3~When Worlds Collide

Elara shut the door behind her and leaned against it, listening to the faint traffic drifting up from the street. Her room smelled faintly of detergent and the instant noodles she'd left untouched that morning. She tugged her cardigan tighter, more out of habit than comfort, and stepped further inside.

Her apartment was small, barely enough space for the essentials: a single bed tucked against the wall, a desk with a lamp that flickered if she tapped it too hard, and shelves stacked with textbooks she hadn't opened in weeks. It wasn't much, but it was hers.

She set her bag on the desk and sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers absently tracing the hem of her sleeve. The night replayed itself in fragments—sirens in the distance, the sharp scent of antiseptic from the hospital, the strangers she had hurried past on the street. And then, that car.

She hadn't meant to look, but for a split second she did. A sleek, dark vehicle sliding past, the kind you didn't often see in this neighborhood. The headlights had caught her in their beam, quick and blinding, and then it was gone. She couldn't even see the driver's face. Still, something about it lingered with her.

Elara pressed her palms against her knees and exhaled. The image of blood—too much of it—flashed across her mind. The weight of a body she had dragged out of the street. The face she had tried not to remember.

She couldn't keep this to herself.

By the time she lay down, her mind was made up. Tomorrow, she would go to the police station. If nothing else, she needed to clear her conscience. Someone had to know what she had seen, what she had done.

Elara turned on her side, staring at the dark window. She didn't realize she was gripping the blanket so tightly until her knuckles hurt.

Tomorrow, she decided again. Tomorrow, she would tell them.

She was too tired to move.

************************************

The morning light was too bright, too clean for the shadows Elara carried in her head. She dressed in the first thing she found: a plain cream blouse tucked into dark trousers, her hair pulled into a low bun that couldn't quite tame the stray curls falling over her face. She slipped on her old sneakers, the soles worn thin, and grabbed her small brown satchel. She looked like any ordinary young doctor walking to work—except she wasn't. Not after last night.

The station smelled of smoke and stale coffee. Officers lounged at their desks, barely glancing up when she walked in. Elara forced her trembling voice into strength as she spoke to the man behind the counter.

"I need to report something. There was a shooting. A man was injured. I treated him."

The officer barely blinked. "Where?"

"My clinic."

"When?"

"Last night."

"And?"

Her nails dug into her palm. "He killed someone. In my clinic."

That got a chuckle from the officer, but when she continued, describing him—"Tall, dark hair, green eyes, a scar on his jaw—" the man's laughter stopped cold. His pen froze mid-scribble.

"Repeat that," he said, his tone sharp.

She hesitated. "He... he had these eyes. Green. Sharp. Like—"

He cut her off with a raised hand. "Wait here."

Elara sat for nearly fifteen minutes, her foot tapping nervously against the cracked linoleum. But no one came back to take her statement. Instead, when she finally gave up and walked out of the station, the sun already high, she noticed the black SUV parked across the street.

Two men in dark suits stepped out the moment she did. Their presence was too precise, too intentional. One of them opened the back door with a mock gesture of politeness.

"Miss Elara."

Her heart stopped. "How do you know my—"

"Our boss would like a word."

Her stomach dropped. They didn't even give her the choice to refuse.

And somewhere, not too far away, Raphael DeLuca was already aware she had tried to run to the police.

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