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Pretend nothing happened?

Run?

My mind keeps looping, glitching, replaying flashes of Xavier’s face. The gurgle in his throat. My own hand reaching out, nearly contaminating a crime scene—not that it matters since I fell onto his fucking corpse, but that’s only one of my worries. There’s a fucking psycho out there in a ram skull mask with knives strapped to his chest.

I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the edge of the bed like I can anchor myself to something.

God. I don’t have time for this to affect me. Another wave of panic slams into me so hard it nearly knocks me backward. My breath snags in my throat as other factors come into play.

The police.

Fuck. How did I not think of that sooner?

I was at an active crime scene, and I didn’t just leave—I ran. Covered in someone else’s blood, I bolted like the guilty bastard in a crime movie. I can explain the masked man chasing me with a knife, but that doesn’t account for what happened before.

Nobody saw the killer.

Nobody saw me being chased either. All they’ll have is Xavier’s body and the fact that I disappeared right after. The blood, his blood, is all over me. My clothes. My shoes. My hands.

Or… it was. Now it’s swirling somewhere in the city’s drainage system. I scrubbed it off. Every drop. Which looks so much fucking worse.

Who washes off evidence unless they’re hiding something?

“Fuck…” The word slips out of me like a gasp. “Fuck, fuck. This is bad. This is so- this is-fuck.” I stand up abruptly, stumbling to the window and grab the curtain, pulling it to the side just enough to peer through.

The street is quiet. Ordinary as usual. Which means nothing. For all I know, they’ve already traced my phone. Or they’re circling the block. Or waiting for sunrise to knock on my door with polite voices and handcuffs.

But worse, far worse, what if the killer followed me? What if he knows where I live? What if he’s out there right now, standing in the dark behind some tree or car, waiting for me to leave, waiting for me to be alone in the wrong hallway or parking lot.

I step away from the window, letting the curtain sway, eyes fixed on nothing.

Two hours.

It’s been nearly two hours since I fled. Long enough that every possible story the police could write about me has taken shape in my head.

Still, the situation is salvageable. I will not let this incident ruin me.

The next day came and went like someone pressed fast-forward on my life, and I never managed to hit pause. Then the second day slipped past. Then the third. And before I could grab hold of anything solid, a whole week vanished under me.

Nerves grind at me nonstop, sharpening my edges until everything startles me. Every sudden sound, every shifting shadow, every shape even vaguely curved turns into the ram’s head. I see it in reflections, in the hunch of a stranger’s shoulders, in how jackets hang on hooks. It’s pathetic how easily my brain hijacks itself.

My head is underwater, and I might just keep it there.

I read up on drowning once. It’s brutal, apparently. Agonizing. Your lungs feel flayed from the inside, nerves screaming as your body betrays itself, clawing for air that never comes until, at the very end, a switch flips. Terror loosens its grip, and the burn fades into a soft, treacherous quiet.

A counterfeit peace. As if your body, exhausted and obedient, finally forgives the water for what it’s done.

Thirty to nineteen seconds is apparently the max.

I break the surface and drag in air.

Chlorinated water slides down my skin, and I cough once before forcing myself to steady. The pool stretches around me. Olympic-sized with all clean lines and pale blue tiles, steam curling faintly where the heated water kisses the colder air above it. Everything about it is engineered for control. Temperature regulated.

Depth measured.

Lanes perfectly aligned.

I swim to the edge, hooking my forearms over the tiled lip. My forehead drops against my crossed arms, eyes closing as my breathing evens out. Heat bleeds from the water into my skin, soothing in a way that feels almost undeserved. Outside, rain hammers against the gym’s floor-to-ceiling windows. It comes down hard and unapologetic, turning the early morning into a smear of cinder and chrome. But none of it grounds me like it usually does.