Page 131 of Somno Slave

Before I can stop myself, I hit his profile.

Block contact.

The confirmation box appears. Then my thumb presses it.

And just like that, he’s gone.

I lock the screen so I can’t receive any more calls. I can’t talk to anyone about this. Because I don’t know how to explain this. How do I tell someone that I am thinking about a man I should be helping kill? How do I explain that every time I close my eyes, I can still feel him there. Watching. Waiting. Like distance is just another thing that doesn’t apply to him. That something supernatural is happening. That I don’t understand it but I trust it.

My body refuses to budge; it feels like I’ve run a marathon twice. My jaw aches. My throat feels tight, like fingers have been there recently. When I swallow, there’s a phantom taste of copper that makes me cringe.

By the time I reach the facility, I have checked behind me seventeen times. I count because counting feels better than admitting I’m afraid of empty corners. Every reflection catches me wrong. The black windows. The polished lift doors. The blank glass panels along the corridor. Each one looks like it might hold something if I stare long enough.

Something old.

Something watching back.

I tell myself it’s exhaustion. Then I tell myself it again. By the third time, it stops sounding like an explanation and starts sounding like begging.

I don’t stop to say good morning. I don’t put my bag down properly. I barely register the security gate closing behind me before I’m already slumping into the chair. The lights above me flick harshly. It only adds to my pounding headache.

My hands are shaking.

I slip into the computer room, checking over my shoulder twice.

I pull Deogal’s file from my drawer and dump it onto the desk. The sound is louder than it should be the paper sounding like wood. I flip it open, flicking through the pages of notes, reading the same redacted reports I’ve studied a dozen times already.

None of them fit my dream.

The place wasn’t modern. It wasn’t institutional. Everyone spoke English. Not formal but not archaic either.

I open my laptop and start typing.

Ancient settlements England.

Rural medieval housing forest edge

Market towns jewellery trade.

My searches spiral. I sift through images of huts and reconstructions, academic papers, archaeological dig reports. Nothing matches exactly.

I switch tabs, trying something else.

Friars. Torture.

The search engine flags multiple entries but with each click and scroll, I realise that I’m drawing a loose end.

None of it is proof. It’s not evidence.

I slam the laptop shut.

The sound ricochets around the office, and my pulse spikes immediately.

Maybe I should confide in Peter—let him know that work doesn’t stay in this building, it seems to follow me into my sleep. That I’m awaking more fatigued than when I’m putting my head down.

I should put some space between myself and this case. I know it’s not good. I know there’s an unhealthy bond burning.

And yet, I open my laptop again.