Chapter 3: Do Not Touch Me

The air was thick, cold, and smelled like dust and old rain. I wasn’t myself, but I was still me—the part of me that was usually buried under layers of sarcasm and caution. I was standing in a massive, vaulted chamber. There were no lights, but the space was illuminated by a cold, silvery glow that seemed to emanate from the stone itself.

And then there was Luchus.

He wasn't staring at a wall or hiding in a corner; he was facing me, close enough that I could see the confusing network of shadows in his dark eyes. He didn't look sorrowful or distant here. He looked focused. Concerned.

I felt a profound, aching familiarity, the kind you have for the only other person left standing at the end of the world. It wasn't love or a crush, but something deeper, like a shared scar or a forgotten language we both spoke fluently.

We shouldn't be here," I whispered, the words sounding ancient in the echoing space.

Luchus didn't speak. He just slowly lifted his hand, and I watched, paralyzed, as his cold fingers closed around my wrist. The touch wasn’t rough, but it was absolute. It felt like an anchor dropped into the deepest part of the sea. There was a spike of icy shock, then a sudden, dizzying rush of images: a flash of red light, the sound of glass breaking, and a voice screaming a warning I couldn't understand.

My heart hammered against my ribs, and the world tilted. This wasn't a memory, I realized. This was a key.

The pressure on my wrist intensified. Luchus leaned in, his dark eyes wide and urgent. "You have to forget the name," he breathed, his voice a low, desperate plea. "You have to forget me."

I tried to pull away, to tell him about the senior, about the danger, but the darkness was already closing in, swallowing the silvery light, swallowing the cavern, swallowing him—

I woke with a violent jolt, slamming my head against the wooden headboard.

I sat bolt upright, sweat slicking my skin despite the cool morning air of the room. The apartment was quiet. The dream was already fading, blurring into the typical nonsense of sleep, but the metallic chill on my wrist where Luchus’s fingers had been felt startlingly real.

Forget the name.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. It was 6:45 AM. Too early for Cara to be up, but too late to go back to sleep. My heart was still racing, and my brain felt like it was trying to run a marathon in cinderblock shoes.

Well, isn't this lovely. A new school, a public threat from a blonde Barbie who needs a hobby, and now I’m having gothic nightmares about the mysterious boy. Maybe I should start a dream journal. I could call it, 'How to Attract Maximum Trouble in Five Easy Steps.'

The sarcasm was weak, though. It was a flimsy paper shield against the real shock of that dream, of that touch. I couldn't stop thinking about what Luchus had said: You have to forget the name. He hadn't been giving advice; it had sounded like a desperate plea for self-preservation.

But I couldn't ignore him. I had to know what the connection was. I needed to understand why the sight of his face felt like a puzzle piece to my missing history. The terror of the senior, the danger, even the fear of Cara's questions—all of it paled next to the compulsion to understand the name Luchus.

Today, I wouldn't hide. Today, I would find him.

My resolve carried me through the morning. I ate a piece of toast, made my lunch (a sad sandwich that only needed the quiet protection of my backpack), and walked to school with my jaw set.

When I got to History class, my heart was a frantic hummingbird trapped in my chest. I scanned the room, desperately looking for the dark silhouette, the blank stare, the figure by the window.

The chair was empty.

My shoulders slumped. My carefully constructed resolve deflated instantly, replaced by a hollow pang of disappointment so sharp it was embarrassing. Fantastic. Of course, the moment I decide to be a brave protagonist, the subject of my obsession ghosts me. Clearly, the universe has a better sense of comedic timing than I do. I sat down and spent the entire class unable to focus, my eyes drifting back to the vacant seat.

The dismissal bell rang, harsh and loud. I gathered my things slowly, allowing the rush of students to thin out.

Smooth, Mina. You were going to be brave, and now you’re stuck being a pathetic creep who searches for the mystery boy and then misses him. I adjusted my backpack, giving my internal self-critic a final nod. Another triumph for the quiet observer. You made it all the way to a failed appointment.

I walked out of the classroom, focusing on my feet, ready to retreat into the next hour of anonymous self-loathing. I rounded the corner leading to the staircase and, just like yesterday, I wasn't looking.

BAM.

The collision was sharp and sudden. I stumbled backward, dropping my backpack and sending my pen skittering away. I hit the ground with an undignified thud, my knees protesting the impact.

"Oh, god, I am so sorry!" I gasped automatically, already reaching out to apologize to the invisible person I'd run into.

My hand reached the floor, my fingers brushing against the cold plastic of my favorite blue pen. I paused, ready to snatch it up and bolt, when my gaze flickered up.

The world stopped.

Standing over me, completely still, was Luchus.

He wasn't wearing an expression of annoyance or even surprise. He just looked... inevitable. His dark eyes, which had held that desperate urgency in my dream, were fixed on me with a familiar, unnerving blankness. He made no move to help me up or step away. He simply stood there, an immovable object I had crashed into.

The fear, the senior's threat, the confusion—it all coalesced into a single, explosive urge. I had to know.

I forgot the pen. I forgot the floor. I forgot the rush of students passing us, oblivious. I didn't even notice the faint, musky scent of old cedar wood that seemed to cling to him. I just stared up at him from my ridiculous position on the floor, and in that moment, the staring match was a question.

After what felt like an eternity, Luchus finally broke the silence. He didn't speak to me; he just adjusted the strap of his messenger bag and stepped around me, his foot falling inches from my knee. He was walking away. Again.

The heat of pure, frustrated desperation surged through me. No. Not this time.

Before my brain could process the danger or the idiocy of my actions, my body moved. I scrambled up, abandoning my belongings, and ran two steps to catch his arm, forcing him to stop.

My fingers barely brushed the sleeve of his jacket, but the contact was like a bolt of ice, shocking me all the way to my shoulder.

Luchus flinched violently, like he'd been struck by a live wire. He didn't turn around, but his body went rigid.

"Wait!" I demanded, my voice raw and tight. I didn't care who heard me. "I know your name. I know your name, and I don't know why. Do you know me? Luchus, please tell me. Do you know who I am?"

He slowly turned his head, and the intensity in his eyes was back, a flash of something powerful and cold. It wasn't hatred, but a terrible, desperate warning. He lowered his voice, the sound like dry leaves scraping pavement.

He didn't answer my question. He answered the action.

"Do not touch me."

And with a swift, powerful shove of his shoulder, he threw my hand off his arm. The force wasn't enough to make me fall again, but it was enough to make me stumble back against the wall, leaving my skin tingling and cold.

Luchus didn't look back. He walked away with quick, purposeful strides, disappearing around the far bend of the hallway.

I stayed by the wall, trembling, the cold radiating from my arm. The adrenaline wasn't a rush of fear anymore; it was pure, volatile frustration. He hadn't just pushed me away; he had looked at me like I was a contamination. All I wanted was an answer, a single piece of the truth, and he had literally thrown it back in my face with a terrifying command.

Do not touch me.

Fine. He wanted to be a mystery? He wanted to be cold and silent? Two could play that game. The senior’s threat felt distant now, irrelevant. My focus had narrowed to the dark, retreating figure. He wasn't avoiding me because he was dangerous; he was avoiding me because I scared him. That realization ignited a hard, resolute spark in my chest. I picked up my books, tucked the simmering fury deep inside, and walked toward my next class. I might be silent, but I wasn't giving up.

My life is about to get a lot more interesting.

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