4. Unseen passenger

The driver's door creaked open, slow and measured, like something inside had been expecting her.....

Out stepped a man whose presence seemed to command the very shadows. He was tall, draped in a perfectly tailored suit of midnight, each step deliberate and echoing in the silence. For a moment, the night itself seemed to pause.

Claire's heart pounded in her chest as his dark eyes—hidden beneath the brim of a low hat—locked onto hers. His gaze was heavy with secrets, an unspoken promise of revelations long buried. The air between them grew dense, as if laden with memories and unuttered truths.

Then he spoke, his voice soft yet resonant, a murmur that felt as though it had been waiting to be heard:

"Claire..."

That single word sent a shiver racing down her spine, the sound hanging in the cool air like a fragile glass ornament on the verge of shattering. In that breathless moment, the world around her seemed to blur—the gentle hum of distant traffic, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, all fading into a background murmur beneath the weight of his presence.

Time staggered, and with each slow step he took toward her, echoes of a forgotten past began to stir in the depths of her memory.

The very atmosphere shimmered with the promise of secrets and the terror of unknown truths. Claire's skin prickled, her breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts, as if she were being pulled into a current of fate that she could neither escape nor fully comprehend.

"You're not who you think you are,"

he continued, his words slicing through the silence. In that moment, the boundary between the life she knew and the hidden depths of her past began to blur—a slow, inexorable unraveling of identity, where every heartbeat echoed with the mystery of what lay beneath.

And in the hush of that charged pause, Claire knew that her journey into the shadows of her own existence was only just beginning.

Her breath came in short, uneven gasps. The man's grip on her wrist tightened—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to remind her that she wasn't going anywhere.

"You're shaking," he murmured, tilting his head. His voice was eerily calm, almost amused. "Are you scared?"

She yanked her arm, but he didn't let go.

"You should be," he continued, as if answering his own question.

With an easy flick of his wrist, he pulled a bottle from his coat pocket. Claire barely had time to react before ice-cold water splashed across her face, soaking her clothes, sending a violent shiver through her bones. She gasped, the night air slicing against her damp skin.

The man exhaled a soft chuckle, watching her like she was something unfinished—something he could mold. "You know.... Wait .... ," he mused, circling her like a predator,

"I don't think you even know who you are."

"You call yourself Claire. You wear her name, her life, her memories like a costume. But underneath…"

He trailed a finger down the wet sleeve of her shirt , his touch feather-light yet suffocating. "Underneath, you're just… waiting to be rewritten."

She flinched, stepping back, but the car was behind her. Trapped.

He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, his voice sinking to a whisper.

"What's the point in fighting, Anna?"

The name slid through the air like a knife.

Anna.!

The world tilted.

Something inside her lurched, clawing at the edges of her mind, desperate to be seen. The memory was old—buried deep, wrapped in fog—but now, it was surfacing, forcing its way through the cracks.

A dark room.

No windows. No warmth. Just the hum of flickering fluorescent lights overhead, buzzing like flies trapped in an endless, suffocating cycle. The air was thick with damp concrete and something metallic—blood? Rust? She couldn't tell.

Cold metal restraints.

Her wrists burned where the cuffs dug into them, the edges cutting into raw, swollen skin. She tried to move, but the chains rattled, holding her in place. Ankles bound. Arms splayed. A chair—no, a table—underneath her.

The sound of someone crying.

Shallow gasps. Stifled sobs. Was it her?

She couldn't tell anymore....

A voice. Low. Amused.

"You don't have to be Anna anymore" !!!

The words slithered into her ears, soft and patient, as if coaxing a child out of a nightmare. But this was the nightmare.

Something cold traced her cheek—metal, sharp, deliberate. She flinched. A chuckle followed.

"Fear looks good on you"

Her chest heaved. She bit down on her lip until she tasted copper.

The sharp edge traveled down—her throat, her collarbone—until it rested just above her heart. It pressed in, not deep enough to draw blood, but enough to make her pulse hammer against the blade.

"We're going to fix you"

The memory blurred, skipping like a broken film reel.

Pain.

Something searing, like fire against her skin.

Her own scream, muffled against the walls.

Then—darkness.

To be continued....