I hovered in front of the mirror in the staff bathroom, the scent of day-old bleach and Amber's sickly-sweet perfume stinging my nose. It wasn't decorated with the same exposed brass pipework and wide porcelain sinks as the customer toilets downstairs. Instead it had a couple of cheap white cubicles, a single pedestal sink and a frameless mirror with a chip on the bottom left side. The flickering fluorescent light gave it the eerie atmosphere of a hack and slash horror, that moment just before the heroine got her throat slit by a psycho in a mask.

My shift had finished fifteen minutes ago, and if I'd left straightaway as usual, I would have been slotting my key into my front door by now. But I hadn't. Instead I'd spent those fifteen minutes staring at the girl in the mirror, trying in vain to make myself look... more than I was. I wasn't sure what I was going for, I just knew I didn't want to walk into Atticus' flat looking like the girl in front of me.

I pulled the band from my hair and let the dark waves tumble down past my shoulders. I was hoping for that hair shampoo moment, the one where the woman runs her hands through her hair, and it slips through her fingers like silk. Instead mine kinked where the cheap elastic band had pulled at it throughout the morning. I tried to run my fingers through it, but they caught on the fickle ends. It must have been a year since I last had it cut and this tangled tantrum was its revenge.

With a huff I flipped the tangled mess to the side and just hoped the winter winds outside tamed it. Either that or I could blame them for its bedraggled state.

I wiped the smudged mascara and eyeliner from under my eyes and dabbed on some old pink lip balm, bringing some colour back to the gnawed surface. before chewing it off again.

Am I making an effort? I pondered as I chewed at the plump flesh. The acrid taste of fake strawberry flavouring coating my teeth.

"Fuck," I grumbled as I stared at the face in the mirror, swiping my hand across my lips to remove the rest of the pink tint.

I couldn't remember the last time I spent this much time on my appearance, and I didn't know why I'd started now. Was it just because I'd assumed Olivia would be just as extraordinary to look at as Atticus, and some vain part of me wanted to compete? Or was it more worrisome than that? Was I putting this effort in because I was meeting people in Atticus' life and I wanted to... make a good impression?

I shook away the questions in my head and bundled my hair back into the folded bun it had spent the past six hours in.

Before I could change my mind, or let the voices in my head torment me anymore, I marched out of the bar and on my way to meet Atticus.

I wasn't sure what to expect meeting two more Watchers. I barely understood what they were and yet here I was going to immerse myself in their world like it was any ordinary Tuesday. I wondered briefly whether my reaction to Atticus was normal, but as I rang his doorbell, I decided I didn't really want to know the answer, because it didn't matter. Somehow I'd found myself in this situation, and even though I should have been freaking out about how much the world around me had changed, all I could think was that I didn't want to go back to the life I'd had. I would rather plunge headfirst into something completely unknown, than shrink away back into the humdrum routine of drinking and sleeping and watching my life pass me by.

For the first time in years I could feel my heart hammering in my chest as I waited for the door in front of me to open, and no matter what the risks, or what I should have felt, I couldn't deny that I'd missed this feeling. The one that made my muscles tingle as the adrenaline soaks into them, seeping through the fibres like electricity finding the earth.

I sucked in a breath as the door opened before me.

"Hi," Atticus said as he beamed at me, stepping back to let me past. With one quick step I crossed the threshold, not just of the flat, but of his world, and the difference between the way my life had been and the way it was now.

"Do you want coffee, or anything to eat?" Atticus asked as we climbed the stairs. I knew he could move faster than me, but it was almost sweet that he chose to walk at my pace.

"Coffee would be perfection," I replied brightly, long dormant nerves rearing their ugly head.

Perfection? Who the fuck says, 'coffee would be perfection'?

I grumbled to myself as I trudged behind him, pulling my arms free from my coat. Every now and then the old wooden joints creaked below me, protesting at the sudden shift in weight.

As we reached the top of the stairs I glanced around the small neat landing. It looked a lot like the upstairs hallway of my old family home. To my left were another set of stairs curving up towards the converted loft, probably leading to a bedroom tucked amongst the eaves. Beyond them, at the far-left side, an open door revealed a gleaming white bathroom with a black and white tiled floor and regal roll-top bath. The next doorway along was shut, but I imagined it was the main bedroom since it would have been the room at the front with the large bay windows overlooking the street outside. The final two doorways were both left ajar, with the one of my right showing a sliver of the cluttered bedroom beyond. I couldn't see much except for a polished wooden floor littered with scrunched up crisp packets.

"Aslo's room." Atticus smirked as he followed my eyeline.

"Aslo?"

"That friend I told you about? He's staying with us for a while."

I nodded as I followed Atticus through to the living room, tossing my coat onto the sofa.

The stark white walls had been softened by the warm glow of a couple lamps dotted around the room but despite the homely appearance a shiver ran down my spine.

I frowned as I ran my hand over the goosebumps on my skin. It was an odd reaction to have to a new place, but I couldn't deny that there was something rooted in the pit of my stomach, something warning me about this place.

"Anna?" Atticus queried as he watched me from the kitchen.

"Sorry, did you say something?"

"I just asked if you wanted anything to eat?"

"No, thanks, Kelly force fed me cheese scones. Apparently, they were going to go off or something..." I trailed off as I looked around me trying to pinpoint why I felt the way I did.

The room looked innocuous enough. A plush corner sofa dominated the room, with sparse furnishings finishing the simple aesthetic. It wasn't decorated, not in a way that a person decorated a home, but it looked almost exactly as I had expected it to. After all, they weren't really people. They didn't value things in the same way, so it made sense that they wouldn't need the stuff that everyone else cluttered their lives with.

The only thing that contradicted that notion was the bookshelf nestled into the alcove beside the kitchen. I made my way across the pristine polished floors, the soft echo of my footsteps joining the rumble of the boiling kettle in the kitchen.

My eyes scanned over the tightly packed shelves. I recognised a lot of them, in fact I knew I had several of them on my own shelves downstairs.

"Have you read all of these?" I asked as Atticus appeared silently beside me and handed me a hot cup of coffee.

"Not all of them, but I've read about half."

I pulled a title from the shelves and flicked through the pages. They unfurled with the soft flick of a well-loved book. One that had been thumbed time and time again until the unyielding spine had been bent and broken.

"For someone who doesn't really get literature you've got a lot here. A lot of chick-lit and romance though... Not what I thought I'd find here." I grinned and cast a glance towards Atticus. He was watching me with wide expectant eyes.

"What?" I asked as I took a sip of coffee.

"Nothing," he said swiftly but it was clear there was something more going on.

I threw him a shrewd frown as I placed my coffee cup on top of the fireplace. The weighty ceramic mug clunked against the cast iron mantlepiece, as I pulled another book from the shelf.

Just as he had in the Portrait of Dorian Gray, Atticus had crammed the pages with notes. Each an intricate scrawl of musings and notions, like his mind was sprawled across the page. As I skimmed over the pages it was like watching an evolution of thought. One which transitioned from questions clarifying emotional intent, to philosophical musings capable of leading even the most faithful person to question their purpose in the world.

I slotted the book in place; it's cover caressing its neighbours with a satisfying hiss. At the sound another shiver of déjà vu rolled through me. Except this time, I didn't have to figure out why the feeling was there because a flash of images followed it, like memories long forgotten.