SEVEN #4
It’s near dawn that exhaustion finally claims me.
It shouldn’t. I meant to stay awake, watching the last stretch of darkness, to be there when Stranger opens their eyes.
To somehow prove that I can be trusted with a sleeping room and a door.
Apparently, blood loss, pain, and the steady pour of rain have other ideas, all three conspiring against me.
One moment I’m watching the pale light peeking under the edge of the curtains, and the next, I wake to pure silence. A weird kind of silence. Almost wrong. There’s no rain. No soft breathing from the corner. No tiny shifts of fabric I’ve practically memorized. There’s just... nothing.
My eyes open and I’m assaulted by the morning light that turns the room gray. My gaze drops to the corner instantly, only to find it empty. No Stranger, no backpack, no knife and gun.
For one full second, I don’t move. Then I sit up too fast because I forget my side is lined with fresh stitches, immediate regret coming with the flash of pain that steals my breath.
My side pulls with the slightest movement, and I clamp my hand over the bandage and curse under my breath, low enough that I hope it doesn't carry.
Not that it would matter, because Stranger is gone.
Not even a trace of their scent lingers, not the smoke, mud, or blockers. All gone.
And worse, there’s no note. Of course there isn’t.
I have no idea why some small, ridiculous part of me expected one.
Maybe something sarcastic. Like, Don’t die, idiot.
Or maybe, Stop bleeding on important things.
Or, To freedom. Enjoy your abandonment. The kind of note that would both cut and amuse at the same time.
But there’s just... nothing. Nothing at all. Only the dent in the corner where they sat, a faint scuff by the door, and one thread caught on a splinter in the window frame. Dark fabric and almost invisible.
Almost.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I move carefully this time, standing with more caution than before.
I force myself to breathe through the hot flare in my side, pressing my hand to the bandage as if that’ll help alleviate the agony.
It doesn’t, but I ignore it, listening to the house around me.
Nothing moves downstairs, and morning has washed the world in a cool light, damp rooftops glittering weakly under a bland, colorless sky.
Stranger left while I was sleeping. Of course they did.
I should be annoyed, but I’m not. Impressed?
Oh, yeah. Concerned? More than a little bit.
But angry? Not an ounce of that particular emotion.
After all, they told me exactly who they were the moment they picked the corner to camp in all night, choosing that small spot over the bed.
They told me with every checked pocket, every watched exit, and every flinch buried before it could become visible.
They’ve proved they can disappear from almost anyone.
I move to the window first, since that’s where I would have made my great escape.
It’s open by a little under two inches, and I know Stranger would have had to open it enough to slip out quietly enough to leave without waking a wounded Alpha sleeping a mere twenty feet away.
The roof outside is slick with rain, leaving no tracks to look for.
The shingles hold the faintest disturbance close to the gutter, a smudge where a gloved hand might have gripped for balance.
There aren’t any clean footprints, no clear or obvious path, no broken tiles.
Nothing careless, and certainly nothing easy.
A rough laugh leaves me, quiet and wildly disbelieving.
“Fuck my life,” I murmur to myself, pressing my free hand to my lip as I stare out the window for a long, hollow moment.
Stranger seems to move like a ghost with stubbornness issues, filled with spite and pigheadedness.
Father would have absolutely loved them, and that thought punches me so unexpectedly that I stumble a little, reaching one hand to brace myself against the window frame as I stare at the wet, ruined street below.
Father would have appreciated Stranger’s patience.
Their precision. He would have definitely liked their refusal to be easy.
I’m also pretty sure he would have told me not to confuse instinct with entitlement.
He would have told me no one owes me access simply because my biology decided to develop an opinion it doesn’t have a right to have.
I can hear his voice in my head telling me to slow down, think, listen, and keep my hands to myself.
It’s good advice. Very annoying, but good.
Advice I have every intention of following as much as possible, because finding Stranger is no longer something I consider optional.
That’s not to say I’ll corner them. I’m not claiming anything and I don’t intend to steal the truth they’ve been keeping to themselves.
It simply means I’m following the thread carefully, respectfully, and with enough distance that they can keep running if they need to.
However, I will find them.
That’s something that should definitely worry me, because it feels a little too deep for plain curiosity, a bit too steady to be gratitude, and way too calm to be panic.
It lingers much like the weather, inevitable and impossible to argue with.
Biological? Maybe. Or maybe it’s something older and wiser.
Something that has teeth and claws, both buried behind my ribs with little desire to release me.
Pressing my finger to the torn thread on the window, I inspect it closely. It’s a dark-colored thread, a tiny clue most people would probably miss. I don’t, because Stranger almost left no tracks at all.
Almost.
Despite the deep ache in my side, my mouth curves. With a slight nod, I whisper to myself, “Okay, Stranger. Let’s see how good you really are.”
And then I climb through the window and follow.