Chapter 2: The Man Who Found Me

The storm outside wasn’t real, but it sounded like one.

Thunder didn’t echo, but my walls shook. Lightning didn’t flash, but the screen on my laptop blinked twice, then went black.

I stared at the white words glowing on the dark screen like they were bleeding from my soul.

> "I'm here, Riven."

My breath locked in my throat. I blinked, thinking maybe it was some malware glitch, a prank, a mistake. But I knew better.

The emails started three weeks ago. Anonymous. One line. Always watching. Always warning.

> “They're coming for you.”

“You wrote too much.”

“Don’t open the door.”

But this time, he wasn’t writing from the shadows.

This time… he was at the door.

A knock.

Three slow, deliberate taps.

I reached for my phone. No signal. Of course. The Wi-Fi was dead too. Everything was. The building's old backup generator should’ve kicked in, but it hadn’t.

The knock came again. Not loud. Not violent. Almost gentle.

But it felt like the sound had teeth.

I swallowed hard and walked slowly to the door, heart hammering. My hand hovered over the knob. I couldn’t see anything through the peephole—someone had blacked it out. Probably earlier. Probably days ago. Maybe weeks.

Another knock.

This time, followed by a whisper.

“Riven... open the door.”

His voice was smooth, low, patient. It made my skin crawl and my chest tighten at the same time.

He knew my name.

He always had.

I shouldn’t have opened it.

But I did.

The moment I cracked it, a gloved hand slid against the frame and pushed it wide.

He stepped inside like the air belonged to him.

He was tall. All black. A fitted coat, black boots, no umbrella despite the rain. Water dripped from his collarbone down his throat.

But his face...

His face was carved from control. High cheekbones, sharp jaw, lips like they were made to say lies softly. His eyes — almost black — burned with something unreadable. Not lust. Not rage. Not even hate.

Possession.

He shut the door behind him without asking.

I stepped back.

“What do you want?” My voice cracked.

He tilted his head slightly, like he was studying me. Like he already knew what I’d say.

“I told you,” he said quietly. “I came before they could.”

I blinked.

“Them?” I whispered.

He nodded. “The ones who took the others. The ones you wrote about.”

I froze. I hadn’t published that article yet. No one knew the draft even existed.

“You… hacked me.”

He smiled faintly. It wasn’t friendly.

“I protected you.”

“You’ve been stalking me.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I watched. Listened. Only to make sure they wouldn’t get to you first.”

“You broke into my apartment.”

“You never changed the lock.”

He was right. I hadn’t.

I was too used to surviving with shortcuts.

Too used to pretending I was safe.

“Why now?” I asked. “Why show up tonight?”

He walked past me, slowly, calmly, like he belonged there. His eyes scanned the room like a soldier taking inventory.

“Because the van was already outside.”

I stiffened.

He glanced toward the rain-fogged window. “They were minutes away from taking you. Blacked-out SUV. No plates. Eastern route to the docks.”

My throat dried. I didn’t even know what to say.

“How do you know all this?”

“I used to be one of them.”

My stomach twisted. “So what… you turned good?”

“No,” he said flatly. “I turned on them.”

He moved to my desk, his gloved fingers brushing over my scattered notes. The very ones detailing the trafficking ring hidden under a local tech conglomerate — the story I was going to publish anonymously.

He turned to me.

“You got too close. You weren’t just writing about them. You were naming them.”

I clenched my fists. “Because someone has to.”

“I agree.” He stepped toward me. “But you weren’t prepared to vanish.”

He was right.

I had backup drives, escape routes, burner phones — all the illusion of protection. But if they had gotten in… it would’ve taken seconds to make me disappear.

Like they’d done to others.

“Why me?” I asked again. “Why save me?”

His expression shifted. Something darker crept into his face.

“I read everything you wrote,” he said. “Every word. You don’t just hunt monsters. You understand them.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” he cut me off, stepping closer. “You write like someone who’s been in a cage. And still carries the key.”

My voice dropped. “And what… you think you’re my lock?”

“I think I’m the only one who knows what kind of prison you’re walking into.”

I stared at him. At the way he stood — not like a villain, not like a hero — but like a storm that didn’t care what it destroyed, as long as it felt something again.

I hated him.

And yet I couldn’t look away.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He smirked, like he was surprised it took me this long.

“Kael.”

“Just Kael?”

“The name they gave me before I burned the system down.”

He turned back toward the door.

“You have ten minutes to pack,” he said. “No electronics. No IDs. Just the essentials.”

I didn’t move.

Kael looked back at me, eyes narrowing.

“If you stay, they’ll take you tonight. You won’t even see the van.”