Page 2 of Whispers of Ruin

From my vantage point across the street, hidden in the shadows of an apartment building, I can just make out the details of her sleek figure through the glass. The way her long red hair catches the glow, the slight sway of her hips as she moves gracefully. It is a painting come to life, expertly crafted in every detail.

I reach up and rub my neck, feeling the cool metal of my watch under my fingertips. I could be anyone right now—another anonymous face in the crowd, just like Mira—living a life that doesn’t matter.

Except I am not. Andneither is she.

It makes me wonder what it is like to live like this way. To have a place where you belong. To be part of something more than the chaos that has been my life since I was old enough to walk. Then again, that is just a fleeting thought. I exhale sharply, shaking it off.

She moves to the counter, wiping it down, probably getting ready for the closing hours. The buzz of the street swarms around her, only here—inside her little bubble—it is quieter. It’s safe. An existence without shadows or blood.

Damn, that must be boring.

I look down at the gallery. Mira is moving toward the back, probably to grab her coat or something to shut down the place for the night. Her thoughts are far removed from the eyes tracking her every step.

Yet I will be here. Watching. Waiting. Controlling.

I pull my black mask back down as I settle into the darkness, the leather compressing and unyielding. It molds the sharp features of my face other than the mouth, erasing my identity, locking me into something darker. My breath hisses through the small gap near my nose, warm and shallow against the cold material.

It is suffocating, although I have never felt more alive. The weight of the mask is not just physical—it’s the persona it demands.

A predator. A phantom. Always close, lurking.

I am Xan Hayes, and I was born for this.

The gallery is almost silent now, the last of the visitors long gone. The only thing I hear is the soft sound of the air conditioning with the quiet click of my heels on the polished floor as I make my last round. I wipe down the counter for the second time, even though it is already spotless. The routine helps me clear my overthinking mind.

I check the clock—nearly 8:30 p.m. Julian texted me earlier, asking if I would be home soon. Always trying to control the uncontrollable.

Sighing, I walk over to the painting that has been on my mind all week, the one I have been agonizing over. A simple street I painted a long time ago.

I step back to take it all in—the brushstrokes, the colors, the story behind that dream I still do not quite understand. There is a subtle beauty in it that calms me and makes me forget everything else for a dear moment.

The light flashes, creating a shadow over the canvas, and I blink, pulling myself out of the trance. The nagging feeling that has been following me all day returns.

I shake my head, trying to dismiss the feeling. Still, the sense of being watched lingers, creeping from the dark corners of the room. I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone standing there, yet the place remains empty.

I breathe in deeply, trying to calm the rush of thoughts that have gathered in my mind. Even with a slow exhale, I cannot get rid of them—it is there, just under the surface.

My hand brushes the side of the counter, the action mechanical, as if moving through the motions will help me push this anxiety away.

Julian always tells me there is nothing, just my mind running wild… Though I am not so sure anymore.

I grab my fake black fur coat and lock the door behind me, stepping out into the cool night air. New York at this hour usually feels more oppressive, in a calming sense somehow. I make my way down the street. The unease stays with me, crawling up my spine, each step filled with the sense that something is poised to strike.

I shake the feeling off, focusing on the streetlights ahead. I keep walking, trying to get free of the nervousness gnawing. The lampposts flicker overhead as I pass one empty storefront after another. The usual comfort of the familiar neighborhood looks distant tonight, swallowed by the heavy silence.

I am halfway down the block when I feel it again—that shift in the atmosphere, a breath of air that has been sucked fromthe night. I keep moving, the awareness prickling at my skin, pushing me onward. My pace quickens instinctively. Then, as I round a corner, I nearly collide with someone.

He moves back just in time, barely making a sound. I look up, my breath caught in my throat, as I see a figure standing beneath the streetlamp—tall enough to loom over me, his features shrouded in the dim glow. A hood casts a shadow over most of his face and his hands are dressed in tight leather gloves, the kind worn by someone accustomed to concealing both touch and intent.

“Sorry,” I mutter, pulse still uneven.

He stays silent. Just continuing walking, his steps eerily soft against the concrete. His presence haunts my mind long after he disappears into the night. The way he moved—effortlessly, a shadow stretched too thin. Almost becoming part of the darkness itself.

I shake off the thought and keep walking. Just another stranger in the city. Nothing more. And yet, the feeling of being watched clings to me like a second skin.

By the time I get home, my mind is a tangled mess. Chaotic, restless. Julian is waiting on the couch, his expression familiar. Stable. A stark contrast to the storm in my head.

I force a smile, even though it feels distant, watching myself from the outside. I want to be alone—to unravel the restlessness that followed me through the streets.

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