I couldn't sleep.
Not after the way he looked at me.
Not after his words—"I don't hurt people who are already hurting."
How could someone who had blood on his hands... speak so gently?
He was a criminal. A killer. I had seen it with my own eyes.
But he hadn't killed me.
He hadn't even scared me.
He had saved me.
And that was the most terrifying part.
The morning light touched my face, but my heart still felt heavy. I looked in the mirror. The girl staring back at me was pale, tired, and lost.
My fingers touched the scar near my temple—the one I got the day I watched someone die as a child.
The man who was shot that day had screamed so loud, I still heard it in my sleep. Blood had splashed across my little shoes, and all I had done was stand there—frozen.
Since then, blood made me sick. Darkness made me shake. I used to cry for hours, hiding in my room.
I still did, sometimes.
Even now, I had nightmares of that day… and now of Zahid, standing over a body, masked and soaked in blood.
But unlike before, I didn't just feel fear.
I felt something else.
A pull.
A connection I didn't want.
At university, I hoped to slip into class quietly. But life had other plans.
"Miss Rida," came the familiar voice.
My stomach sank.
He stood near the board, dressed in black as always. Today, his shirt had a high collar, almost like he was hiding something.
Maybe he always was.
"Please stay back after the lecture. I need a word."
My heart dropped to my knees. Everyone turned to stare.
I nodded slowly.
The lecture passed in a blur. My eyes tried not to meet his, but I could feel his gaze on me every time I shifted.
Was he watching me?
Or was he wondering if I'd say something about that night?
When the class ended, everyone left.
Except me.
I stayed.
Even though every part of me wanted to run.
He locked the door behind them. The click of the door sounded louder than thunder.
"You're afraid of me," he said softly, facing the window.
I didn't reply.
He turned around and leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "But you haven't told anyone."
I swallowed hard. "Should I?"
"You tell me," he answered.
I stared at him. The man who killed someone. The man who carried me home. The man who called himself my 'friend' to my father.The man whose voice was now quiet, almost… broken.
"You didn't have to help me," I whispered.
He took a step closer. "I didn't plan to."
"Then why?"
Another step. His face was unreadable.
"Because I saw something in your eyes… something familiar."
"What?"
He looked away. "The same darkness I carry."
I sat down, too overwhelmed to stand.
"I don't understand you," I said.
"You're not supposed to," he replied.
"Then why are you talking to me?"
He stayed silent for a moment.
Then… he walked over and sat in front of me.
His eyes met mine—cold, yes, but no longer empty.
"You've seen death," he said softly.
I froze.
"So have I," he continued. "Too much of it. Enough to forget what life feels like."
I whispered, "That doesn't make us the same."
"No," he nodded. "But it means we both know what fear tastes like."
A long silence followed.
He stood up again and walked to the board, drawing a diagram—something about trauma and fear responses. He spoke like a teacher, but every word he spoke felt personal.
"You fear blood," he said while drawing. "Because it reminds you of something you couldn't control. Your mind locked that moment, and now, your body reacts—even when you're not in danger."
I stared at the board. He was explaining me like I was one of his lessons.
"Then what's your fear?" I asked.
He stopped writing.
His hand trembled for half a second. Then he wiped the board clean without answering.
When he turned around, his mask of control was back.
But I had seen it.
The crack.
He walked toward the window and spoke again, this time in a low voice, "Some people learn to live with their nightmares. Others become them."
I felt my eyes sting.
Because in his words, I saw the truth.
He wasn't heartless.
He was hiding a wound so deep, he'd buried it beneath blood, silence, and death.
But even monsters bleed when no one's watching.