I'm already halfway down the stairs when I hear him collapse.
Wet. Heavy. Like a bag of meat hitting concrete.
The phone's cutting into my palm. Dispatcher's voice is a wasp in my ear—address, can you see the caller, ma'am are you listening—but my brain's stuck on two things.
He knew where I live.
He knew Littlebird.
My bare feet slap tile at the bottom. The apartment door's right there, chipped green paint, lock that sticks. I put a chain on last year after some junkie tried half the floor in one night.
Never thought I'd be the one opening it at 2 a.m. for a stranger.
"Ma'am, are you still there?"
I press the phone to my shoulder. "Yeah. I'm going outside."
"Do not approach the caller if you feel unsafe."
Too late. Hand's already on the deadbolt.
I twist. Chain rattles. I crack the door and the hallway air rolls in—garbage, something sour, copper.
Blood.
He's crumpled against the far wall. Ten feet, maybe less. Back to the paint, head tipped forward, one arm wrapped around his ribs. Dark hoodie, dark jeans, everything dark except the blood seeping between his fingers and the pale edge of his jaw.
He's looking right at me.
"Mara."
My name. Not the clipped dispatcher tone. Not my landlord's bored drawl. Just *Mara*, like he's said it a thousand times.
I should slam the door. Lock myself in the bathroom. Wait for the cops.
Instead I'm stepping into the hall.
"Who are you?"
He tries to straighten. His breath hisses through his teeth. "Need you to listen."
"You need a hospital."
"No hospitals." He shifts. His hand slips. More blood, spreading across his shirt in a bloom that twists my stomach. "No cops."
"Then you called the wrong number."
"I called *you*." His eyes are pale. Gray, maybe blue, hard to tell under the fluorescent flicker. "Elise said you'd help."
The floor drops.
Elise.
He just said her name.
"She's dead," I hear myself say. Far away, like someone else is talking. "She's been dead for three years."
"I know." He drags his free hand across his mouth. Smears red. "She told me anyway."
That doesn't make sense. Nothing about this makes sense.
The dispatcher's still talking. I pull the phone away and hang up.
The silence after is so loud it hurts.
"That was stupid," he says. His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "They'll come anyway."
"Good." I cross my arms. Uncross them. I don't know what to do with my hands. "You can explain why you're stalking me."
"Not stalking. Delivering."
"Delivering *what*?"
He reaches into his pocket. Slow.
I tense. If he pulls a gun I'll scream. Knife, I'll run.
He pulls out something small. Dark. Cupped in his palm. Holds it toward me.
"This."
I don't move.
"Take it," he says. His voice is rough. Fraying at the edges. "Before they get here."
"I'm not taking anything from you."
"Mara." There it is again. My name in his mouth like he owns it. "Littlebird. She said you'd be stubborn."
My throat closes.
Littlebird.
The nickname Elise made up when I was six. When I followed her everywhere, chirping questions. She never told anyone. Not our parents. Not her friends. Not the police who asked a thousand questions after she disappeared.
I'm moving before I decide to.
Three steps. Close enough to see the thing in his palm.
It's a shard. Two inches long, black, smooth like glass but *wrong*. It doesn't reflect the hallway light.
It swallows it.
"What is that?"
"Proof," he says. "That she was right."
I reach for it.
My fingers brush his palm and the shard is *hot*—so hot I almost jerk back—but he closes his hand over mine and presses it into my skin.
It burns.
Not fire. Not blister. Cold burn, the kind that sinks into bone and spreads.
I gasp. Try to pull away. His grip is iron.
"Let go—"
"Listen." His face is close now. Close enough I can see the sweat on his temples. Blood on his teeth. "They're coming for this. For you. You have to keep it safe."
"I don't want it—"
"Doesn't matter." He lets go. I stumble back, the shard clutched in my fist. It's cooling now. Settling into my palm like it belongs there. "You're already in."
"In *what*?"
He opens his mouth to answer.
Every light in the building dies.
The fluorescents cut out with an electric snap. Exit sign at the end of the hall goes dark. Even the glow under Mrs. Chen's door two apartments down vanishes.
The black is so complete I can't see my own hand.
I hear him move. Fabric sliding against the wall. A grunt of pain.
"What's happening?" I whisper.
"They're here."
"Who's—"
Something knocks on my door.
Not the hallway side.
The *inside*.
Three slow, deliberate knocks. Like someone's standing in my locked apartment, waiting to be let out.
The shard in my palm starts to burn again.