Chapter 2

Nora’s POV

My lungs burned. Every inhale tasted like copper and panic, the cold air clawing at my throat as I slammed the dorm room door shut behind me.

Jesus, did I actually escape? Yes. They won’t find me, right? They can’t. Jude is a university filled with millions of student. How could a shadow in an alley find a face it only glimpsed for seconds?

I paced the length of the cramped floorboards, my heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs.

“Now would you explain why the fuck you rushed in like a bat out of hell?”

Matilda’s raspy, eternally annoyed voice pulled me out of my spiral. She was sitting up on her bunk, glaring at me, jaw working rhythmically on a piece of gum.

I let out a shuddering breath, dropping my bag with a heavy thud onto my desk before throwing myself face-first onto my mattress. “I’m not talking to a brick wall, Nora.”

“I saw someone die, Mally,” I muttered into the pillow, my voice muffled and shaking. “I actually saw a man get murdered.”

A sharp scoff sliced through the air as Matilda climbed down from her loft. “Can you even hear yourself? Did you hit your head on the way back from the library?”

“I mean no, sorry, yes,” I snapped, sitting up and raking trembling fingers through my hair. “I saw a man execute someone in cold blood in that alleyway. And he saw me. He saw me, Matilda! What if he finds me? What if he’s already looking?”

Matilda stared at me as if I had suddenly sprouted a second head. When I didn't laugh or back down, her expression shifted from annoyed to deeply concerned.

“Whatever,” I hissed, dropping my face back into the pillows, pulling them over my ears to shut out the terror. He won’t find you. Forget it. Just forget it.

*

The sunlight slicing through the thin dormitory blinds felt like a physical blow to my retinas. I groaned, shoving a pillow over my face to plunge myself back into merciful darkness.

“It’s nine already.” The words didn't register at first. Then, my eyes snapped open, my entire body going rigid. Class was at eight.

I vaulted out of bed, staring wildly at Matilda, who was calmly applying lip gloss in front of our shared mirror. “Nine? Why the hell didn’t you wake me up?!”

“Because it’s strangely therapeutic watching the great Nora miss a lecture for once in her life,” she replied smoothly, blowing a small pink bubble. “Relax. It’s just one class, not your entire degree. Stay here and sleep it off.”

“And what about my attendance record?” My mouth went agape as I glared at her reflection.

“You’re hopeless.” She grabbed her tote bag and headed for the door. “Besides, your phone’s been buzzing off the hook for an hour. Call your neurotic parents before they drive down here themselves.”

She slipped out into the hallway, leaving the door clicking shut behind her.

I rolled my eyes, muttering under my breath. My parents weren't neurotic; they were just protective. Dragging my feet across the floor, I picked up my phone from the desk.

14 Missed Calls. Why on earth would they call this early on a Tuesday? I dialed my father’s line first. It rang out into empty space—no voicemail, just dead air. Unusual. Dad was never without his phone.

I hit redial. Same thing.

Frowning, I tapped Mom’s number. It rang three times before clicking open. I let out an irritated breath, ready to snap.

“Why are you guys calling me a million—”

“Is this Nora Browns?”

A strange, gravelly voice cut me off. It wasn’t my mother. The ambient noise in the background sounded like a sterile, echoing hallway, muffled weeping.

My stomach plummeted. “Yes. Who is this? Where is my mom?” A heavy, suffocating silence stretched across the line. When the stranger spoke again, every drop of blood drained from my face.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Miss Browns. Your parents were brought into the St. Vladimir City Hospital this morning by emergency responders. They didn't make it.”

The world stopped. The sound of the traffic outside the window died. The hum of the mini-fridge vanished. They didn’t make what?

“Is this a sick joke?” My voice came out as a fragile, terrified squeak. “Put my mom on the phone right now. We literally talked last night—”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sending the address to your phone now. You need to come down to identify the bodies.” The line went dead.

I sat there on the edge of my bed, staring at the glowing screen as if it were a venomous spider. My phone beeped. A text message flashed across the top: an address for a hospital downtown, the exact same hospital where Mom used to volunteer years ago.

It’s a prank, I told myself, my hands shaking so violently I could barely hold the device. It has to be. We talked past midnight. I opened my call log with trembling fingers. Mom had called at 12:15 AM. Dad at 1:00 AM. Both of them repeatedly around 2:30 AM.

They wouldn't stay awake just to pull a sick prank.

Panic, cold and suffocating, clawed up my throat. Without changing out of my sweatpants, I grabbed my coat, shoved my phone into my pocket, and bolted out of the room. The air in the dorm suddenly felt too thin to breathe.

I flagged down a cab on the corner, throwing myself into the back seat and barking the hospital’s name. My hands were ice-cold, twitching and slick with nervous sweat against my jeans. Buzz.

My phone lit up. Matilda’s name flashed across the screen. Taking a ragged, unstable breath, I swiped to answer.

“Nora?” Matilda’s voice sounded muffled, choked, and entirely broken. “Where are you?”

“Mally, what is going on?” My chest heaved. “Why did someone from the hospital call me—?”

“Just... just get to the front entrance. I’m already here.” The line clicked dead.

Forty-five agonizing minutes later, the cab lurched to a halt in front of the emergency ward. I threw rubles at the driver, shoved the door open, and sprinted through the automatic sliding glass doors.

The antiseptic smell of bleach and death hit me like a physical blow. Standing by the reception desk, staring blankly at the linoleum floor with red-rimmed, devastated eyes, was Matilda.

My legs turned to liquid. Every step felt like wading through wet cement. “Mally?” I whispered, the word tearing raw from my throat as a single tear finally broke free, tracking hot down my cheek.

Matilda looked up. The look of profound, agonizing pity on her face shattered the last remaining fragment of my sanity. She opened her arms and stepped forward to catch me, but I violently shoved her back, stumbling against the wall.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I gasped, my voice cracking into a desperate sob. “Mally... tell me it’s not true. Tell me my parents aren't dead.”