Ch. 8The scent of raspberries lingers.

  Carmen walks home in a fog. His fingers twitch in his pockets, brushing against the fake ID and fsh drive. The name on it—Cinna Aveyard—repeats in his head like a song he doesn't remember learning. The further he walks, the less his surroundings make sense.

  Had the street always been this quiet?

  Had the streetlights always flickered like that?

  Had the sky always been so ft?

  The thoughts vanish when he reaches his house. The door unlocks. The floor creaks. His cat rubs against his leg, just like always. He scoops it up, burying his face in its fur, inhaling the scent of home—dust, warmth, something faintly sweet. This is real. This is his.

  Except... it's not.

  There's something off.

  Like a script pying out exactly as it should.

  He pces the cat down and drifts toward the kitchen. The fridge hums. He pulls open the door, grabs the leftovers, sets them on the counter. His hands move automatically, clicking on the stove, warming the food. The oil sizzles. The scent spreads. He stirs the pan, flips a spoon over, taps his fingers against the counter—like he's done a million times before.

  And yet.

  Each movement feels predetermined. Like he's following a sequence someone else wrote for him.

  He grips the spatu too tight. Tries to shake the thought away.

  But the feeling follows him through lunch, to dinner. It follows him as he cleans up. It follows him as he drops onto the couch, exhaustion pressing heavy against his limbs. His head tilts back. His body sinks in.

  Something is off.

  Something is—

  —

  "Lucid dreaming feels like being God."

  Carmen knows he's dreaming the second his feet hit the ke's edge. The sky stretches infinitely above, an exact replica of the one from before. He recognizes the way the grass feels under his fingers, the way the air tastes metallic.

  He's been here before.

  But now?

  Now he can control it.

  He takes a step. The water stills. He breathes in. The wind halts. He flexes his fingers, and time rewinds—his friends appear, walking backward in perfect synchronization. He stops. They move forward. They talk. Laugh. Exist.

  Carmen watches them. Watches himself.

  And then—

  Something shifts.

  A figure stands where no one should be.

  Its Cinna Aveyard.

  She's there. Not interacting. Not participating. Watching.

  He doesn't remember her being there.

  And yet, in the dream, he can see her in every scene—just out of frame. The moment he saw the reflections in the water. The moment his friends vanished from the ke's surface. The moment they all smiled, speaking over each other like static.

  She was there. Taking notes. Writing. Observing.

  His chest tightens. His skin burns with something cold.

  "Hey," he calls out.

  "You know," he says, taking a step forward. "If you stare at something long enough, it starts staring back."

  Cinna doesn't react.

  His hands curl into fists.

  "Or maybe that's the whole point of you, huh?" His voice is razor-sharp now. "You don't live. You don't act. You just sit there, watching, waiting. Scribbling down everyone else's lives like a goddamn parasite."

  Nothing.

  No flinch. No hesitation.

  She just keeps writing.

  Carmen takes another step—tries to get closer—but the world stretches, pulling them apart.

  She's untouchable. Unreachable.

  And he hates it.

  She doesn't react.

  He takes a step toward her.

  The space between them stretches.

  He walks faster. The ground elongates beneath his feet. Cinna remains exactly where she is, untouched by the world bending around her.

  His heartbeat spikes.

  "Hey!"

  Nothing.

  He runs.

  But no matter how far he moves, the distance never closes.

  Cinna Aveyard, unmoving, scribbles into her notebook. Her mouth forms words. But he can't hear them. He can't see what she's writing.

  He pushes harder, trying to reach her—trying to read over her shoulder—

  The dream twists.

  The ke swallows him whole.

  He doesn't fight it.

  He lets himself drown.

  —

  He wakes up gasping.

  His lungs burn. His skin is damp with sweat. His fingers dig into the couch. He can still feel the water in his throat, the weight of it pressing down.

  The raspberries linger in the air.

  His eyes flicker toward the table. The ID sits there, waiting.

  Cinna Aveyard.

  His hand shakes as he picks up his phone, scrolling to the number on the ID.

  The screen glows in the dim light. His thumb hovers over the call button. He hesitates.

  But then, before he can second-guess himself—

  He presses it.

  The phone rings.