Nova drifts through the days like a ghost. It starts with a single morning—she wakes up after barely sleeping and cannot summon the energy to move. She's too exhausted and empty to face her trashed duplex, too suffocated by the memory of nearly killing Adrian to stay in one place. Her skin feels numb to the touch, her mind strangely subdued, no mania, no breakdown—just nothing.

She leaves her phone behind without thinking about it. It's perched on her rumpled couch cushion, screen cracked from a previous meltdown, battery indicator hovering near the red. Adrian's messages and missed calls flood in, but she never sees them. The phone chimes a few times that first day, then goes silent once the charge runs out, the screen winking off into blackness. She never bothers to plug it in.

She wanders the city in a detached haze. The sunlight feels too bright against her eyes, but the sensation doesn't quite register as pain—more like a vague annoyance. Her entire emotional spectrum is dialed to zero. The guilt, the panic, the mania that once threatened to swallow her are now replaced by a suffocating emptiness. Maybe this is better, she tells herself, as though if she stops caring, she might stop hurting.

Days blur. She hops between cheap motels, shady bars, and neon-lit clubs, using the last of her saved-up cash. Each place holds the same stale routine: She sits in the corner, sipping a watered-down drink, staring at the swirling lights or the scuffed floors, disconnected from everything. It's not that she wants to party—she hardly touches her drinks—but the noise distracts her from the vacuum inside. If she's in a bar with pounding music, no one notices how silent she is, how she never meets anyone's gaze. The throb of bass drowns out her non-thoughts.

She drifts to a smoky dive bar on the outskirts of Evergreen, one with a flickering neon sign advertising cheap beer. She parks herself at the far end of the counter, ignoring the watery stains on the ripped vinyl stool. The bartender, a weary-eyed man with a stained apron, takes her order—she mumbles for a whiskey, neat. It tastes bitter and burns her throat, but it at least reminds her she's alive. She stares at the cracked mirror behind the rows of liquor bottles, noting her reflection—sunken eyes, hair limp around her face. I look like a corpse. The thought surfaces, but doesn't spark any feeling. She just is.

Sometimes men approach, leaning too close, sleazy compliments rolling off their tongues. Nova barely registers them. She waves them away or mumbles "No thanks." A few persist, but her flat-eyed stare dissuades most. She's not looking for a fight, she's not looking for sex, she's not looking for anything. She's just... there, an aimless fixture in the bar's murky gloom.

When the bartender tells her they're closing up, she nods vaguely, shuffles out into the chilly night without complaint. She wanders the streets, passing dim storefronts and flickering streetlamps. Why bother going back to my place? The question flits through her mind, but sparks no motivation. She can't face the shards of mirrors, the couch where she collapsed in tears, the memory of the black suit hidden under it. Not yet. So she finds a 24-hour diner with buzzing fluorescent lights, orders a coffee, and sips it for hours, ignoring how stale and burnt it tastes.

Her sense of time warps. She can't remember if it's been one day or three since she left home. The city is a blur of neon signs, sticky floors, and the same pale dawn creeping over rooftops while she sips on coffee or cheap whiskey. Exhaustion hovers at the edges of her consciousness, but her disassociation is so thick it dulls everything, including physical discomfort. She dozes in a diner booth one morning, her head propped on her arms, waking to see the sun creeping up over the horizon. She doesn't recall how long she's slept or where she was the night before.

Adrian's face flutters at the corners of her mind sometimes, but it's like recalling a scene from a distant movie. She can't muster the energy to panic or grieve. The meltdown that once tore her apart seems far away now. This is the crash. She's known episodes like this before—spells of numbness that swallow her for days, weeks. They've never been quite this severe, though. Usually, someone snaps her out of it. But this time, she's alone, drifting untethered, phone dead, the outside world a hazy rumor.

She ends up in a club a week later—maybe more, maybe less. The days bleed together. The club is all strobe lights and throbbing bass, the crowd gyrating on a sticky dance floor under swirling neon. She plants herself at a corner table, ignoring the pulsing energy that surges around her. Strobe lights flash across her face, momentarily illuminating her hollow stare. She nursed a half-empty drink hours ago but hasn't touched it since. She just sits, like a statue in a sea of chaos.

Her mind is quiet, nearly silent, which is both a relief and a torment. The mania is absent, but so is any sense of hope or direction. She vaguely registers a memory: Felicia's pink hair bobbing in the restaurant, Jerry's concerned expression, the smell of grease and coffee at Fennel Fields. She wonders if they even noticed she's gone. Surely they did. She imagines Jerry's frantic calls, Felicia's exasperated voicemails, Adrian's... She can't finish that thought.

A group of rowdy club-goers bumps her table, nearly knocking over her drink. One man, tall with a neon shirt, slurs an apology. Nova barely reacts, just steadies the glass with a lethargic motion. The man laughs it off, returning to the dance floor. She watches them sway under the lights, feeling nothing but emptiness.

Hours pass—maybe an entire night. The crowd thins until the music dies down and the staff ushers stragglers out. Nova drifts onto the sidewalk, blinking at the early morning sky. The chill wind hits her face, but she doesn't shiver; she's too numb. Sirens wail in the distance, a reminder of the city's ceaseless hum. Adrian might be out there, a faint voice in her mind suggests. Vigilante might be skulking in the shadows. She can't even conjure the energy to care. She's an empty shell, walking to the next bar, next motel, next bench. Anywhere but home.

One afternoon—though it feels like it could be morning or evening—she collapses in a shabby motel bed, having paid for the room with crumpled bills. The flickering TV in the corner drones about local news.

She sees a headline flash by: VIGILANTE RECOVERS AFTER CONFRONTATION WITH THE STRANGER

Her heart skips a beat, but the emotion flits away before she can grab it. She doesn't even sit up to hear the details. She just stares blankly at the water-stained ceiling, mind drifting to that night in the alley, the memory feeling like a distant nightmare.

Her reflection in the motel mirror across the room is dull-eyed, hair greasy, face drawn. She sees the battered remains of bruises on her arms—faint shadows, healing but still visible. I deserve them. The thought passes with no real affect. She can't summon the energy to hate herself anymore; she's gone past that into a grey void.

At some point, the clerk knocks on her door, mumbling about checkout time. She mumbles an apology, grabs her jacket, and shuffles onto the street. She could pay another night, but why bother? She's restless, her body urging her to move, move, move, even though it all feels pointless. She wanders until her feet ache, then sits on a bench in a deserted park, watching leaves rustle in a breeze that carries the scent of damp grass. She thinks about how she used to smile at small joys like this. Now it's just... background noise.

Some nights, she grabs a cheap bottle of something from a corner store, sipping it alone in an alley until her head feels fuzzy. The numbness is still there, though—the alcohol can't thaw the ice in her soul. She's not sure if she wants to die or just vanish or if she's already half-dead. The world is distant, a backdrop to her endless internal gray.

She hardly talks. When asked a question by a bartender or motel clerk, she offers one-word answers, her voice monotone. Sometimes she tries to force a conversation, but the emptiness in her chest deadens any spark of interest. She doesn't feel hunger often; sometimes she goes all day without eating, then suddenly wolfs down a burger at 2 a.m. in a grimy diner, barely tasting it.

Time passes in a shapeless blur. Two weeks? Three? She can't be sure. She's not paying rent, not calling work, not calling her parents. Another night, another bar, another monotone conversation with a bartender who asks if she's okay. She lies with a shrug, "I'm fine," then goes back to her corner seat. She wonders if Adrian is searching for her or if he's too busy hating The Stranger to notice Nova's disappearance. The idea triggers a faint pang, like a distant echo of pain. She brushes it aside.

Eventually, her funds dwindle. She's running out of cash. The reality creeps in that she can't drift like this forever. But the thought of returning home—facing that phone, those shattered mirrors, her hidden vigilante suit—sparks a sick feeling in her stomach. She's not ready. So she just keeps moving, day by day, hour by hour, letting the city swallow her in anonymity. No mania, no meltdown, just numbness. She's living in a world of perpetual twilight, her BPD in the throes of dissociation, a far cry from the violent episodes that once dominated her nights.

One evening, she's leaning against a graffiti-splashed wall outside a gas station, watching the lights flicker above the pumps. Her reflection in the glass doors reveals a woman who barely recognizes herself: dirty clothes, haunted eyes, posture slumped in defeat. A piece of her wonders if she's died and this is purgatory. She tries to remember the last time she felt truly alive, but the memory evades her. Adrian's voice, that faint whisper returns, but she shoves it away again.

And so Nova continues to float, day blurring into night, drifting between dingy motels and neon bars, a silent wraith among the crowd. She's numb, truly cut off from any emotion, the burn of shame and guilt replaced by this enduring emptiness. She's not sure how long she can stay like this, how long she can linger in this silent wasteland of dissociation. But she has no plan, no drive—only the faint, gnawing thought that eventually, she must face everything she's running from.

Just not yet. Not while the numbness still holds her in its hollow embrace.

Adrian's heart bangs against his ribs as he stares at his phone, screen lighting up his anxious face in the dim interior of his car. He's sitting outside Nova's duplex, once again, and this is the eighth time today—maybe the twentieth time this week—he's tried calling her. The line rings and rings, no answer. Her voicemail picks up, that same soft message she recorded months ago. Each time he hears her voice, it twists a knot in his gut.

He exhales shakily, tapping the "End" button before the beep. Another message will only clog her inbox. He scrolls through the barrage of unanswered texts—Nova, please call me. Are you okay? Let me know you're safe. He's tried humor, anger, pleading. Nothing. The read receipts remain blank. Probably turned off, he thinks. Or maybe she's ignoring him. But that doesn't ring true—Nova wouldn't just vanish. Not unless something terrible happened.

He pockets the phone and stares out the windshield. Her front porch light is off, and the curtains are drawn, as they've been for days—weeks, even. He can't recall the last time he saw her face. Not properly, anyway. He's replayed their final moments at the restaurant, or that night they spent together on her couch, a thousand times in his head. She was bruised, he remembers, fury simmering. The Stranger did that. Or some monster. And then Nova disappeared.

He glances at her neighbor's door. That old lady, Mrs. Alvarez—he's half suspicious she's a spy, but that's probably just him deflecting. Right now, the house is dark, no sign of life. He rubs a hand over his face, teeth gritted. The minutes tick by, each one ratcheting his anxiety higher. He tries to quell the urge to rush inside, rummage through every corner. Maybe she's in there, sick or hurt. Or maybe the Stranger took her. His eyes narrow. If the Stranger's responsible for Nova's disappearance, he'll tear them apart.

At last, he can't wait any longer. He steps out of the car, slamming the door a little too hard, scanning the street for onlookers. Dead silent. His breath forms a faint cloud in the evening chill. He approaches Nova's front door, tries knocking again. No answer. The hollow echo rings in his ears.

"Nova?" He calls quietly, pressing his ear to the wood. Silence. Anxiety coils in his gut. He presses the doorbell for good measure; the resulting ding only deepens the hush. This is bad.

He tries the doorknob. Locked, of course. Screw it, he thinks. He slides out a small flat tool he sometimes carries for "vigilante purposes." It's not exactly legal, but he's not exactly worried about that right now. He wedges it into the lock and jiggles, chewing his lip. It takes longer than he wants—he's distracted, hands shaking with worry. Eventually, it gives with a soft click. The knob turns in his grip.

He pushes the door open, heart pounding. The interior is dark, musty. The air feels stale, like no one's opened a window in a while. He steps inside, flipping the light switch. Nothing happens. Power's off? Or maybe just the bulb's blown. He tries another switch by the hallway. A single overhead light flickers on, casting a feeble glow across the living room. Immediately, he notices the mess.

Clothes strewn everywhere, a lamp knocked over, the coffee table askew. Broken glass glitters near the couch—some from a phone screen, maybe, or a shattered picture frame. The place reeks of neglect, maybe old takeout. A cold heaviness grips Adrian's chest. This isn't like Nova at all—she might be disorganized, but not like this. Something's off.

He closes the door behind him, securing the lock out of habit.

"Nova?" He calls again, softer this time.

No answer, just the faint hum of the refrigerator. He swallows, stepping around the mess. His eyes flick to the couch where a pillow is half on the floor, the cushions are flattened as if someone slept there. He spots a phone—her phone—lying face-down near the edge. A spiderweb of cracks mars the screen. He picks it up, pressing the power button. Nothing. The battery's dead.

A spike of disappointment and concern flares. He pockets the phone for now, determined to charge it later to see if it holds any clue. Then he notices a dark smudge on the arm of the couch—blood? His heart seizes. Is she hurt?

He hurries deeper into the living room, scanning for more signs of her presence. The TV sits dark, a faint film of dust on its screen. The rug is bunched up near the hallway, as though someone tripped or dragged something across it. He rounds the corner, nearly stepping on shards of mirror on the floor.

"Jesus," He mutters under his breath, kneeling to examine the broken pieces.

Some of them have dried specks of blood. A prickle of alarm races up his spine. This place looks like a tornado blew through. Or...like a meltdown happened.

He stands, ignoring the tingle of glass under his boots. The hallway mirror is shattered, the frame hanging crooked. Another wave of dread hits him. He can imagine Nova, furious or terrified, punching it. Why? What happened? He mentally curses The Stranger again, imagining them cornering her in her own home, hurting her. A red-hot swirl of rage scorches behind his eyes. If he finds that masked psycho, he'll tear them limb from limb.

He checks the bathroom. The mirror above the sink is shattered too, fragments littering the countertop. A few pieces are stained with something rusty—blood again, maybe. He clenches his fists, knuckles popping. Every second ramps up his worry, morphing it into fury. Where is she?

Finally, he moves to the bedroom, which is just as chaotic: the bed unmade, a lamp smashed, clothes strewn everywhere. He steps carefully around the debris, scanning for some sign of Nova. He half expects her to be lying on the floor, hurt or unconscious. But the room is empty, thick with an eerie silence. He notices a faint odor of stale sweat, fear, maybe tears. A wave of helplessness strikes him—she was here, a meltdown or some massive breakdown must've happened.

He stands there for a moment, breathing heavily, mind cycling through possibilities. Did she run away? Was she kidnapped by the Stranger? No, she's not the type to vanish without at least telling me. But then again, she did vanish. Anger and worry knot in his stomach, tangling into a single painful coil. He wants to punch something, but the room's already in shambles.

He steps around to the closet, drawn by the faint light from the lamp in the hallway. The closet door hangs slightly ajar, piles of clothes spilled out. Something about the corner of the closet catches his eye—a cardboard box, partially crushed. He kneels, tugging it free, heart pounding with a primal sense of something. The box has no label, just a lid haphazardly placed on top. He lifts it, a jolt of surprise rolling through him when he recognizes the material inside: black leather, scuffed and stained.

A cold chill slides down his spine as he pulls the leather free. It's a suit, form-fitting, with reinforced stitching. He knows this gear. He's seen it countless times on the news clips or in the glimpses he's had while fighting them. The Stranger's suit. Every nerve in his body ignites. Why is it here?

His mind races with theories. Did the Stranger stash it here after hurting Nova? A wave of rage floods him. The Stranger came here? Threatened her? Made her keep their suit? Or maybe the Stranger kidnapped her, forced her to do something. He holds the suit up, noticing fresh wear and tear on the knees and elbows. It reeks of sweat, a faint metallic tang that might be blood. And behind that, an unmistakable scent that prickles his memory. Nova's shampoo? Nova's perfume? He blinks, lifting the leather to his nose. It's faint, but definitely her. Why would it smell like Nova?

He swallows hard, confusion tangling in his chest. He rummages further, pulling out a black half-mask. His blood runs cold. It's the same mask the Stranger wears, covering the top half of their face. This one is splattered with dried, dark stains. It smells like Nova too. Realization hovers at the edge of his mind, but he resists it—No, it can't be. That would mean... She's the Stranger. That the person who battered her, who threatened her, is... her.

His fingers tighten on the mask, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

"No way," He mutters aloud, voice echoing in the silent bedroom, "No."

He tries to conjure some explanation—maybe Nova found it. Maybe the Stranger left it behind as a twisted trophy. But the smell is so distinctly hers, and the suit is in her closet. His mind begins to reel, piecing fragments together: her bruises, her blackouts, the way the Stranger fights, the mania...

A swirl of betrayal, anger, confusion, and hurt clogs his throat. If Nova is the Stranger, that means... he tried to kill her, or she tried to kill him. He nearly killed Nova in that alley. He closes his eyes, flashes of that confrontation with the Stranger slicing through him. The rage he felt, the lethal blows they exchanged. Could that have been Nova? A stabbing pain lodges in his chest. He forces himself to breathe, blinking tears away before they can form.

He sets the mask aside with trembling hands, pacing a small circle. The carpet crunches underfoot—glass from the lamp, maybe. He has to think clearly, but his mind is a chaos of contradictions. He still wonders if there's a less horrific explanation. But the suit, the mask, the scent—he can't ignore it.

Anger tries to flare, but it's drowned by a deeper fear: If she really is the Stranger, then she's in so much more trouble than I ever imagined. He recalls how she vanished, how her phone died, this wreck of a house. She must've had a breakdown of epic proportions. And he missed it, consumed by his own anger at the Stranger. He clenches his fists, cursing himself for not pushing harder, for not checking sooner. Maybe he could've prevented her meltdown.

He kneels, gently gathering the suit and mask, setting them back in the box. His heart thuds so loud it's deafening. What do I do with this? He's half-tempted to destroy it on the spot, but if it truly belongs to Nova, it might be the only connection he has to find her. Where did she go? The question lances him anew. There are dried bloodstains on the floor, shattered mirrors, her phone left behind as if she needed to cut all ties. She's out there, alone, maybe hurt or lost in the mania he's witnessed in her eyes.

He stands with the box under one arm, scanning the ruined bedroom once more. The walls feel like they're closing in, suffocating him with the weight of this discovery.

Nova is the Stranger.

The name echoes ominously. She must've been fighting criminals, must've been fighting him. He squeezes his eyes shut, recalling every blow he delivered to the Stranger in that alley, every bullet he fired. A surge of guilt and horror washes over him, tangling with a strange, twisted sense of pride—he admired the Stranger's fighting skills, even as he despised them. Now, to realize it was Nova...

He can't stay here. The place feels haunted by her meltdown, the energy of her pain lodged in every corner. But he can't just leave the scene as is. He decides to leave everything mostly untouched—he won't risk messing up potential clues. Only the box with the suit remains in his grasp. He inhales a shaky breath, casting one last glance at the broken mirrors, the scattered clothes, and bloodstained couch.

Walking back into the living room, he sets the box gently on the coffee table, retrieving Nova's phone from his pocket. He eyes it, wishing he could revive it and see what she might've left in her messages or notes. The battery's stone-dead. He'll have to charge it at his place.

He stops by the door, turning to survey the chaos one final time. It stings, imagining her alone here, terrified, maybe fracturing under the weight of her secrets. He curses under his breath, pressing a hand to his forehead. I have to find her. If she truly is the Stranger, she's not just missing; she could be out there spiraling, hurting herself or others.

His fists clench.

"Hang on, Nova-bear," He mutters, voice echoing in the empty room, "I'm coming for you." Whether that means saving her or confronting her, he's not sure. But one thing is certain: he won't let her vanish into the night. He can't.

He flicks off the light, steps out onto the porch, and locks the door behind him. The quiet street yawns before him. The weight of the leather suit in the box—and the unthinkable truth it represents—presses heavy on his heart. He strides to his car, determination and dread warring in his mind. There's no turning back now. Nova is the Stranger, and she's gone. He'll do whatever it takes to bring her home, even if it means facing the darkest parts of her psyche—and his own.

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