Page 3 of Hidden Echoes

“I think I just ran someone over.”

CHAPTER 1

MIA

“I just want to know who you are,”a voice cuts through the fog of my dream, pulling me back to reality.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

My eyes flutter open, squinting against a room flooded with light—so much light. Could this be the sun my cricket used to talk about?I frown. No, it doesn’t look like the sun Katie showed me in her books.

The sun was supposed to be warm and golden, not cold and sterile like this.

“Holy shit, you’re awake,” a voice says, startling me. It belongs to a boy—a stranger.

I blink at him and then smile, because Father always said to be polite.

He’s going to hurt you.

Kill him, Mia.

I will. But not yet. I like to play with them first.

It wouldn’t be any fun if he saw it coming, would it? So, I keep smiling. It’s a crooked smile, the kind my father used to call “innocent.”

But the boy’s reaction isn’t what I expect. Most men do something predictable when I smile—lick their lips, their eyes darkening with thoughts they think I don’t understand.

Not this one.

He’s just staring at me, his expression a mixture of confusion and quiet curiosity, like he’s expecting me to do something different. Like I’m the unpredictable one.

But no, it’s him. He’s the strange one, not me.

I tilt my head, studying him more closely. The way he moves, the way he stares at me—it’s all wrong. Too calm, too kind, too... unreal. He’s like someone from the stories Paulina used to read to me. A character pulled straight from a fairytale, all soft words and gentle eyes, like nothing bad has ever touched him.

But I’m no fool. I know better. Those stories were just lies Paulina used to keep me quiet, to keep me sane.

Well, guess what? I’m not.

Men are all bad.

But I learned how to be worse.

Kill him. Do it! Now!

The voice in my head demands action.

And I do.

I launch myself off the bed, the cold floor biting at my bare feet as I close the gap between us in a blur of motion. My fingers hook into claws, and the moment they clamp around his throat, I feel the warm pulse of his jugular against my palms.

The sound of his breath—steady, maddeningly calm—should enrage me, but somehow it doesn’t. Instead, it sinks into my mind, slow and even, like the ticking of a clock. It steadies me. And that’s the part that scares me most.

But the itch is still there, just beneath my skin—the craving. I’ve always loved the sight of blood, the way it spills and splatters like a painter’s masterpiece. There’s something perfect about it, the way it arcs through the air, bright and vivid, leaving its mark on everything it touches.

Father used to say it wasn’t something a lady should enjoy. That I should smile pretty and keep my hands clean. But he didn’t understand. Killing isn’t just something I like. It’s the only thing that makes me feel.

It’s how I keep myself safe—how I stop the hands that reach for me, the lies, the pain, the control they think they have. Killing is my way of saying no. My way of taking back everything the world thinks it can take from me.

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