Chapter 2: The stranger and the danger

Emily jolted upright in bed, her heart hammering in her throat. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled for the lamp switch. Click. A harsh yellow glow shattered the darkness, casting long, jagged shadows on the walls.

And then she saw him.

He stood by the door, motionless as a statue. Tall, lean, perfectly proportioned, every muscle in his bare forearms sharply defined as if sculpted from marble. His dense dark hair was slicked back from his forehead, and his deep, almost black eyes locked onto her with an expression that made her mouth go dry. Handsome—achingly so, like a young black wolf. His outfit was odd, as though he had stepped straight from the theater into her room—a blend of medieval and early 20th-century fashion: a dark cloak fastened with a silver clasp, a billowy white shirt, a belt adorned with ancient symbols.

"Who are you?" she whispered, her body flooded with fear—and something else. Adrenaline mixed with a strange anticipation that sent a shiver down her spine.

He tilted his head, appraising her like a hunter sizing up his prey.

"That's what I should be asking. Who are you? And how did you do it?"

"Do what?" She blinked, trying to make sense of the situation.

"Open the door. Cross the boundary."

Emily clenched her fists. "You're talking nonsense. How did you even get in here?"

He took a step forward. Her breath hitched. He moved smoothly, dangerously, like a predator.

"You're a witch, aren't you?" His voice carried absolute certainty. "You cast a spell, opened a portal. You broke through the barrier."

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" she snapped, staring at him in disbelief. "You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night, and now you're accusing me of… magic?!"

His eyes narrowed. "Apartment… What is that word? Is it somewhere in the North?"

Emily took a deep breath. Either he was insane, or…

Her gaze drifted to the painting above her dresser. Old Paris, streets bathed in dim lamplight. A painting that had always seemed too real. A painting she had bought only recently.

Her eyes widened. "You… you came out of that?"

The man's gaze flicked to the painting, and his face froze. He understood before she did.

"You opened the passage," his voice dropped, turning dangerously low. "Which means—"

A sudden, heavy pounding on the front door made Emily jump. Another hit, louder this time. Wood groaned, ready to splinter.

She froze. That wasn't a neighbor. That wasn't a normal knock. This was… someone trying to break in.

The man tensed, his hand dropping instinctively to the grip of a revolver hidden in the folds of his cloak.

"You brought company?" she hissed.

"No," he said, his eyes razor-sharp.

Another blow. The doorframe cracked.

Emily took a step back, her gaze darting to him. "So what do we do?"

He smiled. Just barely. "We run."

Another strike. Wood splintered.

"Run where?"

He tipped his head back with an exasperated sigh, as if all of this was tiresome but entirely expected.

Panic surged through Emily, but so did something else—resolve. She didn't know who he was, what kind of passage she had opened, or who was trying to break into her home.

"Damned Threshold Police. How did they find us so fast?!" He shot her a look. "Maybe because you were screaming your head off?"

Emily blinked.

"You barged into my room at night, called me a witch, and now you're blaming me?!"

A gunshot rang out, punching a hole through the wall. Plaster crumbled to the floor.

"Alright, enough talking! Jump!"

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the window.

"Are you damn crazy?!" 

He peeked out, flinched, and pressed his lips into a tight line.

"What the hell are these cursed towers? There's not even a cornice or balustrade!"

"It's… an apartment building! We're on the twelfth floor, have you lost your mind?!"

"I'm not arguing about this right now!" He yanked her close. "Don't shout."

"What?!"

At that moment, the door burst open with another gunshot. Two figures in dark coats stepped onto the threshold, strange silver insignias glinting on their chests. One of them raised something that looked like a crossbow, but… it wasn't exactly a normal weapon.

"We have exactly five seconds, and I'm not joking!" the guy snapped and shoved her forward.

Emily barely had time to realize that they weren't jumping out of the window but… into the painting.

The world around them twisted into a whirlwind of colors, and instead of asphalt beneath her feet, there was suddenly old cobblestone. They crashed onto the street.

"Oh, gods!" Emily yelped as she hit the cold stone on her back.

"Quiet!" He pulled her to her feet and dragged her behind a wall's ledge.

The street was alive. People in strange clothes moved between buildings. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and honeyed pastries. Steam curled up from street lamps, where the light wasn't electric but magical. Some passersby had long ears, furry tails, even claws instead of fingers.

"What is this…" Emily looked around in shock.

"This is Paris," he said, gripping her hand.

"This is not the Paris I know!"

He shot her a sideways glance, as if he didn't even consider her an equal participant in this conversation.

"You're a witch. You should recognize this place."

"I'm not a witch!" she nearly shouted.

"Riiight… We'll deal with that later. Because we've got a problem."

"What kind of…"

From the window they'd just fallen through, their first pursuer had already jumped down.

"Didn't think they'd dare. That's definitely not Threshold Police."

He suddenly pushed her into a narrow alcove between the buildings, and Emily, nearly stumbling, crashed straight into his arms. His hands braced against the wall on either side of her head, his breathing calm—like they hadn't just barely escaped getting shot.

"Shhh, don't breathe so loud," he whispered, leaning even closer.

Emily tried to focus on their escape, not the fact that she was literally pinned against the stone wall of a foreign city by an absurdly handsome man who looked like he belonged in a fantasy adventure film. But there was one more detail. Something firm was pressing against her stomach. Very firm. 

"You…" she hesitated, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. "Is that…?"

He smirked, his gaze locked onto hers, shifting just slightly—deliberately, making the situation even more ambiguous.

"My revolver," he said, clearly enjoying himself. "But you can think whatever you like."

Emily swallowed. Fantastic. She was cornered in a magical Paris with a cocky heartthrob who not only carried a revolver but also, apparently, had an excellent sense of humor.

"What's your name, anyway?"

"I'm Hunter. And you?"

"Emily."

Meanwhile, the noise of their pursuers was fading. A woman with long, fluffy white ears was frantically gathering the spilled chestnuts from the chase, while some boys chattered excitedly. Hunter listened for a few more seconds, then finally stepped back—but took his time moving his hands away from the wall.

"Alright, they're gone. But don't relax yet—one of them might still be lurking. Now, let's go. I'll show you where I'm staying. It's safe there."

"And what if I don't want to go anywhere with a stranger?" she blurted out, trying not to let it show that she was still struggling to breathe normally after that close encounter.

He smirked again, flipping his revolver absentmindedly before slipping it into its holster—properly this time, not just tucked into his belt.

"You just jumped through a painting into another world, nearly got killed, and you're still thinking about safety rules?" He made a grand sweeping gesture. "If you want, you can stay here and wait for them to come back. They do enjoy cutting off witches' fingers so they can't cast spells. But, of course, you're not a witch. Right?"

Emily took a deep breath, exhaled, and… followed him.

"You have a messed-up way of convincing people, you know that?" she muttered, trying to keep up.

"I prefer to call it persuasion," he said evasively, turning a corner and motioning for her to move faster. "Let's go—we need to get out of here before they come back."

They ducked into a side street filled with dim lantern light and the scent of fresh pastries from nighttime bakeries. Emily was starting to realize that this city wasn't just unfamiliar—it was entirely different. Magical. A man with horns walked past her. Around the bend, two girls with transparent wings argued in hushed voices. Further down the alley, a vendor was laying out strange amulets on a wooden stall.

"Again. This is not Paris in my world."

He shrugged.

"If you say so. But it has everything you need. Except, maybe, common sense—if you're planning to argue again."

Emily just rolled her eyes but said nothing, hurrying after him into the twilight chaos of this new world.