For the past week, I’ve been trying to convince myself that my life is still normal.

  Or at least… trying to believe that it is.

  The university hallways are as noisy as ever—hundreds of students moving through the corridors, the chatter blending into a constant hum. Laughter. The sound of lockers smming shut. Pens scratching against paper.

  Everything feels the same.

  And yet… why does it feel like I’m no longer a part of it?

  I sit in the cafeteria, staring at my untouched meal while Leah and Mathilda—my closest friends—talk beside me. We’re supposed to be taking a break from studying, eating lunch together like always.

  I should be listening. I should be focusing on my notes, reviewing for the upcoming exam.

  But my mind is bnk.

  It’s like I’m just an observer in a life that doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

  “Hey! Psyche!”

  Leah’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I jolt, blinking as I look up at her. She narrows her eyes slightly, studying me.

  “You’ve been so out of it tely. What’s up with you?” She taps the end of her pen against the table. “Are you overworking yourself again?”

  “Or are you sneaking off to meet someone?”

  Mathilda chimes in without looking up from her phone, her voice teasing. “I barely see you around these days… where’ve you been?”

  The words hit harder than they should.

  I freeze for half a second, my heart stumbling in my chest.

  Where have I been?

  Dark alleyways. The scent of blood clinging to my hands. His eyes watching me from the shadows.

  I haven’t gone anywhere. And yet, I have no idea where I stand anymore.

  I blurt out my response too fast. “I haven’t been anywhere.”

  Leah doesn’t look convinced. “You sure?”

  “Yeah.” I force a smile, trying to keep my voice light. “Just… tired, I guess.”

  Leah watches me for a moment longer, but thankfully, she lets it go.

  She shifts the conversation away from me—something else catches her attention instead.

  “Did you guys see the news this morning?”

  The fork in my hand stills midair.

  “What news?” Mathilda asks, still scrolling through her phone.

  “They found a body at an abandoned warehouse.”

  Body.

  The word sms into me, and suddenly, the noise of the cafeteria fades into nothing.

  A dull ringing fills my ears.

  “They found a body?” My voice comes out more rigid than I intend.

  “Yeah. Last night.” Leah leans forward, lowering her voice slightly. “The cops found a guy shot multiple times. No ID, no records, nothing.”

  An abandoned warehouse.

  Last week.

  Him.

  No. I shake the thought off. It has nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with him.

  But my mind doesn’t listen.

  The memory yanks me back instantly.

  The blood dripping from his fingers.

  The way he sat there, calm despite the pain.

  The way he looked at me—like he already knew what I would choose.

  What was he doing that night?

  Who is he?

  Or worse—

  What if that was the night he killed someone?

  “And?” Mathilda’s voice is indifferent. “So what? People die all the time.”

  Leah clicks her tongue. “That’s not the point. The cops are saying it looks more like a ‘clean-up’ than a regur murder.” She sets her phone down, lowering her voice even more. “The reporters are already specuting that it’s either a mafia job or a gang killing.”

  Mafia.

  The word lodges itself into my brain like a hook.

  I don’t realize I’m gripping my spoon tighter until my knuckles turn white.

  If he’s really involved in this—

  If I saved the wrong person—

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  “Hey, Psyche?”

  I jerk again.

  Leah is watching me carefully, eyebrows furrowed.

  “…You okay?”

  No.

  Not even remotely.

  But if I say anything now, I know they won’t let it go.

  I force another smile.

  “Yeah. Just thinking about the exams.”

  Leah doesn’t look convinced.

  But she doesn’t press.

  And I know—

  I’m lying to myself.

  After parting ways with Leah and Mathilda, I head to the library.

  I tell myself it’s to study.

  But deep down, I know I won’t get anything done.

  The textbook in front of me blurs. I’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes now, but I can’t remember a single sentence.

  The slow hum of the ceiling fan drowns out the background noise. My surroundings feel heavy—like there’s something pressing against my chest, keeping me from breathing properly.

  What the hell am I doing?

  I’m supposed to act normal. I’m supposed to forget.

  But I can’t.

  No matter how hard I try, it’s still there.

  His voice. "Take the bullet out."

  His eyes. Cold. Unshaken.

  Like someone who wasn’t afraid to die.

  Who is he?

  And why can’t I stop thinking about him?

  I don’t remember making the decision.

  But before I realize it—my fingers are already moving, scrolling through the test news on my iPad.

  I skim past irrelevant headlines. My heartbeat picks up.

  And then I see it.

  "Unidentified body found in abandoned warehouse—Police investigating possible gang-reted activity." "No official statement yet, but authorities suspect a ‘clean-up’ hit by an underground syndicate."

  I stop breathing.

  An abandoned warehouse.

  The same night I helped him.

  It was too close. Too much of a coincidence.

  Or maybe… not a coincidence at all.

  I click on the article, my eyes scanning for details.

  The body was found te st night.No identification.No documents.No clues as to who he was.But the part that makes my skin turn cold—

  “Traces at the scene suggest a professional hit. Not just a random killing.”

  A clean-up.

  I close my eyes, and the image comes back instantly—

  The blood on his hands.

  The way he disappeared into the night.

  And now, a body turns up near the same area.

  I swallow hard. A slow, icy dread curls in my stomach.

  Did he kill someone that night?

  Or worse—is he going to do it again?

  Something gnaws at the edge of my mind. Something I hadn’t paid attention to before.

  His accent.

  The way his words were sharp. Precise. His tone always ft—devoid of unnecessary inflection.

  It wasn’t local.

  It was Russian.

  A quiet exhale escapes me. My hands feel cold against the iPad screen.

  I hesitate.

  Then, I type.

  "Russian mafia presence in this country."

  Results flood in immediately.

  And one name stands out.

  Surn.

  My fingers move before I can think. I click the link.

  My pulse hammers in my ears.

  Surn—One of the most powerful crime syndicates in Russia.

  They control arms trafficking, human smuggling, and the bck market.

  A name people whisper about but never say outright.

  No photos. No records. No concrete details.

  Nothing but rumors and missing persons.

  Surn.

  If he’s connected to them…

  What the hell am I getting myself into?

  I hesitate for a moment.

  And then—almost without thinking—

  I type his name.

  "Kevin."

  I hit search.

  I wait.

  Nothing.

  Thousands of Kevins, but not him.

  I bite my lip, then try again.

  "Kevin Surn."

  This time—

  No results.

  Not a single mention.

  It’s like he doesn’t exist.

  I stare at the bnk screen, my mind racing.

  And in that moment—

  I realize something.

  He has no past. No records. No trace.

  He doesn’t exist.

  Slowly, I close the iPad and set it aside.

  I lean back in my chair, exhaling shakily.

  I should stop.

  I should let this go.

  But I can’t.

  Because something tells me—

  This is just the beginning.