"Come out, come out, wherever you are."

I froze, crouched under a desk, hardly daring to breathe. I fought the urge to clap my hands over my ears, because the voice oozed from everywhere: The walls, the floor under my sneakers, the industrial ceiling hanging high over my head. Even the air.

The silence deafened me as I strained to listen beyond it. I needed to hear something—a footstep, a small breath—anything that could tell me where he was.

Nothing.

A light flickered, and I flinched. Then, the slightest squeak of a shoe on linoleum, and a pair of trainers appeared around the corner, their steps measured and careful. Full of easy grace.

Each stride spoke its own language: You'll never outrun me.

I shrank further under the desk as he drew nearer, the distance shrinking until I could have reached out and touched him.

Then he stopped.

I clenched my fists to still my trembling hands. My throat closed around my pounding heart. Silently, I pled with him to walk away.

"Where did you go?" he called with an air of mild entertainment that clashed dissonantly against my panic. "I think...."

Quick as a flash, he twisted and ducked down, peering under my hiding spot like he'd known all along. The grin on his face—that smile—stretched too far, and I remembered a time when it had been soft. When it had simply revealed the crinkles by his eyes and the dimples on his cheeks. When his eyes had been a blue so alive with electricity that they lit everything around them.

But they had faded into something lighter. Something icy. Something that jolted my heart into overdrive.

Stifling a scream, I lunged from under the desk just as he dove at me. Calloused fingers brushed at my throat, snagging in the collar of my shirt, but I twisted away, my blood pounding as I seized a keyboard, threw it in his direction without looking, and ran.

Curses followed me, bouncing off the walls like echoes in a closed cavern. But when I looked over my shoulder, I saw nothing.

No trace of him. No sign that he'd ever existed. He had just...vanished.

I swallowed. I knew better now. He still lurked, somewhere, biding his time. Waiting.

I had to keep moving.

I fumbled with the door of a conference room and slipped inside, closing it silently and flattening myself against the wall. Eyes squeezed shut, I prayed to a god I didn't believe in.

The shattering of glass broke my concentration like a shot. My eyes flew open, the door beside me exploded inward in a shower of sparkling shards, and something clattered to the floor in the midst of it all.

A rock, simple and unassuming at first, until I reached for it with shaking hands. On its surface, a simple sentence had been etched like an epitaph.

Don't you remember?

I listened with all my might, but nothing moved. Holding my breath, I took one ginger step out over the broken glass, eyes sweeping the nearest row of desks.

Nothing.

But he was there, somewhere. I felt his gaze; hairs rose on the back of my neck, but one thought screamed over and over in my head.

Get out!

I took off toward the stairs. A ragged gasp tore at my throat, my shoes slapped the ground, but I was beyond caring about the noise. He saw everything. There was no hiding. That left only one option: Run.

I slammed into the stairwell door, pushing with all my strength.

Again, nothing.

"Dammit!" I shouted, the pitch of my voice beyond recognition. "There's always nothing!"

I gave the door one last slap, started to turn away, and then froze as the tiniest rustle sounded near my feet.

Inch by inch, a sheet of paper slid under the door, until it sat at my feet, as innocent and still as the rest of the office.

Two words stared up at me, sharpied in bold letters.

I PROMISED.

Tears raced to my eyes, blurring out the reminder. I spun away, a hand over my mouth, my chest too tight to breathe and my stomach filled with lead.

He had promised.

I dashed for the bar. Behind it, a dozen sparkling wine glasses sat patiently, but I pushed them aside to reach the bottle behind them. Rising, I held it by the neck, my arm held high in the air.

"Just do it!" I screamed into the silence. "If you want me, just come and get me, you coward!"

I jumped as something skittered across the floor, slipping under the bar on the opposite side before reappearing beside my shoe and sliding to a stop.

A pair of scissors, gaping open, their blades sharpened and glinting in the harsh light from overhead. I dropped the bottle and seized them, holding them out in front of me like a sword.

Something snapped inside me. The silence, instead of deafening, shifted into something quieter. Something still. The world paused as everything settled—as I settled.

I couldn't out-hide him. I couldn't outrun him. It was fight or die, and I'd rather get it over with either way.

He wanted to find me? I wanted to find him.

I growled and took a slow step around the bar. "Where are you?"

Nothing. Not a sound, not even a whisper or the ghost of a footstep.

"Do you really remember what you promised?" I asked the empty air. "Really?"

The seconds passed with interminable slowness, stretching into eons as I waited. And then, finally, from just beyond the furthest row of desks, he appeared.

Those slow, deliberate steps. The elegant, prowling grace with which he walked. The soft line of his lips, the intensity of his stare—it all enveloped me at once with a familiarity that made my skin itch.

His eyes bore into me, their message clear. Of course I remember.

My knuckles whitened around the handle of the scissors as I fought the urge to back away, and finally we stood toe to toe beside the bar, his bulk towering over me like a skyscraper over the rest of the city.

One corner of his mouth twitched, the temptation of a grin. And then he murmured those three words, the ones we both knew by heart.

"I'll never leave."

The breath whooshed out of my lungs.

"Unless...."

My head snapped up as he dug in his pocket. I searched his face, and as a full smile grew there, fear blossomed once again in my gut.

"What comes after scissors?"

No. I started to back away, already shaking my head.

And then he pulled it out: A tiny pistol, polished and silver. Just as coldly beautiful as he was. With practiced ease, he loaded a single bullet into the chamber and gave it a spin, snapped it closed, and set the weapon down on the bar.

With a flick of his wrist, he slid it toward me and then quirked an eyebrow, almost like a challenge.

Fight. With a deep, steadying breath, I reached for the gun. As my hand curled around the grip, my index finger resting against the trigger, he bit his lip and leaned casually against the bar.

"The question is," he said, tapping directly above his heart, "am I here..."

And then he extended his arm into the space between us, one finger coming to rest right between my eyes.

"...or here?"