The whistle of the kettle cuts through the hush, sharp and shrill, and Maya moves with practiced ease to pour steaming water into a chipped mug. She slides it across the counter toward me without meeting my eyes. I wrap cold hands around it, the heat soaking into my palms. The tea tastes faintly of chamomile, barely sweetened—a memory of quieter days, before everything fractured.
Maya watches me from the opposite side of the kitchen, her gaze steady, her posture hard to read. She’s always been like this—unflinching, decisive. I realize how long it’s been since I’ve trusted someone enough to let my guard down, even for a moment.
Rain rattles the window. My soaked clothes cling uncomfortably, the chill seeping deeper now that adrenaline is fading. I fight the urge to reach for her mind, to listen for her thoughts. But I promised myself, years ago, not to invade Maya’s privacy. That promise is harder to keep tonight.
She moves toward the hallway closet, pulls out a folded sweatshirt and a pair of old track pants. "Bathroom's down the hall. Change before you catch pneumonia."
I nod, grateful, and step into the bathroom. The mirror shows a ghost—my eyes hollow, my cheeks shadowed. I peel off the wet layers and slip into the borrowed clothes. They smell faintly of detergent and some distant perfume that belongs to Maya. The water in the sink is icy, but I splash it on my face anyway, trying to scrub away exhaustion and fear.
When I return, Maya sits on the couch, laptop closed, a notebook open in her lap. She gestures for me to sit. I drop into the corner, letting the tea warm my insides.
"Tell me everything," she says quietly. "Who’s after you? Why now?"
I hesitate. The instinct to hide is strong. But the memory of Steve’s deliberate smile, and Isaac’s eyes as cold as the rain, pushes me forward. "Steve and Isaac. They want me dead. I overheard them talking—plans, surveillance, even a fallback if I ran. They’re not just working for some agency. They’re freelancing."
Maya writes something in her notebook, her pen moving quickly. "You’re sure it’s them? Not just paranoia?"
"I’m sure." I let the certainty settle between us. "They know what I can do. They know I read minds. That’s why they want me gone."
She looks at me, and for the first time tonight, her expression cracks. There's fear there—raw and vulnerable, blooming behind her composure.
A silence stretches. For a heartbeat, I feel something else: the familiar pulse between us, never quite gone. The memory of late-night conversations, the trust that once felt unbreakable.
Maya closes her notebook and sets it aside. She leans closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "We need to be smarter than them. No one else gets hurt. Not me, not you. Not again."
Footsteps echo in the hallway outside. Heavy. Slow. Close enough that the hair on my arms stands up. Maya tenses. Her hand hovers near her phone.
The footsteps stop directly outside apartment 4B. The door handle rattles, once. Twice.
Maya's eyes find mine—wide, urgent, daring me to act.
The air feels electrified. Every second stretches.
The doorframe groans under the pressure of someone testing its strength. Then, a low voice: "Maya? Are you awake? It's late, but I need to talk to you."
My heart hammers. I know that voice. Steve.
Maya tenses, searching my face for a plan, for a signal. The tea grows cold in my hands. The seconds freeze, waiting for what comes next.