Nova's body feels like a rag that's been wrung out and left to dry in the sun. Every muscle aches. Her head pounds with a dull, insistent throb behind her eyes. She stares blearily at the ceiling, trying to piece together the fractured puzzle of how she got home last night. Her sheets are tangled around her legs, and the stale scent of her own sweat hangs in the air.

Her alarm hasn't even gone off yet, but she's awake—barely. As she struggles to sit up, dizziness crashes over her in a nauseating wave. Her throat is parched, her lips cracked. It's as though all the energy that pulsed through her veins yesterday has been siphoned out, leaving her hollow. A handful of memories dance just out of reach: images of a noisy bar, the sharp sound of glass breaking, and that awful swirling mania that seized control. But now, she's left feeling like a ghost in her own skin.

She rubs at her eyes and swings her legs over the edge of the bed. She's wearing underwear and a wrinkled T-shirt—she doesn't recall changing into them. Maybe she came home and peeled off something else? The memory is fuzzy. She winces as she stands, knees threatening to buckle, then totters toward the bathroom.

A stale heaviness coats her tongue. She can practically taste the regret. One foot in front of the other, Nova. A reminder to herself. She flips on the bathroom light, and the sudden brightness burns her retinas. She squints, steps to the sink, and forces her eyes to focus on the mirror.

She gasps.

There's dried blood spattered across her face—tiny flecks that crust on her cheek, near her hairline, and across the bridge of her nose. For a second, her heart stops. Her reflection looks like it belongs to a stranger. The pinkish-brown stains create a surreal pattern against her pallid skin.

Her mind goes blank with horror. Then panic sets in. No, no, no. She clutches the edge of the sink, her fingers turning white around the ceramic. She wants to scream, but her voice seems lodged in her throat.

"It's not what you think," She mumbles aloud to the empty bathroom, trying to convince herself.

Maybe it's just paint.

Or—maybe I walked into something.

But a sinking feeling in her stomach tells her otherwise. She knows. It's blood. Whose blood—hers? Someone else's? She scrambles to check her arms and torso, searching for any sign of injury. Nothing. A bruise blooms on her left forearm, but that's hardly new territory. She has no open cuts, no reason for blood to be speckled on her face.

She stares at her reflection a moment longer, grim acceptance slowly digging in. She has an image in her head—just a flicker of memory—smashing something with a brick. Bottles, she remembers vaguely, glass spraying in the dark. Could the shards have cut her face? She doesn't see any obvious scratch, though. Or maybe she...her mind shies away from completing that thought. Killed someone? No. She can't handle it, so she shoves the possibility down, locking it in a place too dark to open right now.

Her hands tremble as she turns on the faucet. Lukewarm water streams over her palms, and she cups it to her face, scrubbing in frantic, desperate motions. The blood flakes away, revealing her pallid skin beneath. She scrubs harder, until her cheeks burn from the friction. Her heart keeps hammering, making her feel dizzy all over again.

Don't think. Just clean it off.

When she finally shuts off the water, she stands with her head bowed, water dripping from her chin into the sink. She wraps a towel around her face, pressing it gently. The throbbing in her temple intensifies, and her vision blurs momentarily.

You're fine, she tells herself. It's over. But she knows it's not.

She tries to check her phone, perched on the bathroom shelf. It shows two missed calls, both from unknown numbers. No voicemails. She frowns. Bill collectors? Telemarketers? She can't bring herself to care right now. She's still clinging to the last shred of denial, telling herself that the blood was from something innocent—anything that isn't murder.

By the time she finishes her shower, the hot water beating over her skin, she's on autopilot. She washes her hair twice, scrubs her body until every inch of her tingles. She's never felt so dirty. After drying off, she picks out her usual work attire—black slacks, a plain button-up blouse. Her reflection looks more normal now, but her eyes are ringed with fatigue, and she can't shake the dread churning in her stomach.

Her shift today starts much later. She doesn't have to be at Fennel Fields until the afternoon, and she won't leave until 10 p.m. It's a big jump from her usual schedule. With hours to kill before she has to go in, she lingers in her kitchen, nursing a too-sweet cup of coffee. Her stomach growls, but eating feels like a monumental effort. She tears a piece of stale bread from a loaf on the counter and forces herself to nibble at it, swallowing mechanically.

The day feels surreal. She paces her small living room, occasionally glancing out the window to see if police cars swarm her driveway. Of course they don't—there's no sign of anything unusual out there, just Mrs. Alvarez sweeping her porch. Nova almost calls out a greeting, but her voice sticks in her throat. The world remains quiet, unremarkable, and that somehow makes everything worse.

When she finally drives to Fennel Fields, the sun is dipping low in the sky, painting the clouds a dreary shade of pinkish gray. She parks in the employee lot and sits in her car for a full two minutes, staring at the steering wheel, trying to convince herself she can handle this shift. Just act normal, she orders. Act normal, or they'll know something's up. She wonders briefly if her boss, Jerry, would notice if she called out sick, but she can't risk the questions. She's not sure how to lie convincingly right now.

She forces herself out of the car and steps inside through the staff entrance. The kitchen bustle hits her instantly—pots clanging, a rush of heat from the stove, the hum of conversation. A wave of dizziness threatens to topple her, but she steadies herself on the wall. Jerry catches sight of her and waves a quick hello before diving back into a conversation with one of the cooks. Good. He seems too busy to bother her right now.

Nova drifts to the locker area, hanging up her jacket. She tries to adopt her usual blank expression, stifling any sign of anxiety or fear. It must work well enough, because Felicia pops in from the hallway, a bright grin on her face, and doesn't appear to notice anything amiss.

"Hey there!" Felicia says, flipping her pink hair out of her eyes, "You made it. Wow, you look beat. Late night?"

Nova manages a half-smile.

"Yeah, something like that. Just... couldn't sleep."

That's not exactly a lie, but it feels heavy on her tongue.

Felicia nods sympathetically, "Oh, I feel that. You partied hard last night or something? You were wearing that super-cute floral top—kinda surprising, honestly. I didn't think that was your style, but you looked hot."

Nova's brow furrows, confusion twisting in her gut.

"Floral...top?"

The memory tugs at her mind. Flashes of a low-cut shirt, bright pattern... oh god. She tries to mask her panic, forcing an awkward laugh.

"I—uh, yeah, I guess I was feeling adventurous."

Felicia chuckles, "Well, it definitely turned heads. Anyway, I gotta get to my tables. See ya out there."

She winks and disappears down the hall, leaving Nova clutching the edge of her locker for balance.

She doesn't own a floral top... or if she does, she's never worn it. She can't picture buying it. Could she have bought it on a manic whim? She tries to visualize searching through her closet yesterday. Something bright, something low-cut. She vaguely recalls glimpses of herself in the mirror, but that recollection feels more like a dream. A wave of shame mingles with terror, pressing heavily on her chest. Who am I right now?

Forcing her legs to move, she heads toward the host stand. One foot in front of the other, like she's marching through quicksand. Her body is exhausted, her brain fuzzy with anxiety. Keep it together, she urges. They'll suspect nothing if you just do your job.

The restaurant is mid-shift busy, with a steady flow of customers. She steps behind the host stand, scanning the tables to see who might need seating. Felicia is right—she's swamped, weaving between diners with her usual easy charisma. At least that distracts Felicia from prying further.

Jerry ambles over to check on her, a worried crease between his eyebrows, "You okay, Nova? You look kinda pale."

"I'm fine," She lies, forcing another small smile, "Just a little under the weather. I took some cold medicine earlier."

He eyes her for a moment, then nods, apparently satisfied, "If you start feeling worse, let me know. I can cut your shift short if need be. We've got enough coverage tonight."

Nova nods mutely, relieved he's not pushing. She can't imagine going home, alone with her thoughts, with the possibility of more blood on her hands. No, she thinks, better to be here. She seats a few customers, trying to keep her voice steady and polite, ignoring the prickling sense of unreality.

Time oozes by in painful increments. Occasionally, she finds herself rubbing at her face, as if expecting to find blood there again. Every time her fingers come away clean, she exhales in gratitude. Around 7 p.m., she takes a quick break in the employee area, sipping water and fighting a fresh surge of dizziness. Her reflection in the metal napkin dispenser startles her—there's such a haunted look in her eyes, like she's on the verge of tears.

She wonders, What if I actually killed someone last night? The possibility expands in her mind like a dark balloon. Maybe she didn't. Maybe it's leftover mania and the blood came from a weird accident. But the uncertainty gnaws at her. I should check the news, she thinks, but the idea of seeing a headline about a murdered stranger—and realizing it might be her fault—is too much to bear.

Returning to the host stand, she runs into Adrian. He opens his mouth like he might say something, but then he catches sight of her expression and closes it again, offering just a tiny nod in greeting. She wonders if he noticed her floral top yesterday too, or if he even thought twice about it. She's too exhausted to care.

Finally, the last wave of diners clears out closer to 9:30 p.m., and Nova starts cleanup procedures—wiping menus, restocking the condiment stand. Her body screams for rest. She tries to steady herself, focusing on the small tasks, the methodical repetition of spray-wipe, spray-wipe. She almost manages to push away the nightmarish question that's been looming all day.

But by the time 10 p.m. rolls around, she's barely holding it together. Her shift ends, and she trudges back to the locker room. Felicia and Adrian are still around, counting tips or sorting receipts. Felicia gives Nova a quick wave, cheerfully calling out, "Get some rest, girl! Feel better, okay?"

Nova mumbles a thanks. She can't even muster a fake smile. She pulls her jacket from the locker, slides it on, and steels herself. The most exhausting part is trying to maintain any semblance of normalcy. Step by step, she heads out to her car under the fluorescent hum of the parking lot lights. The sky is ink-black, stars drowned out by city glare. She tries to hold her emotions in check, but her eyes burn with tears that threaten to spill.

She climbs into the driver's seat, slams the door shut, and sits there in silence. Her reflection in the rearview mirror is a hollow-eyed stranger. She traces the spot on her face where the blood had been, now scrubbed clean. She doesn't recall how it got there, nor can she remember half of what happened last night. But as she flips on the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, one thought roars in her mind: I don't know what I've become.

Exhaustion mingles with fear in her veins. All she can do is drive home, hoping against hope that nothing in tomorrow's news will reveal the terrible truth she's so afraid to confront. The taillights from passing cars streak red across her windshield, and she shudders, unable to distinguish reality from the nightmares swirling in her mind.

Nova's hands grip the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles ache. She's been sitting here in the dimly lit parking lot for what feels like hours, though it's only been a few minutes since she climbed into the car and slammed the door shut. The restaurant lights behind her cast long, bent shadows across the lot. It's late—just past ten—and she should be on the road back to her cramped one-bedroom duplex. But her body refuses to cooperate. She's too tired and too wound up all at once, nerves frayed like exposed electrical wires.

She exhales shakily, leaning her forehead against the wheel. The rough texture of the steering wheel cover presses into her skin. A strange calm creeps over her, accompanied by a heavy blanket of exhaustion. The day has been endless, a vortex of dread and uncertainty. If she has to drive right now, she's afraid she'll drift into oncoming traffic or simply pass out behind the wheel.

Just a minute, she tells herself. She'll rest her eyes, take a few slow breaths. Then she'll be good to go. She sets an alarm on her phone for fifteen minutes and wedges the device between her thighs to keep it from sliding off the seat. Outside, a lone streetlamp buzzes, flickering faintly. She watches the light bend through the windshield, her eyelids growing heavier and heavier.

Before she can form another coherent thought, sleep claims her. Her body sags against the seat, and her breathing evens out into soft, shallow pulls of air.

She dreams of dark alleys. A voice—her own?—echoes in laughter, or maybe in a scream. A shape shrouded in leather steps in front of her, wearing a half-mask spattered with blood. The face looks like hers, but twisted in a maniacal grin. That's me, that's me, part of her mind whispers. She wants to wake up, wants to not see it, but the dream tightens its grip, forcing her to stare.

Then she feels a hard rapping on the car window.

Her eyes snap open, heart pounding. She's momentarily disoriented, still trapped in the hazy boundary between dream and reality. The windows are fogged from her breath. Outside the glass, she sees a silhouette—a man, short hair, wearing glasses that catch the glow of the streetlamp. He knocks again, more gently this time.

She jumps, adrenaline surging. Who—? She can't place him for a second. Then recognition seeps in: Adrian, the busboy from work. That quiet guy. Always a little off-beat, always watchful. She can't see his expression clearly, but he raises his hand in a tentative wave.

Nova's instinct is to hit the lock button—or drive away—but she's too rattled to do anything smoothly. Her limbs feel leaden. She fumbles, ends up rolling the window down a crack instead. Cold air snakes into the car, prickling her skin.

Adrian's voice slips through the opening.

"Hey," He says, sounding more concerned than she would have expected, "You... fell asleep in your car. It's been a while. Shift ended, like, half an hour ago."

"Half an hour?"

Her own voice betrays her exhaustion, hoarse around the edges. She scrambles for her phone—where's the alarm? The screen is dark. It must have died, or she never set it properly.

She sucks in a shaky breath and tries to steady herself.

"I—I'm fine," She manages, but her voice quivers, "Just tired."

He hesitates, fiddling with the zipper on his hoodie, "I thought you might not want to, you know, stay out here all night. You'd probably freeze or something."

Nova's shoulders slump. Her eyes flick to the side mirror. The parking lot is empty, save for a few cars belonging to the overnight cleaning staff.

"Thanks," She mutters.

Her pulse is still hammering. The dream's lingering dread clings to her like static, "I—um—yeah, I didn't mean to fall asleep."

Adrian nods, then shifts from foot to foot, as though unsure what to do, "Want me to, like...help you get home or something?"

"No," She blurts quickly, panic creeping into her tone.

She hates the idea of anyone seeing the state of her place. Worse, she hates the idea of letting him get too close.

"No, I'm good," She repeats, softer this time, forcing a tight-lipped smile.

"Right, right," Adrian says, nodding, "Got it."

He pulls the door handle gently, letting a swirl of cold air rush into the car as he opens it. Nova's eyes go wide as she realizes the door is indeed unlocked. Adrenaline spikes all over again. She instinctively lifts her arms as if to shield herself.

But he's just leaning in, presumably to shake her shoulder awake more effectively. She didn't notice him opening the door. I must be so out of it.

She recoils, pushing at him in an impulsive burst of fear.

"Get off!" She gasps.

Her palm connects with his chest, and she shoves him back against the doorframe. For a split second, his eyes register surprise behind his glasses.

"Whoa, whoa," Adrian says, holding his hands up in surrender, "I'm not— sorry, I— you looked, like, dead."

He stumbles back a step, adjusting his glasses hastily.

Nova's breath catches, and her hands clamp over her mouth.

"Oh my god... I'm sorry," she manages after a long, agonized heartbeat.

Her cheeks burn with humiliation, "You startled me. I didn't— I didn't mean—"

"It's cool," Adrian says in a quick, even tone.

He rubs his chest absently, more out of awkwardness than pain, "I get it. Waking up like that can be freaky."

He exhales, surveying her face as if trying to read it, "You sure you're okay, though?"

She nods, not trusting herself to speak right away. He's still standing too close to the open car door, letting the overhead lamp illuminate them both. For the first time, she actually sees Adrian's features up close—slightly crooked nose, the faint shadow of stubble he hasn't shaved, and a twitchiness in his eyes that she can't quite decode. It's like he's analyzing her while simultaneously not sure what to say next. He's so awkward, she thinks, but it's not unkind. She's just... noticing.

And he's noticing her, too. She can feel the weight of his scrutiny, as if he's memorizing how her eyebrows knit, the way her hands tremble in her lap. She suddenly realizes how vulnerable she must look—hair disheveled, face pale, traces of dark circles beneath her eyes. You look like hell, Nova. She tries to smooth her hair self-consciously.

After a few excruciating seconds of silence, she clears her throat.

"I—I'm Nova, by the way."

It feels absurd to introduce herself now—after months of half-smiles and distant interactions at work. But she doesn't know what else to say.

"Adrian," He replies, as if she doesn't already know, "Adrian Chase."

He offers a small, uncertain smile, "We, um, work together, right?"

He chuckles at his own joke, aware of how ridiculous it sounds.

"Yeah," She says, a weak laugh escaping her lips, "I guess we do."

Another awkward pause stretches between them like a chasm. They know nothing about each other, besides the fact that they share the same workplace. This sudden closeness feels both intrusive and strangely intimate.

Adrian clears his throat, "So... you sure you're good to drive? You look..."

He trails off, apparently not wanting to say the word exhausted.

She winces, "I'll manage. I live close by. Just needed a minute."

But even as she says it, her voice trembles. The truth is, she's dead on her feet, but she can't handle the idea of leaning on a stranger—especially a coworker she barely knows.

He shrugs, stepping back a little.

"All right," He concedes, though he doesn't sound entirely convinced, "I just didn't want to read tomorrow's paper and see, you know, local hostess found unconscious in parking lot."

She forces a small smile, though her stomach lurches at the mention of the paper. Headlines. She tries not to let her face betray the flare of panic. She's had her fill of headlines lately: "The Stranger Strikes Again." Stop, stop, don't think about it.

She glances past Adrian to see if anyone else is around. The lot is mostly empty, the glow of a distant streetlamp reflecting in random puddles from the earlier rain.

"Thanks for checking on me. I appreciate it," She says.

She means it, though part of her also wishes he'd just go so she can collect herself in private.

"No problem," Je says with a nod.

Then he hesitates, looking like he might say something else. The corner of his mouth quirks as if he's amused by some inside joke.

"What?" She asks warily.

Adrian glances at her for a moment, searching her face, then shakes his head.

"It's nothing," He murmurs, "Just, you know... we never talk, but I notice you a lot. Didn't want anything bad to happen to you."

He says it as though it's the most natural thing in the world. The bluntness makes her stomach twist, but she can't quite place if it's discomfort or something else.

"Oh..." She swallows, "That's, um, kind of you. I guess."

He tilts his head, that awkward half-smile returning.

"Anyway," He continues, as if deciding the conversation is over, "sleep tight."

He takes a step back from the car. Then his expression shifts, and he says, almost conspiratorially, "Don't let the Stranger bite."

Nova's breath seizes in her throat. For a fraction of a second, her vision narrows, heart rattling in her chest. The Stranger. Did he say it like a joke? Like a reference to the vigilante in the news? She can't tell, but it slams into her mind with brutal force, reminding her of everything she's been avoiding.

She forces out a shaky laugh, trying to keep it casual.

"R-right. Good one," She stammers, not sure how else to respond.

Her hand clenches around the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

Adrian just gives a small salute, turning on his heel with an almost boyish enthusiasm. He heads toward his own car, presumably parked a few rows down. In the red glow of a distant brake light, she sees him flash another odd grin over his shoulder before disappearing between vehicles.

Nova sits there, mind reeling. Her heart pounds in her ears, and her stomach churns as though she might be sick. Don't let the Stranger bite. Of all phrases he could have used, he had to pick that one. Her chest feels tight, and she struggles to breathe normally.

Deep down, she's terrified. Terrified because part of her wonders if Adrian knows something. Or if it's just an eerie coincidence. Because she knows. She knows that the Stranger lurks in the darkest corners of her mind, waiting for the right moment to surface again. And that mention—the flippant phrase—has twisted a knife in her gut, reminding her there's a monster in her reflection, one she doesn't want to confront.

Eventually, she manages to pull the car door shut, locking it with shaking fingers. She rests her forehead against the steering wheel once more, heart still hammering. Outside, the parking lot hums with quiet emptiness. She can't see Adrian anymore—he's gone. She can't decide whether she's grateful or somehow... disappointed.

After a few moments, she forces herself to start the engine. The tires crunch over loose gravel as she eases out of the parking space.

As she drives away, she keeps replaying that final line in Adrian's voice: "Sleep tight, don't let the Stranger bite."

Each repetition sends a fresh jolt of panic through her veins. She can't escape the fear that, for all her denial, the Stranger might already have its teeth in her soul, gnawing away at whatever normalcy she has left.

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