A colleague? you wonder, tucking this information into your catalogue. Maybe his brother. Or is it his partner?

Systemizing mediocre life details is like sustenance. You stuff loosely related events into patterns, patterns lending rules. Like with your neighbour, the pattern says he’s occupied, so the rule demands that, every time your paths collide, you smile, meet his eye, and exchange a ‘hi’, ‘hello’. Like at work, two weeks is fortunately enough time to measure up different coworkers’ expectations: Alice, who is loud, but doesn’t expect reciprocation; Pete, who enjoys intermittent conversation; Rahish, who tends to stick to short phrases about work itself, and on and on and on.

It’s not until today that a succession of crash-bang-wallops tears you from your music. You remove an earbud. And breaks the pattern, your neighbour’s anonymity.

A rap on the wood: the latch slides free. 

“Oh, hello. You alright?”

Your preloaded question, he fires right back at you.

And whether it’s the politeness of his expression, or the airiness of his tone (or his hair, which is slightly skew-whiff), you stiffen.

You glance down. Hot water bottle.

Then, catching yourself, “Hi,” you say. “Sorry, I don’t want to int—int—int.” You break off, forcing a self-deprecating smile, and it’s usually at this point that the one on the receiving end fills in the blank.

He doesn’t. His attention diverts to the bottle with a small, “Oop.” Hands shrugged inside the little pocket, he scoffs at himself before flinging it to the carpet. When his gaze lifts, the upturn of his lips is soft, as if sharing in your inconvenience.

“Start again,” you say. “I don’t want to interrupt. I heard a bang, that’s all, so I just wanted to check everything’s okay?”

“Okay? Oh, yeah. Yeah, don’t worry. I am an absolute menace for hanging everything up on the floor. Well—first example right there. Thank you, though. For checking. I’m sorry, I should have said before. Steven.”

You balk. Your cheeks flush.

“Err, I’m sorry?”

“Oh!” He flings a hand between you. “I’m Steven. You are…?”

Accepting his offer, you say your name, which he repeats under his breath before releasing you.

“Really, I would have introduced myself sooner. My neck of the woods, you keel over in the middle of the road, and someone might, might get out the car to have a go.” You chortle, and he hops back in: “‘S’alright, I don’t mean that, like, literally. I’m not that accident-prone, swear.”

“You’re not. I am.”

“Really?” His eyes light up expectantly, and you realise you hadn’t anticipated that far.

“Well… Yeah. The other day I—I was preparing this meal and I…” With each word, that familiar hole widens, that self-sabotaging voice that chants, ‘you’re about to forget what you want to say’, ‘you’re going to forget’, ‘forget, forget, forget.’ “I made an absolute mess.”

When it clicks for him that you have nothing left to add, “Snap. Don’t get me started, mate,” he says. “I can make you a late welcoming meal if by ‘make’, you don’t mind me banging her in the oven. Food absolutely disagrees with me, and not in the stomach way. Cooking? Pfft, nope. I usually leave that bit.”

“Oh, you don’t live alone?” you ask innocently.

Dread inks down Steven’s features.

“What? No. No, I do live alone.”

“Oh. You just said about leaving the cooking, so I…” Your voice starts to wane, a tell-tale sign that the rest of that sentence isn’t going to escape ungarbled. You swallow. But it doesn’t matter: you’re not certain Steven heard you in the first place.

His focus pulls away. A fog creeps down over his focus. He’s gone. For a second, he’s completely gone.

“Are you—"

“I’m sorry,” he suddenly says, collecting himself. “It’s lovely talking to you, it really is. But I just remembered I’ve got to accept some silly call in a minute or two.”

“Oh. Course. Don’t wanna miss that.”

His fingers curl around the doorframe.

“It’s nice meeting you, too. But I won’t be keeping you.” 

“Cheers.”

He raises a hand. Several farewells manage to squeeze through the gap before he disappears. Even then, you stare at his door, just as readable.

Did you say something wrong?

You slip your headphones back on before you let yourself back into your flat. One inside, you crash into your chair and crank your music ear-scathingly high. You look past your phone screen, dimly aware that your concentration is liquifying.

Several minutes later, you awaken from the trance.

The jingling of keys. It’s coming from next door. You press pause.  

A rumble sails through the wall. The sound had become a familiar companion, but only now do you register its source, and as you listen closer, Steven’s intonation. He jangles the keys again.

“That’s what you are. ‘Stop talking. Stop talking.’ Well if you... harping on in my ear… actually think straight.”

You frown. So maybe you did say something wrong. But it wasn’t about your shared neighbour.

It didn’t even cross your mind, the innumerable phone calls day in, day out. You asked him whether he lived alone. Perhaps, literally, Steven didn’t, but by the sounds of it, someone was taunting his life day-in, day-out. An ugly long-distance relationship.

At least, that’s the opinion you carry until another unexceptional weekday.   

It starts when the lift begins to slide shut.

Stifling a curse, you surge ahead, tote bag enclosed in an iron grip, and call out a belated, “Excuse me!” 

The doors pause. 

You close the distance in a heartbeat, hopping over the threshold and mentally singing the figure’s praises as you crash against the wall. In your month and a bit, you’ve never been late to work. You will not let a buggered alarm clock fizzle that streak.   

“Thank you,” you breathe.

Only once secure in the fact you’re not going to be rejected like a foreign organ do you look up.

“Oh. Hi,” you say.

Steven presses his lips together in greeting. Silence weighs in, digging into your sides.

“Slept in,” you joke, because it’s easier than the real explanation. You just need a first step up for Steven to bridge the quiet.

This time, he offers a curt nod. Tighter, he tugs the line of his mouth. His focus melts through the floor as if he hopes to discern the impending ground, and unease ripples in your gut. That wasn’t the reaction you’d anticipated.

You twist as if to meet your reflection, and you drift towards the circles pressed beneath Steven’s eyes, narrower than usual, and the hardiness of his low-hanging brow. It isn’t just the silence. It’s something indescribable, an alarm of otherness that the rational mind scolds, but for all it tries, can’t push down.

His attention flickers in your direction.

He steps out first. A second sooner and he’d have slammed into the door. A transactional wave, and he marches for the exit. You watch him go as you release your hold on the shoulder of your tote. You stretch your fingers, the colour rushing back into the tips. 

That feeling… Maybe if he hadn’t been so fast, you would have been the first to beat a quick retreat. It’s nonsense, you swear, it really is, but the thought won’t leave your head. He didn’t look like Steven. The features were there, plain and simple, except you’ve always had an ineptitude in facial recognition. It’s the other things you find yourself clinging to, like hair colour, build, mannerisms. He carried his features incorrectly, almost as if someone—or something had tucked itself away beneath the folds of his skin.

You suppose that’s what happens when you hyper-theorise around mediocre life details. Next stop, delusion.

You have to reshuffle your system to accommodate this new Steven. It’s accompanied by an odd sense of grief, which is, again, odd, because what was there really to lose? You spoke a grand total of once. No doubt the encounter meant significantly more to you than it did him, which is fine. You let yourself get too far ahead, picturing you would become part of the world where people are good acquaintances and chat with their neighbours. You see now that that’s not going to happen.

It starts off simply and unintentionally: he strides your way, you duck down a perpendicular corridor; he locks up his apartment, you wait a moment longer before following suit; he waves at you and he’s Steven again, you wave back but don’t speak a word. You’re a teen again, missing cake ingredients because someone was stood in front of the shelf, being late for school because your neighbour was fastening her kids’ seatbelts.

After a little while, he stops saying hi. After a while, that conversation you shared becomes a distant memory with stretched edges, rewrapped and reshaped in your vault, until he was never that chatty, until the smile didn’t really meet his eyes and he was just being polite.

The only confirmation the conversation happened in the first place is, one spring morning, is a striking sense of déjà vu.

A slam. A muffled cry. 

You don’t jump-to like the first time. Should you go to check considering last time’s events? It’ll probably be just another continuation of his saga against static objects. Besides, he’s already made it abundantly clear he would rather keep you on the receiving end of a wave than a conversation. 

But concern soon wins out against embarrassment. At the risk of making a muppet of yourself, only a moment later do you wind up outside his door.  

A rap on the wood. 

You leave it a second. Silence hunches over your shoulders, scrutiny in tow. 

You knock again, then again. 

“Steven?” You didn’t intend to practically whisper. Your raise your voice. “I’m just harassing you again… I heard next door… Are you okay?”

Nothing. Uneasiness begins to take root, prickling down your neck, as you incline an ear towards the door. He’s in there. You know he’s in there not because you hear him, but because he got back from work. Didn’t he? Yes, he was earlier than usual, around 3 instead of after 5:30.

What if he came back to the flat early because of sickness? Could it have been bad enough to pass out? If he passed out, would he have had enough time to react? Could he have landed on something and gone under?

A tangible warmth curls around your ears, pulsing and expanding. If you don’t do something right now, something terrible is going to happen. What if it already has? What if you’re wasting time?  

“Steven!” Fuck. “Steven, please let me know you’re there.” The pretence of politeness evades you now as you pound a fist against timber. “Listen,” you shout, “if you can hear me, don’t worry. I’m coming in.”

Before you can even assess the next port of call – the time-intensiveness of the landlord, the silliness of ramming your foot against the door, the simpleness of checking if it’s even unlocked in the first place – the door cracks ajar.  

Darkness stares into you.

“Steven?”

Could he have dragged it open?

“Steven?” You cross over the entrance. “I don’t…” Without thought, you flick the light switch.

A man is stood in Steven’s flat.

He marches towards you; you recoil.

Your balance gives.

And he’s there, this stranger, who eloquently wraps his arms around your waist and steers you to your feet. In a beat, he releases you.

“Woah, nelly!” he says with a grin, clapping his hands together. “Woah. Be cool. I’m a friend.”

Is this… Marc?

“Sorry, who are you?”

“Told you. Just a friend, collecting something. Don’t mind me. I’ll get out of his hair—”

This is stupid. This is so stupid. You should just let him go. You should just ignore the bulge in the back of his pocket, or the absence of keys, or the fact he drew the curtains, or the dark shape swirling behind the figure’s eyes. But then you go and ask,

“What’s your friend’s name?”

He chortles. Filling the beat of silence that precedes that answer.

And that’s all the confirmation you need.

“Steven,” he says.

When he caught you, he brought you deeper into the room. He’s now blocking your only exit.

Your mouth snaps shut.

Your breath punches against the muzzle: the texture of skin. You sink your teeth inside, spluttering, choking, as salt, iron swashes against your tongue. Something edged bristles against your spine.

“Stop.” The ‘p’ sound ricochets off the internal chambers of your ear. 

No, no, no.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

“Fucks sake,” the man murmurs, as he slides the door shut with his boot. It clicks.

NO.

Instinct possesses like a familiar ghost, the compulsion to kick, to thrash. But it doesn’t understand this entrapment. Not only in this man’s cage, but in your own limbs, which betray for their inability to slice through skin. Whilst your mind, ablaze with horror, could do it easily. 

“Now, you’ve made me another job, haven’t you? So, we’re going to have to take this to your room. Do me a favour. Which side?”

You tilt your head to the left.

“Leave the door unlocked?”

You nod.

“Beautiful. Going to scream?” 

You shake your head–he tears an incision across your side. You scream into his hand. As you fight to abate each breath, chest heaving up, down with the weight of each exhale, he pivots until you’re facing dead-on, the switchblade, towards your stomach.

“Again for me. Are you. Going to. Scream.” 

The cut – it’s small like a dash of kerosene, your skin set alight. 

You shake your head.

He slowly removes the pressure from around your mouth and drapes himself over your shoulder. The other, he buries beneath your jacket as if hugging the small of your back, the honed edge of his blade only a hair’s breadth away.

You have to do it. You have to propel yourself forward, then scream as all hell.

“No time like the present.”

You can do it.

Just don’t think about the knife.

You open the door, and he bows his head. The camera is directly above, flashing its red bulb. But before you can cross the threshold, he smashes his lips against yours.

Nausea lurches in your throat. He pushes you into the corridor; you slam against your own apartment. You practically fall inside, him fumbling the lock, and by then, it’s too late. He shoves you aside, and he has the fucking audacity to wrinkle his nose in disgust as he snaps the door—

—shut.

It’s too late. You didn’t have time to think.

You didn’t.

Immediately, you feel it rising. You shake your head. No, no, no. A bawl of warning escapes caged lips. Don’t cry. Don’t. Exhales rush in shallow, painful gasps. As your focus sears through the floor, the pain pushes deeper, deeper against your ribs. You need to get out. Whatever that means, you just need out. 

His gaze flickers to yours, and he must realise the crazed look in your eye because he’s there when you lunge for the lampshade. His fingers enclose around your forearms, twisting. You shrink. He rears closer. You smash into his nose. He barks, instinctively reaching to massage the inflicted spot. An opening: you shoot for the ankle.

Your stomach slams into the ground.

The scream cracks open. You scream until you can no longer breathe. You scream until, panting, acid pushes its way to freedom. 

You will not die. 

You scream into his hands. No one can hear you. No one can hear you. 

He strikes your head against the floorboards. Pain erupts through your nostrils – you gag – followed by the sickly stench of iron. His footsteps recede.

Again, you try to scream, but your mouth is the texture of dried paint. Dimly, you hear the low shirrk as your curtains snap shut. You prop yourself atop trembling elbows, ignoring each strangled moan. Please. “Please.” Just keep going. Just keep moving.

His shadow descends, and with it comes the bobbled fabric of a towel. Bile explodes in your mouth, but it has no escape. The screech of floorboards, your chair, approach. You shudder. It doesn’t stop, the shuddering, not when he lifts you, not when he binds your arms, ankles. There’s nothing you can do.

This time, less temporarily, he vanishes from view. You watch the curtains. They’re still: no breeze.

You don’t sink into severance. It claims you. In the vault, there is safety in sedation, and you’re tucking yourself away.  

You drum your fingers.

You can’t.

You have to think. You have to. You have to stay alive.

Skywards, you blink back your blurring vision. Your shoulders tremble in an irregular rhythm of hiccups and gasps. Softly, in the dark, a world revolves unperturbed. And this time, you let yourself panic.

You’re going to die. 

He’s just biding his time. He’s waiting to take you somewhere more convenient. 

You’re going to die. 

You know how this works. Foot tapping, eyes darting, head bobbing. Energy coursing from crown to toe, you’re a lightning rod, conducting slashes of your own decimated corpse. 

For half an hour, there is no hope for you. Your world is ending, and it will not be missed. You die and you die and you die.

After half an hour, your tears begin to dry up.

Your heartrate slows. The energy concentrates to a narrow point.

And you think.

With your neighbour’s door unlocked and his belongings tossed in disarray, Steven’s intruder must have pictured himself long gone by his return. Vague scuffles interject your thoughts. Why he’s pillaging your belongings, you can only presume. This isn’t just a regular break-in. He had to be looking for something in particular, otherwise, what kind of thief would scoff at Steven’s wall of pricey collectables? So he thinks you possess the object of his interest. That, or more likely, he only wants to discern who will notice your absence.

But you can’t think like that. It’s much more solvable to pretend this is a treasure hunt, and you’re the only one who can lead him towards the X.

In your periphery, the man straightens from beneath your bed and suspends something in the light. You twist to get a read.

“Now this is lovely.”

The light traces your friend’s face.  

The man runs a thumb across the frame.  

“Who is she, I wonder?”

Someone who’ll miss you? you think, completing his sentence.

Now’s your chance. You mumble into your gag.

“What’s that? You’ve got something important you want to share?” He closes some of the distance. “Wow. Wow, that’s really interesting. You know what? I must hear all about—” He tosses the picture onto your bed. “That was rhetorical. Learn to tell the difference.”

Someone knocks. 

Hope plunges through you like a harpoon. Someone’s at your door. Shit. Someone’s at your door. You crane your neck until it throbs. Another knock.  

Then a voice, his voice. “You in? It’s just a quick one!”

Steven.

“Fucking piccadilly circus, this place,” the intruder hisses between his teeth, marching behind you.  

Already, Steven’s footsteps begin to retreat. No. You will not let this opportunity fly.

You shove your weight, and your heart skips a beat. You bite down. Hard. A roaring ache, like a dozen bared nails, tears into your side. But it’s all worth it. Lying skywards, you raise your head from the crook of your neck. Because Steven is rattling a fist against the door. 

“Hello?” Voice pitched with anxiety, “Is everything okay in there?” he shouts.

“You little shit,” The intruder is by your side, yanking the chair upright. You recoil as he squeezes your arm. “You repugnant little shit.” His breaths fly quick and hot, all the while Steven is rattling the handle, calling your name.

Then he lets his hands fall. 

Steven is about to make a scene. Good. Please, Steven, shout all you can.

He takes a knee. Confusion breaks through your dread. That’s when, as methodical as a worker bee, he frantically begins untying your binds. Before you can think to move, it prickles against your neck. You inhale sharply.

With a moment’s hesitation, he wrenches you to your feet. The next thing is your gag, which he tosses to the ground. He assesses you, snatches a hoodie from the floor.

“Up and over.”

He tugs it down – “Hey, if you can hear me, I’m gonna go get the landlord, yeah?” Steven calls – and, as you brace, pats it into place.

“You fell and hit your nose. Comprende?” he whispers, as he steers you to the door.

When he releases his grip, a fist balled within the plush lining of your sleeve, you slide the key from the hook. Just before you open the door, the man gives you pause.

“Tell me… does he sound like a fighter to you?”

Steven breaks off.

Relief wells within you when the gap falls away and reveals his matching expression. For a moment, you forget the blade that punctuates the space between your ribs. 

“Jesus. You gave me a fright.” His arm jumps from his side. “Oh fuck! What happened? You need a first-aid kit. I have all sorts of—” 

“No, no. It’s okay,” you cut in, gesturing for him to cool off. But, unbeknownst to your captor, you’re fluttering your eyelids. Only pausing for a beat in between to widen, narrow your eyes. Help, you silently cry. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. Tripped. That’s all.” 

It fleets across his features, an apparition of bewilderment. As you prop an arm against the door, his focus chases towards the trail slithering down your wrist, moulding into comprehension. 

“I’ll be fine.”

He snaps back to you as you continue to blink. Please.

“My fault, really, for making my apartment a deathtrap.” 

“Oh.” As he clings to you with wide eyes, the buoyancy in his voice gives the uncanny impression of clambering from another’s mouth. “Thank God for that.” He nods, pressing down on the air to signal for you to stop. “Speaking of deathtraps, your mum’s not coming round anytime soon is she? I mean, I’d be safe if I wanted to pop over this weekend?”

“Don’t know about safe,” you say slowly. “She might just be psychic. Doesn’t matter where, when, how. I swear, she’s got a watchdog on me. You can bet anything she’ll know I’ve got a man around.”

“Yeah, well mums can be a bit like that sometimes.” He laughs. It’s like watching the rumble of a tomb. “Take it from me, at least you’ve got the safety of distance. Where abouts is she?”

He glances left and right in question. 

You copy the former. That’s all it takes. 

He hurls at you like a man possessed. The entryway screeches against its hinges, discordant against the thrumming of Steven’s footsteps.

With one hand, he shields you against the door; with the other, he twists the man’s blade and grinds it into his shoulder. A shriek – he cages the man’s mouth, heat reeling from his breath as he meets him against the wall, the blade pushing deeper. You don’t think before bolting your captor’s escape. His eyes bubble with tears as they scramble for something, anything, to grab on to. Steven sends a boot to his shin. 

When he whirls, time disintegrates.

You stagger.

This is wrong. You’re slipping. You squeeze the cut on your arm to sharpen your senses, but this man’s face, which lies somewhere between imagination and a loose conjure, swims and shifts, from a thinning mouth to an atypical nose, from exchanging kindred smiles, not counterfeit, but with crinkled eyes and lips curving upward with ease, to rage. It’s just the dark. It has to be.

Your attacker dislodges the blade. 

“Steven!” 

His mouth springs open in protest.

“No!”

A knee adjoins his stomach and sends him to the ground. 

The instinct to surge forwards evaporates: your attacker wastes no time clambering over Steven’s coiled frame. And you just bolted the door. He drags his feet with a monotonous thump, thump, thump.

You seize a side-table and bring it down hard. Its severed legs, you snap and wield in mid-air.

Panting like a dog, he slides a grin into the corner of his cheek.

He hits the ground.

And you don’t hesitate. You don’t care about the mummified hand enclosed around your attacker’s ankle, or the fist rising to beat your attacker’s head in.

You strike.

Someone is calling your name.

You strike again.  

“Can you hear me? You’re okay.”

In your periphery, that hand now hovers. With each hit, it wavers.

“He’s done.”

The second skin retreats, revealing Steven’s unfamiliar familiar face. What—

You drop them. They clatter against the ground. You step back. The world sways. Your captor lies in a whimpering heap, blood oozing from his back.

“Hey.” Steven shadows him, snatching you back from unreality. “Concentrate on your breath. You’ll get through this. Just focus on breathing in… and out.” But his accent is all wrong. This whole thing is all wrong. How is he on two feet? “Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

As if awaking for the first time, you pull away from him. 

“Where are you hurt?”

His pace racing, “I will explain everything, I swear, but now is not the time,” Steven says. “Look, I get it, that you’re in shock, but right now, I really think I should—”

“Stay away from me.”

“—take a look.”

So you have an ineptitude in facial recognition. But right now, you know exactly where you’ve seen this face before.

You’re shaking your head as you retreat. “No, no. Are you kidding? I don’t even know what you are. You were… You were stabbed. I saw it…” Your gaze falls to the intruder, the pool of red seeping between your feet. “I am fine!” you all but yell, despite the throbbing in your side. “You shouldn’t be!”

And you don’t miss it, the way he instinctively looks to your arm, guilt bleeding through his composure.

“What the hell even are you? Who are you, when you’re not hiding behind this stupid ‘Steven’ act—”

“Steven is not—” He encloses the words in a fist. He exhales. Then, as if compelled by some sudden irritation, folds his shirt sleeves, clawing them up one by one. “It wasn’t a lie,” he says, slowly. “I am real; Steven… Steven is real. It’s just difficult for me to explain right now. I’m trying to help. That’s all.”

You stare. When your lips part, he glances away, jaw tightening as if preparing for your reproach.

“Can I speak to Steven?”  

Surprise flutters across his features.  

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, if you need.”

You watch it happen. That alarm of otherness rings out as his eyebrows lift, his eyes widening somewhat. His shoulders slacken. Immediately, he takes a step closer, and, without thinking, you flinch.  

“Ah, sorry. Sorry!” He withdraws. “We’re both speaking to you. We’re trying,” he says, and he’s Steven again. Actual Steven, accent and all.

Is this a joke? part of you demands to snap, but you can’t. No, not can’t. It would be all too easy, given the events of the last hour, to launch your anger. But you won’t. Why? Because you’re worried you might upset him? The man that just ground a knife into someone’s shoulder without a second thought? Except, that wasn’t really him, was it?

On the ground, your attacker emits a low groan. Something flickers in Steven’s expression.

He stalks towards the body and, with a shout, boots him in the face.

“Plug-ugly bastard,” he murmurs with his retreat. His face softens. “Sorry.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I mean we’re really really both in here.”

Do you actually believe him? Them? 

“So, you’re Steven…”

He hardens. “Marc.”

“Two of you,” you murmur.

“Two of us.”

Marc.

When you speak, Marc’s isn’t the only voice that sounds foreign. Yours is too eccentric, whilst your stare lingers in the air as though misplaced. “To be honest, that was the last thing I was actually going to ask.” The amusement slips from your face as fast as it sprung.

“I have a medi-kit in my apartment. I’d understand, given the circumstances, if you didn’t want to. But I think it’s best we get you away from that body.”

You nod.

“Okay.”

He looks past your shoulder, a beat of silence passing between you.

Then, “I’ll sort it. Don’t worry,” he says.

(Y/n) was still confused as to what the fuck happened last and she thought it was a dream but the sand and a small piece of bandage that looked centuries old said otherwise. She still had a day before her and Steven’s date so it was decided, today she would stay in bed and mull over the huge pigeon head in her room. She wondered what he meant by at last we meet again. Has she met the creature when she was younger? She groaned, shoving her face into the pillow and deciding that sleep will be easier than trying to figure out whatever the fuck it was that happened last night.

Jasper purred and nudged her arm, wanting for her to lift it up so he could cuddle up against her. (Y/n) obliged and pulled the cat towards her who sighed contentedly before they both drifted off into deep sleep.

The dream, it was a weird one. It wasnt her own time, that much she could tell. By the looks of it, it looked like a temple and there stood a woman facing away from her. Yet when she turned around (Y/n) thought it was a cruel joke. The woman she looked at was handling a dagger with precision was her own face yet this was not her memory, the white dress she wore was fit for a royal and the hieroglyphs all over the pillars told her she was in Egypt. She was afraid of moving, afraid that they may see her.

“There you are, my love.” A man dressed in shendyt with embroidery approached the woman. (Y/n) couldn’t lie, even if that was her, she was the most stunning person to have ever lived, as conceited as it may sound.

The woman wore a long white linen dress and a gold pleated belt, fitting it at the waist. Her dress was embroidered in various ways with gold and in her arms she wore the most stunning bracelets made of gold, one of them in the shape of a scarab beetle. The dagger she held once was now set down as she approached the man, laying a hand on his chest and gazing at him as if he were the only one to exist.

“Priestess.” The man gruffed, affection lacing his words as he moved his hand forward, grasping onto her arms.

“Ahmose.” She greeted him, placing a loving kiss on his cheek.

“You, my dear one, should not be here. You know what my father will do if he finds out.” She whispered to him, pulling away and continuing to examine the elegant dagger.

“Are you afraid of your father or of the Moon God?” The man, Ahmose, questioned her, although he had moved to face the priestess, the girl watching from the corner could not see his face.

“I fear both. I promised my life to Khonshu. To be his priestess and his servant. My love for you though, my beloved soul, will never die.” She tells him, coming closer and placing a tender hand on his cheek as he leans into her touch.

“You need to wake up, there is impending doom.” A rough voice whispered from behind (Y/n) as she turned around, seeing nothing but the sand dancing with the wind. The vision abruptly ended just as Ahmose was about to speak. In the real world, Khonshu observed her, lying in bed, sweat gathered on her forehead.

“That’s enough for now. Anymore of that and she wouldn’t be able to tell the past from the present.” Hathor spoke, her voice strong as she placed a gentle hand on Khonshu’s arm. The old god just stared at his friend with soulless eyes, not quite appreciating the interruption.

“She will need to find out in her own time. The biggest part has already been done. She met one, now she needs to meet the one.” Hathor tells him, not giving Khonshu time to speak. Khonshu listens to his dear friend, fleeing from the bedroom and leaves Hathor to stand there alone.

Hathor leans down, pressing her hand onto the forehead of the sleeping woman, “We have waited eons to long for this my dear. I’m sure you have too.” Hathor looks at the sleeping figure once more before materializing into thin air.

(Y/n) sits up with a gasp, clutching onto her now throbbing chest. Jasper stirs from beside her and sits up, wondering what the commotion is all about.

“Oh I’m sorry jazzy, it was just a dream.” She whispers softly and pets the little furball on his head as he purrs back to sleep. She smiles at the sight before getting up and walking to the kitchen. Water wouldn’t solve whatever the fuck she dreamt of so she deicded that a glass of whiskey would do just fine. Perhaps it would even up her limbs that seemed to stay perpetually frozen.

(Y/n) sat there for god knows how long, it was now nearly early afternoon and the young woman was still thinking about the vision, the night before and her date with Steven. The documentary she had chosen to play in the background caught her attention, “…Ahmose was a dignified noble during the rule of the great Pharaoh Amenhotep. He was an even greater warrior. Unfortunately his story does not have such a great end…” the phone rang and she nearly dropped her whiskey on the ground. Standing up she scrambled around looking for her phone, finding it just in time before the call ended.

Without checking it she picked up, the documentary seeming less important now.

“Hello?” She questioned, her voice soft as she shuffled around, putting the whiskey glass in the sink.

“-Ello, (Y/n)?” Steven questioned from the other end, making sure that he put the number in correctly despite Marc assuring that he did.

“Oh! Hello Steven! How are you?” The instant joy in her voice made Steven perk up, he smiled and wiped his clammy hand on the shirt he wore.

“I was just uh, making sure we’re good for 5 today yeah?” He asked, seeming nervous, a small part of him that thought she’d laugh at him and say no.

“Oh yes of course lovie! Would you like to meet at Le Café Bleu? They have both coffee and tea, so you uh, have options.” She told him over the phone, her voice seeming a little nervous now, thinking that maybe Steven thought she was stupid or that he only drank coffee.

“Oh yea, that sounds great! See you then, Love.” Steven rambles off quickly, waiting to hear a soft bye before hanging up the phone.

“Marc. Mate, I think I need help.” Steven looked at himself in the mirror, deep dark circles under his eyes and his hair looked unkempt as if the man hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Yeah man, you look a little rough. Why don’t you uh, start with a shower first and then I can help, if you want.” Marc replied to his alter, looking at the state Steven was in. He wasn’t even this nervous when he kissed Layla. There was something about the woman that made Steven just constantly want to be in her presence, as if they’d known eachother for centuries.

When (y/n) looked at herself in the mirror, she nearly had a damn heart attack. The woman staring back at her didn’t look like her but rather a walking talking corpse. Seems like last night and her weird vision took a toll on her. Deciding that pondering over her looks in the mirror wasn’t worth it, she hopped into the shower, hoping it’ll make her feel better in the slightest.

The shower did help a little but the more she looked at the time the faster her heart started beating. Steven was a unique man and his ramblings about Egypt encapsulated her in every way possible. Their conversation that day in the museum hadn’t lasted long but she hopes the one tonight will.

Turning around and facing her closet, she pulled out two dresses. It was chilly in London but not too cold to the point where she couldn’t wear dresses. And if it was, then a shot of alcohol would help warm her right up. The dresses she chose would keep her warm. One was a light grey sweater off the shoulder dress. She could pair that with a black belt and some kitten heels or her other options, a full sleeved long black dress she could dress up with some jewelry while still keeping it simple. Unable to decide, she turned to her furry friend for help.

“Which one Jaz?” She asked her cat who only purred and head butted himself against her right hand.

“Hm, black dress it is then.” She hummed, petting the furball a little more before moving around to change and do her makeup. She kept it simple, her signature black smudged eyeliner and some deep red lipstick. It was a date after all and something lighter definitely wouldn’t have suited her. She checked her phone, 20 minutes until she was supposed to meet Steven. That gave her more than enough time to leave now and still have a couple minutes before Steven arrived. Quickly putting on her shoes, she kissed Jasper on the forehead as he gave her a soft purr and she was on her way out.

“I hope it’s not too much.” The younger woman thought to herself, insecurity and anxiety settling in now.

The jingle of the bell draws the young woman’s attention away from her thoughts and to her eyes light up as she spots a jittery Steven. The young woman raises her hand and waves the older man over.

“Steven!” Her voice catches the said man’s attention and Steven gives her a wide grin. He quickly makes his way round the tables and to her.

“Hey.” He breathes out.

“Hey there.” She greets back, a smile gracing her beautiful face.

“So uh, d’you wanna grab a cuppa?” Steven questions, fiddling with his hands. (Y/n) watches him do so, a small part of her brain itching to just grab hold of them.

There was something about Steven that drew her in. The way he laughed and his eyes. There was something so familiar about them, they left her breathless.

“I can grab ya a drink, Stevie.” She moved, hanging her bag on the back of her chair as she moved to get up. Steven looked at her wide eyed as he also moved to stand up.

“No, you sit and I’ll grab our drinks. What would you like?” He asks kindly.

“If you are fine with it.” She tells the older man with a smile. Steven nods in return, not able to say much, speechless by her beauty.

“An earl grey tea with two milk and some honey please. Oh and if you could grab me a pastry it would be lovely!” She tells him kindly, crossing her legs over one another. Steven nods and repeats the order in his head as he goes up to order.

“Steven.” Marc calls out to his friend who only hums in response.

“Man, you haven’t told her she looks beautiful today.” At Marc’s voice, Steven goes wide eyed. He’d been so busy admiring you that you completely forgot to tell you how beautiful you looked! He curses himself in his head while thanking the barista kindly.

Steven sets down your tea in front of you and a piece of cake as well as you thank him kindly. This time however, Marc is present too. He’s taken aback by how stunning you are.

“So..” They both speak at the same time, laughing at it.

The conversation flows smoothly from then on. (Y/n) obviously starting the conversation with her excited rambling about something cute Jasper did. Steven listened to her intently, watching how animated her eyes get when she talks about things she loves and one day, Steven hoped she would talk about him like that. Steven rambles on about his fascination with Egypt as the younger girl in front of him listens intently. She loves the way he talks about Egypt and his deep passion for it.

The pair of them talked until they were the only people left in the cafe. Steven noticed that and he smiled bashfully, not realizing how lost they both were in the conversation.

“Think we should head out now, love.” Steven tells her, gesturing towards the nearly empty cafe and the woman smiles shyly, feeling slightly embarrassed with how late they’ve stayed.

“Oh yeah of course!” (Y/n) tells him, laughing a little bit as she stands up.

The pair of them head out the cafe, she grasps onto Steven’s arm as he kindly asks her to walk her home. She agrees, not wanting the night to end just yet. The wind picks up a little and brushes past them. Steven’s eyes grow a little wide but that goes unnoticed by the woman beside him.

“Sweet child. You must hurry.” Khonshu’s voice mixes in with the wind as he whispers to the girl. A cold shiver goes up her spine and Steven notices it.

“Love, are you okay?” He asks her, a small frown on his face. She simply nods and mutters out that she’s just a little chilly.

As they reach her apartment, she invites him away from the cold.

“Would you like something to drink?” (Y/n) calls out, waiting for Steven’s response but hears nothing. Curious and turns around to look for him only to not see the man standing there.

“Stevie?” She calls out, poking her head around the corner into the living room only to see him standing there facing something. But this man, this isn’t Steven. He stands straight and rigid, unlike the fidgety man she’s used to seeing.

“How do you know Khonshu?” The voice demanded. The voice that wasn’t Steven’s. No, this one had an american accent.

“Uh who?” She questions, still curious as to who the standing in her living room is.

“How. Do. You. Know. Khonshu.” He demands, his voice low and serious.

“I don’t. Who are you?” She questions, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m Marc Spector.” Marc replies, his voice hard and serious. He wonders if she was a distraction sent down by khonshu to get him to do something Moonknight again.

“Took you fools long enough.” Khonshu laughs, tapping his staff against the ground. Both of them look up at the unnerving figure and (Y/n) pales slightly but before either of them could say anything, she blacks out.

Liked by judebellingham, marcguiu9 & 7,562,005 others.

ynramsay monaco nights

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user rawrwrrwrwrwrrr

user HERMOSA

nateramsay wtf without me ?

- ynramsay yeah!!! loser..

user marc and jude in the likes lmao

- user i need to see nates reaction

user + 1000000 aura for her beauty

user idk whats prettier, the view or you

user felt the aura way back in december

judebellingham what a view 😍😍

- user shes not picking u jude (visca el barca!!)

- user marc fight back ???

liked by marcguiu9

Liked by judebellingham, marcguiu9 & 6,452,889 others.

ynramsay read the spanish love deception and now im here

View all 10,885 comments.

judebellingham madrid is better smh..

- ynramsay visca el barca bitch

peteramsay wow i look good

nateramsay where am i ???

- ynramsay dw youll get a personal post ig

marcguiu9 linda 😻 (pretty)

- nateramsay yo marc.. ¿qué carajo? 😁 (what the fuck)

- hctorforrt_ eres marc bastante idiota (you're pretty stupid marc)

Liked by hctorrforrt_, marcguiu9 & 8,222,258 others.

ynramsay @nateramsay am i doing this right ???

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nateramsay eh.. could be worse

user okay guys.. y/n & hector OR y/n & marc..

- user marc & y/n definetly

- user nuh uh hector and y/n would make a cute couple

- user neither???? guys omg leave them alone

user barca girls stay on top

marcguiu9 the team's lucky charm !!

- user bros down BAD

- user - 10,000 aura for simping

Liked by ynramsay, peteramsay & 4,005,347 others.

marcguiu9 VAMOS !!! tres puntos están en casa !!

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user bro has the inlaws in his likes

- user and they claim theyre "friends" ... if my "friends" dad was liking my posts id assume were married with seven kids and a dog

ynramsay marcaría un hattrick 🤓☝🏼

- marcguiu9 me gustaría verte intentarlo

user were winning the ucl !! (im going insane)

- user were so back !! (we are not making it past the group stage)

user la masia boys have some kind of fine gene in them its crazy

ynramsay formula is still better sorry bro

- marcguiu9 you trippin dawg 😹😹😹

- user just get married lord...

- user theyre literally built for eachother i swear

Liked by hctorforrt_, marcguiu9 & 11,258,997 others.

ynramsay meanwhile in my head

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user mother is mothering

user the prettiest

user an angel sent from heaven, deadass.

marcguiu9 ¿eres un rayo? proque eres mcqueen. (are you lighnting? because you're mcqueen)

- nateramsay WEAAAAAK. next

- marcguiu9 can you be the sally to my mcqueen??

- nateramsay better.. u got my approval

- peteramsay not mine !!!

user 11 million likes on ts post jesus marc u got some competition

user the finest girl in the world

user girlie got the whole barca roster in her likes

Liked by hctorforrt_, marcguiu9 & 7,566,058 others.

ynramsay barca weekend things !!

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user mother is mothering

user wifey, are you cheating on me?

user IS THAT MARCS HAND ???????

user guys that's me please respect our privacy!!

user i think it's hector tbh..

- user nah thats so randon

- user they're clearly just friends

user wasnt expecting a heartbreak today

user im sorry but it looks like marc

- user a HAND looks like marc ???????

marcguiu9 vroom

- ynramsay vroom indeed

- user yall...

peteramsay aprobado 👍🏼👍🏼👍🏼

- marcguiu9 VAMOOOOOOOS

might be a series or whatever :3 just pls request something

“He’s been gone too long.” You paced your living room with your phone in your hand.

You were speaking to yourself, of course, given that your boyfriend was out on the town yet again doing God knew what. You knew he kept secrets, he always had. Just getting him to talk about what music he liked or what movies he liked was like pulling teeth. But of course, it wasn’t always like that. There were more goods than bads so you were willing to put up with his distance and fight and poke and prode to get him to tell you something of substance because he knew you.

He loved to hear you talk about your life. Your childhood, family and friends, work. He liked to hear you talk about your favorite shows and books, ranting about what stupid things your beloved fictional characters were doing and how you knew they were smarter than that. He asked you about school and sometimes brought food to your campus if he had time before he disappeared on some job. He’d leave a few hidden notes before he left too - usually under your pillow, in your wallet, and under your favorite bowl. You once found a note between pages of your book, his own anticipation of how far you’d get while he was gone.

Problem this time around was that there were no notes this time. There was no text or voicemail. There was no explanation. Admittedly, it happened sometimes. Sometimes it was so sudden he didn’t have time to let you know anything, but even then, he was never gone that long.

This time around, before he left, you noticed some odd things. You noticed more hushed conversations, hidden phone messages, darting glances, looking over his shoulder. He spoke even less than usual, as if he was building a wall between you two. Looking to put distance. You noticed his phone was being turned off when he left the house and a few times during his absence, you could’ve sworn you’d seen him running into the local museum.

Usually you could shrug off his odd behavior because, overall, Marc Spector was an odd man. You knew his life had been challenging and naturally, it closed him off in some regards. But shutting you out completely, going radio silence at the drop of a hat, that just wasn’t like him.

So you did some digging.

Given his phone was off, you couldn’t track any sort of locations from there. You didn’t know who he worked with when he left, save for one woman named Layla who was often as off grid as he was, so you couldn’t ask anyone. He hardly talked about family and you weren’t even sure he had friends other than you so that was a dead end. The only real starting point you had was that museum.

When your last class ended, you hopped on the crowded bus and headed over. You were welcomed by the man at the front security booth and wandered the vast space. You had to squeeze past tour groups and couples on dates, kids running around with novelty swords and replica headpieces. You squeezed between people until you found a bench that allowed you to breathe, despite the heavy crowd. You hadn’t expected it to be quite as busy and you were so tired. Just as you were about to give up, you saw him.

The spitting image of the man you loved. Only his clothes were different, baggier and plainer. His curls fell across his forehead more and he seemed to hold hismelf shorter than Marc. Maybe it wasn’t him after all.

You sighed to yourself and headed towards the exit, catching a small snippet of his voice. It was softer, tinted with an almost fake accent, with more inflictions than Marc had. You shook your head slightly as you headed out, trying to clear the idea of the doppleganger from your head but the notion seemed to keep you around the museum. You found yourself sitting on the steps outside, near a streetlight so you could try some of the assignment you needed to finish. You hadn’t even realized how long you had been there until your headphones beeped in your ears that their battery was low.

As you were putting the headphones into your bag, you noticed Marc’s doppelganger heading to the nearby bus stop. He noticed you at the same time and made his way over to you, which made your body run hot for a moment.

“Hello.” He smiled slightly. “I, uh- I saw you inside. Can I ask why you’re still out here?”

“Yeah, it looks a little weird, huh?” You laughed, trying to contain the whirlwind of thoughts set off by the man’s voice. It was so strange to hear such a soft, relatively hesitant tone coming from a face that you knew to be much more confident. “I just thought I saw someone I’ve been looking for… Turns out it wasn’t him.”

“Old friend?”

“Boyfriend, actually.”

“Oh…” He nervously wrung his hands and you almost laughed at how out of character that movement seemed. “Wait, why are you looking for your boyfriend?”

“No reason.” You shrugged. “Just thought I saw him.”

“Right… Well, are you alright to get home? It’s not like a… “we’re in a fight and he kicked me out” situation?”

At that, you did laugh.

“I’m alright, thanks.” You shook your head with a smile. “But if you hear about a guy named Marc coming around, tell him Y/N needs to talk to him, yeah?”

“Marc? Uh.. Alright, yeah. Yeah, okay. You said Y/N?”

“Mhmm…”

“Have we…”

Your brows raised while the gears turned in his head. His eyes darted around your face, down to your clothes and back to your eyes while he tried to put the pieces together. He opened his mouth to say something before he shook his head, seemingly confusing himself in the process. 

“You okay over there?” You asked carefully, leaning in slightly for your own examination.

“Yeah, just… I don’t know. Deja vu maybe.”

“Hmm.” You nodded and leaned away. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Steven.” He tapped the pocket of his jacket and you saw a little pinsized hole for where you assumed his nametag usually sat. “Steven Grant.”

“Cool.” You said simply. But you recognized that name as one of the characters that Marc told you about, from one of the things he used to watch with his brother that turned into their own little roleplaying game. And maybe it was a coincidence but something was strange. “See you around, Steven.”

“Bye, Y/N.”

A few days went by before you saw him again. You had tried going by the museum but he wasn’t there. You even asked the man who watched the cameras and he said that Steven - though he called him by some unrelated name - hadn’t been in since the night you met him. You were at another dead end.

You wandered the streets when you got a vague text with an address. It was an unknown number and the relatively common text style gave you no clues. Automatically you assumed it was Marc from a burner phone. Who else would it have been? With as much of a hurry as you could without drawing extra attention, you made your way to the apartment.

You gave a quick knock to the door and it popped open, seemingly on its own since no one was on the other side to greet you. You wandered the cramped space, finding a bed in the center of a sand circle, books stacked on books on every table, a small trashcan overflowing with crumpled balls of tape, A vast fishtank stood in the middle of the room and you leaned in to see the fish, a small thing missing a fin, and caught glimpse of the man watching you from the other side. His near sudden appearance made you jump and bump your head against the glass.

You mumbled an apology to the fish as he scurried to another corner of the tank and you stood straighter.

“You’re the one who texted me?” You asked simply, not wanting to take a guess if it was Marc or Steven that stood before you.

“Yeah.” He said in the same plain tone and you didn’t catch any accent. It was definitely Marc. “Heard you were looking for me.”

“Wouldn’t have to look if you would’ve told me where you were going or that you were alive, at least.”

“”Yeah... I never meant to worry you.”

“Clearly.” Your brows raised quickly. “Nice place.”

“It’s not mine.”

You made a small noise in your throat before wandering the space a bit more. You peaked through some of the books, finding a book of French poems by a woman who you knew Marc didn’t read. But someone Marc knew and worked with did.

“This Layla’s place?” You asked simply, swallowing the rising bile in your throat.

“Layla?” He asked, arms crossing over his chest but not moving from his spot. “What makes you say that?”

“The French poems.” You said honestly. “Not to mention all the Egyptian stuff, you having a fake accent and working at the museum in the Egypt wing… It’s a lot to do just to be a good partner.”

“Right… Look, about all of that..”

“You didn’t answer my question.” You cut in firmly.

“I’m trying to.”

“No you’re not. You’re avoiding. You’re choosing a piece of what I said rather than the actual important part.”

“This isn’t Layla’s place, okay?” He rolled his eyes slightly.

“So this is your place?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of.” You repeated with a scoff. “Right. So, what, it belongs to that fake persona I talked to a few nights ago.”

“Fake?”

“Steven. Come on, that accent? And he’s named after that thing you told me from you and your brother… Did you think I was stupid?”

“What do you think is going on?” His brows furrowed.

“Well, I have a couple working theories.” You said with a shrug as you dropped to sit on the edge of the bed. “One is that you’ve been cloned. You know the American government, doing experiments with soldiers and not telling them.”

That one made Marc chuckle.

“Not a clone, baby.” He smirked. “But keep going.”

“Okay, good to know.” You nodded. “Second is that you’re just working.”

“That all?”

“Well there’s the idea that you’re cheating on me but…”

“But what?”

“But if that was true then I’d have to leave your ass and I don’t really want to do that. Which is why you’re gonna tell me right now if that’s the case or not.”

“And who would this mystery woman be?”

“Layla.” You shrugged.

“Layla?” His brows raised incredulously, almost insulted that you would say that.

“You have her favorite poet on your desk, Marc. You two constantly go off on little excavations and jobs. She’s cute, fiery, not afraid of challenge, just your type really. Not to mention, you’ve been pretty close since you met.”

“You know why we met.”

“Yeah but did you ever tell her? I bet she wouldn’t fuck you if she knew you killed her dad.”

“Wow.” His eyes went wide. “You had that one ready, didn’t you?”

“Well you’ve been gone for a while. I had some time to come up with some good ones.”

“Y’know what…” He pushed his tongue against his cheek with a small scoff, as if something just came to him. “Yeah.. Yeah, I’ve been sleeping with Layla. Every time I ‘go to work’ I’m just meeting with her.”

“Hmm, funny.” You offered a sarcastic expression. “Just tell me what’s really going on.”

“I just did.”

“And I don’t believe you.”

“Course you don’t.” He mumbled and ran a hand down his face.

“Wanna say that again?” You challenged sharply, daring to close the distance between you two. You glared up at him, ignoring the fact that the height difference made you less intimidating than you were aiming for, but you stuck to your guns. “Or do you want to say something else?”

“I love you.” He put his hands on your shoulders and turned you around. “But there’s the door.”

“You son of a bitch.” You twisted out of his grip and spun again to face him. “You don’t get to kick me out after you tell me you’re cheating.”

“You’re the one that said you’d walk out.” He shrugged.

“If you two shack up here, then I'm sure she has some clothes here. Bathroom products, maybe. Toothbrush? Hair brush? She’s gotta have some underwear here at least, right?” You kept pushing as you stepped deeper into the small apartment in an effort to mate Marc couldn’t throw you out.

“Y/N.” He sighed and followed after you.

“Just tell me the truth.” You stopped and spun quickly to face him, almost colliding with his chest as he was coming up behind you. “Because I’ve never felt so alone. These few weeks without you have been like my world is falling apart. It’s gut-wrenching to wake up without you. No calls, no texts, no little notes around my place…”

His heart twisted when he realized how much he had been hurting you.

“You’re right… I’m not cheating on you.” He admitted with a sigh as his eyes fell to the ground.

You breathed a small sigh of relief and reached out to take his hands in yours. His thumbs ran back and forth along the backs of your hands. You gave them a small squeeze and he managed to meet your eyes again.

“I… Jesus, this is gonna sound nuts.” He sighed.

“I'm listening, Marc.” You said softly.

“You won’t believe me.” He shook his head.

“I believe you love me. And I love you. I believe you thought you were being noble and protecting me, but I always feel safer and more protected when you’re with me. Just be honest and we can work it out.”

“I serve Khonshu.” He said suddenly, as if it was his only chance to get the words out. “He saved my life before I met you and my servitude is how I repay that debt.”

“Khonshu…” You repeated, an expression of uncertainty on your face. “Is that the Egyptian moon god that looks like a bird version of Jack Skelingtion?”

At that, he chuckled and it brought a small smile out of you.

“Pretty much.” He laughed and nodded.

“And Steven?”

“That’s a longer story.”

“So let’s go home. I’ll make some food and we can talk about it.”

“You sure?” He gave your interlocked hand a small pull so you were chest to chest. He guided your hands to rest on his shoulders while his found their place at your waist. “You’re about to find out how much of a trainwreck I really am.”

You shrugged slightly. “Good thing I’m in it for the long run. I’m gunning for your last name eventually so I better buckle up, huh?”