chapter 3

Lena! The voice cracked the air like a whip, yanking me from the velvet dark of memory.

I flinched—hard—gasped, hands scrabbling on the sink’s edge. My face was pale, wet with sweat, eyes wide as I stared at the girl in the mirror.

Me.

Skin flushed and gleaming. Neck bruised, smeared with faint red marks like a mouth had lingered there. My lips—swollen. Hair damp, stuck to my temples. I looked… used. Possessed.

Dennis was at the door. I could hear his footsteps now, urgent, worried.

"Lena? You in there? I’ve been knocking—are you okay? Why was the door unlocked?"

He jiggled the handle. "I'm coming in, alright?"

The lock clicked.

Dennis stepped in.

His eyes landed on me—and immediately went wide, flicking to my neck, to the way my shirt hung off one shoulder, to the blood under my fingernails. His mouth parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start.

“Jesus, Lena… what the hell happened to you?”

"I I..." I tried to utter something out, but I couldn't for I was too feeble and I knew this wasn't normal.Dennis froze, hands raised instinctively—like approaching a wild animal or someone on the edge of something dangerous.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” he said gently, eyes flicking to my bruises again. His voice dropped lower, soft but laced with panic. “Lena… what happened to you? Who did this?”

He took a cautious step forward, swallowing hard.

“Is someone here? Are you hurt?”

Tears obsequy filmed my eyes while I wobbly said I was fine, in a way that was ironic. His face cracked—open pain blooming in his features as he watched me crumble beneath those shaky words.

“No… no, you’re not fine,” he said, stepping closer but not touching me, not yet. His voice wavered. “Lena, you’re crying. You look like someone… hurt you. Who was it?”

Then lower, sharp—afraid of the answer:

“Was it someone you know?”

"I, I don't.....know " I stammered out with a cry covering myself with the quilt with shaky hands after realizing I was half nude and supporting my weak stature by siting on the floor.Dennis knelt beside the bed, one hand bracing against the floor like he couldn’t trust his legs. His breath caught—he hated seeing me like this. Raw. Bare. Trembling under the weight of something I couldn’t even name.

“Okay… okay, that’s alright,” he murmured, trying to steady his voice, but it cracked anyway. “You don’t have to explain it all right now. Just—just tell me anything.”

He looked at me, really looked—my red eyes, my quivering lip, the marks blooming across my skin like a secret someone had written with teeth and fire.

“Was it a dream?” he asked slowly. “Lena… is this all coming from your dreams again?”

I nodded my head obediently as he sank down fully onto the floor, his back against the edge of the bed, hands braced over his face like he was trying not to scream.

“Fuck,” he muttered into his palms.

A moment passed. Quiet. Just my breaths, heavy, uneven, mine and his. Then—

Softly, hesitantly:

“Lena… has he touched you?” His voice was barely above a whisper now, as if saying it too loud might make it worse. “Like—actually touched you? Not just in the dream… but here. In real life.”

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