes. Deep, silver-gray, the red only visible if you looked too long.
"Who... who are you?" she asked.
His gaze flicked to her neck. Her pulse thudded harder.
"You don't remember me," he said. Not disappointed. Just… resigned.
"I remember your voice. From the accident."
A pause. Then a whisper: "That wasn't the first time we met."
Evelyn froze.
"Then when?" she asked.
"In another life," he replied, cryptic. "But that part of you hasn't woken up yet."
"What do you mean—?"
"I shouldn't be here." He stepped back.
She moved forward instinctively, not wanting him to disappear again.
"What's happening to me?" she asked, voice breaking. "Since the crash… things aren't right. I hear things. See shadows that vanish. I feel like I'm not alone, even when I am."
"You're not," he said softly.
The air thickened. Time slowed.
"What are you?" she whispered.
A pause. Then—
"Hungry."
In a blink, he was gone.
No footsteps. No sound.
Just the echo of that one word... and the growing fire in her veins.