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The phone rings at three forty-seven in the morning, and I know it's going to be bad.
Not because of the time. I work the night emergency line. Three a.m. calls are normal. It's the way the ring cuts through the static on my headset, sharp and cold, like someone dragged a nail down my spine.
I swallow the last of my cold coffee and click accept. "Emergency dispatch, what's your location?"
Silence. Not dead air. I can hear breathing. Wet. Ragged.
"Hello?" I try again, pulling up the trace screen. The number's local, but the GPS won't lock. Just a red circle spinning in the old district, somewhere near the river. "I need you to tell me where you are."
"Mara."
My hand freezes over the keyboard.
The voice is male. Low. Shredded, like he's been screaming. But he said my name.
Dispatch calls don't work like that. The system doesn't give out operator names. We're supposed to be anonymous. Safe.
"Sir, I need your location," I say again, keeping my voice level. My supervisor's probably asleep in the back room, but protocol says I log everything. I hit record. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"You need to listen." He coughs. It sounds thick. "They're coming. I don't have time."
"Then tell me where you are, and I'll send help."
"812 Ashwood Terrace."
I stop breathing.
That's my address.
My apartment. The one I've lived in for three years, the one nobody should know about because I'm not listed, because I paid cash and kept my name off the lease after Elise—
"Who is this?" My voice comes out too sharp. I don't care. "How do you know where I live?"
"I'm sorry." He sounds like he means it. Like he's dying and he's sorry. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."
"You need to tell me who you are right now, or I'm hanging up and calling the cops."
"You can't." Another cough. Worse this time. I hear something hit the ground. "They'll kill you too."
"Who will?"
"The Registry."
I almost laugh. The Lumen Registry is a city myth, something people blame when the power goes out or the old subway doors won't open. My neighbor swears they're the reason his landlord won't fix the heat. It's conspiracy garbage.
But this man knows my address.
"Sir, I'm going to transfer you to the police—"
"Stitch."
The word punches the air out of my lungs.
Stitch.
That's not my name. That's what Elise called me when we were kids. Because I used to sit on the couch and sew up her old stuffed animals, the ones she'd torn apart during her nightmares. Nobody else ever called me that. Nobody.
Elise has been dead for two years.
"What did you just say?" My voice shakes. I don't care anymore. "Say that again."
"I don't have time to explain." His breathing's getting worse. Shallow. Fast. "I'm at your door. If you don't come now, I'm dead. And if I die, they'll come for you next."
"Why?"
"Because Elise told me you were the only one who could help."
The line goes dead.
I sit there for five seconds. Ten. My hand's still on the headset. The call log blinks red. Disconnected.
Elise told me.
Present tense.
Elise is dead. I went to her funeral. I watched them close the casket. I still have the program in my desk drawer because I'm too much of a coward to throw it away.
This is a prank. Or a scam. Someone hacked the dispatch system and pulled my file. It happens. I should report it. I should wake up my supervisor and let him deal with it.
Instead, I rip off my headset and grab my jacket.
The night air hits me the second I step outside, sharp and damp. It rained earlier. The streets are black and slick, reflecting the orange glow of the streetlights. There's no one else out. The buses stopped running an hour ago, and the only cars I see are parked, dark and empty.
I live ten minutes from the dispatch office if I walk fast. I make it in seven.
My building's a four-story walk-up in the old district, the kind of place where the landlord's never around and half the tenants pay under the table. The front door's propped open with a brick, like always. I take the stairs two at a time, my sneakers squeaking on the worn linoleum.
Third floor. My apartment's at the end of the hall, 3C. The hallway light's out again. I pull out my phone and turn on the flashlight.
There's someone on the floor outside my door.
I stop.
He's slumped against the wall, head tilted back, one arm pressed against his side. Even in the bad light, I can see the blood. It's soaked through his shirt, dark and spreading. His jeans are torn at the knee. His other hand's curled in a fist.
He's not moving.
"Hey." My voice sounds too loud. I take a step closer. "Hey, can you hear me?"
Nothing.
I should call someone. An ambulance. The cops. Anyone.
But he said the Registry. He said they'd kill me too.
I crouch down next to him, keeping my phone light on his face. He's young. Maybe mid-twenties. Dark hair, messy and wet, stuck to his forehead. Sharp jaw. Pale skin. There's a bruise spreading across his cheekbone, purple and ugly.
I reach out and press two fingers to his neck.
His eyes snap open.
I jerk back, but he's faster. His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. His grip's weak, shaking, but he holds on.
"Stitch," he says. His voice is barely a whisper.
Up close, his eyes are gray. Pale gray, like smoke. They're bloodshot and unfocused, but they're looking right at me.
"You need a hospital," I say. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "Let go. I'm calling an ambulance."
"No." He squeezes tighter. "Inside. Please."
"You're bleeding everywhere. You need—"
"If they find me out here, they'll find you." He coughs, and blood flecks his lips. "Inside. Lock the door. I'll explain."
"You're going to die."
"Not yet." He tries to smile. It's awful. "I'm hard to kill."
I should leave him here. I should call 911 and let someone else deal with this. I don't know him. I don't owe him anything.
But he knew Elise's nickname.
And Elise has been dead for two years, and no one ever found out why.
I unlock my door.
He half-crawls, half-drags himself inside, leaving a smear of blood across my threshold. I follow him in, shut the door, lock it, and shove the security chain across.
When I turn around, he's collapsed on my kitchen floor, breathing hard. His fist is still clenched.
"Okay," I say. My hands are shaking. "Start talking. Who are you? How did you know my sister?"
He opens his fist.
There's something in his palm. Small. Black. Shaped like a shard of glass, but it's not glass. It's smooth and warm, and when he holds it up, it catches the light wrong, like it's glowing from the inside.
"Elise gave me this," he says. "Three months ago. She said if I ever needed help, I should find you. She said you'd know what to do."
"Elise is dead."
"I know." He looks up at me. His eyes are clearer now. Focused. Desperate. "I'm the one who found her body."
The apartment goes silent.
Outside, somewhere in the city, a car alarm starts wailing. It cuts off after a few seconds. Then the lights flicker.
Once. Twice.
The power goes out.
The blackout swallows the whole building, the whole block. I hear someone shout in the apartment below. My phone's flashlight is the only thing still working.
The man on my floor is staring at the window.
"They're here," he whispers.
And then, down in the street, I hear the sound of footsteps.