Page 4 of Hidden Echoes

It’s survival. It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

I shove him down with a force that rattles the metal of the bed frame behind us. His head cracks against the floor, the dull thud of bone on tile reverberating in the weird room. His body folds beneath mine as I straddle him, pinning him in place.

Nothing. He doesn’t fight, doesn’t thrash, doesn’t even flinch. It’s as if he’s already gone, steady and unyielding like a corpse long resigned to its fate.

"Not funny," I mumble, expecting him to flinch, push back—anything. But he just sighs.

"Hospitals are shitty. I hate it here too," he says, his voice soft, almost kind.

The gentleness throws me off balance, like a sudden tilt of the ground beneath my feet. I mean, I’m literally trying to kill him. Can’t he be angry? Shout at me? Fight back? At least give me a reason—some motivation to finish the job.

Instead, he lies there, calm as ever, speaking to me like we’re having a normal conversation. The audacity of it confuses me, tangling up my thoughts.

It’s almost like... he doesn’t mind. Like he understands something I don’t. And that makes me grip his throat tighter, not out of anger this time, but frustration.

There's no panic in his eyes, no frantic clawing at my wrists. Instead, his emerald gaze locks onto mine, unflinching.

Blood rushes to his face, painting his cheeks with a faint flush, but not the desperate red of suffocation. My nails bite into his skin, in a new attempt to scare him into a reaction. My crescent moons leaving marks that threaten to break the surface.

I squeeze harder, waiting—no, craving—the signs of fear.

This is new.

His breath catches, a small hitch, but there’s no wheezing, no gurgling.

I lean in closer, the scent of his skin—clean, too clean—filling my nose.

Why isn’t he fighting back?

“Who are you?” I hiss, my voice low and venomous.

Blood vessels rise beneath his skin, dark lines snaking along his neck, but he still doesn’t struggle. His lips part slightly, as if to speak, but no words come. My grip falters, confusion clouding the edges of my anger.

Then, he smiles.

It’s faint, soft, like he’s amused by me.

That smile—it throws me off. It’s not smug, not cruel, not like the others. It’s real.

And it’s the most unnerving thing I’ve ever seen.

Yet, something unfamiliar stirs inside me, spreading through my chest like a ripple in still water.

My breath catches, shallow and uneven, as I watch the curve of his lips. The way he looks at me—not with malice, but with something calm, something unshakable—makes the room feel warmer, closer, as if the space between us is disappearing.

Heat prickles at my skin, spreading up my neck to my core, though I don’t know why.

My pulse quickens, a steady drumbeat in my ears that doesn’t belong to the anger I’ve always known. It’s something else entirely—something soft, foreign, and utterly disarming, and it is making me horny. I guess?

I startto noticethings I shouldn’t.

The delicate flecks of gold that catch the light in his green eyes. The unruly way his hair falls across his forehead, as if it’s never obeyed a comb. The gentleness in his expression, not like the cold calculation I expect, but something that feels... genuine.

My fingers loosen their grip of their own accord, and I can’t understand why. I don’t want to hurt him anymore—no, that’s not it. I just... don’t know what I want, and the uncertainty shakes me.

My chest feels tight, not with fear, but with something I can’t name. It terrifies me in a way no threat ever has.

“Who are you?” I whisper again, leaning closer.

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