Olivia' POV
Two weeks.
That's how long it had been since we scattered—since the safehouse door slammed shut behind us, and the world stopped making sense. Vince had tucked me away in a town so small it forgot it existed, behind a crumbling library with windows that hadn't been washed in years. The apartment he found for me was a shoebox—one flickering ceiling bulb, one window with a cracked pane, one rusted radiator that clicked like old bones snapping in the dark.
I called it home because I had to.
My new name was Cassie Parker. just out of school, orphan, searching of job because don't have money. Careful. Reclusive. I repeated it every morning like a prayer.
"I am Cassie Parker. I live alone. I don't ask questions. I mind my business."
But I didn't believe it. Not really.
In the mirror, I looked like a ghost. My lips were cracked from forgetting to drink water. My eyes—Olivia's eyes—were dull from too many hours staring at nothing. I pressed my fingers to the glass sometimes, as if I could reach through and find her again. The woman who still laughed. Who still hoped. Who hadn't lost everything.
Each morning started the same. The air was gray, and I'd sit on the edge of the bed for too long, waiting for the silence in my chest to fade. Coffee came next—thin, bitter, scorched. No milk. No sugar. Just heat, to remind my hands they still existed.
Then the walk—three blocks to a corner store with dusty shelves and soft jazz humming from an ancient radio. Mrs. Thompson worked the register every day. She wore cardigans like wilted roses and always smelled faintly of violets. She never asked questions. But she knew.
"Your eyes look heavier today," she said one morning, her voice gentle as she handed me my change.
I froze, my fingers trembling. "I'm just tired."
"There's tired, and then there's what you're carrying." She leaned closer over the counter. "Sometimes the quiet is worse than the noise, dear."
My defenses cracked, just a sliver. "I miss my friends."
Her grip tightened around my hand, warm and firm. "You remind me of my daughter. She had that same look once... like she was half-living."
"Does it ever go away?" I asked, the words tumbling out before I could catch them.
She smiled, small lines crinkling around her eyes. "It doesn't go away. But you learn to carry it differently. You're not as alone as you feel."
"Thank you," I whispered, meaning it for the first time in days.
Maybe. But the nights told a different story.
That's when the ghosts came.
Eve's laughter echoing down memory's hall. Luke's quiet nods. Anika's fierce voice cutting through doubt. Vince's steady calm, wrapping around us like armor. And Sebastian...
God, Sebastian.
I could still feel his hand on my spine that last night in the safehouse. He didn't speak much. He never needed to. His silence held more than words ever could.
"Promise me you won't fall apart," I'd whispered to him that final night, my fingers digging into his shirt as if I could anchor him to me.
His eyes had darkened, a storm brewing behind them. "I promise."
"I took the promise from his to not fall apart but here I am falling soo deep that there is no going back"
I missed him like breath.
Sometimes I woke gasping, reaching for a phantom that wasn't there. Whispering his name into the dark like a curse. Like a prayer.
"Seb... I can't do this alone," I'd sob into my pillow. "I can't be this person without you."
But the silence never answered.
Sebastian' POV
The first thing I noticed every morning was what wasn't there.
No Olivia.
No warmth at my back. No rhythm of her breath to anchor me. Just the hum of traffic, the click of old plumbing, the city moving past me like a world I no longer belonged to.
My room was a box. One bed. One cracked mirror. A desk cluttered with nothing. I kept the light off, blinds down, always listening for footsteps that never came.
Mark Allen. That was the name I wore now. Short hair. No earrings. Just dull brown contact lenses that hid my eyes and the truth behind them.
I didn't exist.
But the pain did.
To stay sane, I worked. Watched Lawrence. Tracked him through press events and public appearances, hiding in plain sight. I forged a press badge. Learned to smile like I belonged. Scribbled notes like a journalist. I watched his face more than I listened to his words.
"The safety of our nation depends on the truth," he said one afternoon, his voice lacquered in political polish. "Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good."
Bullshit.
But something flickered in his eyes when they asked about the children. About Project ECHO. A glance—too fast, too sharp—to the man standing at his right. I wrote it down.
Then I vanished. Side alleys. Subways in the wrong direction. Looping paths. Paranoia was just survival with sharper teeth.
At a café on the 6th, I saw a man wearing military boots. My breath caught, lungs forgetting how to work. The coffee sloshed in my cup, the tremor in my hands returning with a vengeance.
"Are you alright?" the barista asked, peering over the counter.
"Fine," I managed, though my voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. "Just clumsy."
I spilled my coffee on purpose and ducked out the side door. Walked ten blocks without stopping, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted to escape.
"Get it together," I hissed to myself, ducking into an alley to catch my breath. "You're going to get yourself killed."
I was used to running. I'd been doing it since I was six.
That's where the nightmares always started again.
It always starts the same way.
Cold tile against my cheek. A metallic taste in my mouth. Somewhere nearby, a light flickers—buzzing, sputtering—like it's warning me. I'm small again. Knees to chest. The saltshaker on the floor tips with each shake of my body, tapping out some forgotten Morse code: run, run, run.
But I can't move.
The front door slams.
Keys hit the counter with a jangle that makes my stomach drop.
He's home.
Three footsteps. The sharp tug of his belt sliding free.
"Sebastian!"
The sound cracks through the silence like a bullet.
My breath knots in my throat. I want to disappear, vanish into the floorboards, dissolve into the air like a ghost. But I don't. I never do. I sit frozen under the table, counting the space between footfalls. Praying.
He finds me.
He always finds me.
"Please," I whisper, the word so small it barely exists. "I didn't mean to."
"You never mean to," he growls, his voice thick with whiskey and rage. "But you do it anyway, don't you? Just like your mother. Worthless."
The slap comes first—open hand, cruel precision. Then the belt, the buckle cold as it bites into skin. I try not to cry out. Learned that lesson early. Crying only feeds him. Only makes it last longer.
"You're not worth the space you take up," he growls. "Ungrateful little shit."
I can't feel my legs. I can't feel anything but burning.
I close my eyes and pretend I'm somewhere else. Anywhere else.
But I'm fifteen now. It's snowing. My coat's torn down the sleeve, stitched too many times already. I walked home from school with the wind slicing through me. The cold was easier than going back to him.
The second I step inside, I know he's seen it.
"You ruin everything you touch," he spits.
"I'm sorry," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Sorry doesn't fix what you break," he snarls, his fist clenching around the belt. "Sorry doesn't make you worth a damn."
The belt comes down again.
Again.
Again.
"You'll learn respect if it's the last damn thing I teach you."
Maybe it will be.
I wake up gasping, every nerve screaming. I'm on the floor, tangled in soaked sheets, my cheek pressed to the cold motel tile like in the dream. My chest heaves, ribs tight, like I've been sprinting for miles. My fists are clenched so hard my nails have drawn blood. The taste of iron lingers on my tongue.
I can still feel the belt. Hear his voice. See the flicker of rage in his eyes.
It takes minutes—hours?—to realize it's over.
That it's not real.
But it is. It always is.
No amount of waking changes that.
I drag myself to the bathroom, hands shaking so badly I miss the faucet twice. Cold water hits my face. I don't look up. I don't look at the mirror. I don't want to see him.
Because sometimes, when I do, it's not me staring back.
It's him.
I have never told Eve or Luke.
Especially not Olivia.
What the hell would I say?
That there were nights I slept in the crawl space with spiders and rot because I knew he wouldn't look there? That I once taught myself how to pop a dislocated shoulder back into place because I couldn't risk a hospital? That the scent of whiskey makes me physically sick?
The truth sits like glass in my throat. I can't speak it without bleeding.
So I don't.
I survive. That's what I do.
I caffeinate until my hands jitter and my thoughts fracture. I walk through cities like a ghost, keeping my back to the wall. I wear the same hoodie every day. I smoke when it's bad. I scratch at my scalp when it's worse. The panic lives under my skin. A heartbeat out of rhythm. A shadow always a little too close.
"You're killing yourself slowly," Luke had said once, watching me chain-smoke on the safehouse roof.
"Better than the alternative," I'd replied, not meeting his eyes.
"She worries about you, you know," he'd said quietly. "Olivia. She doesn't say it, but I see her watching you when you think no one's looking."
I'd crushed the cigarette under my boot. "She shouldn't."
"Tell that to her heart," Luke had sighed, shaking his head. "Some people don't know how to stop caring, even when it hurts."
But every night, in that moment just before the dream takes me under, I whisper her name.
"Olivia."
I don't know if she hears it.
I don't even know why I say it.
Maybe because it's the only word that doesn't feel like poison in my mouth.
Some nights, memories of her are the only thing that keeps me breathing.
Olivia' POV
The sky was washed in the kind of gray that felt permanent, like the sun had forgotten how to rise.
I sat on the windowsill, legs tucked close, the chipped mug of lukewarm tea cradled between my palms. It had long gone cold, but I didn't care.
My fingers tightened around the mug just as my phone vibrated beside me. The screen lit up.
Meet. 11:00 AM. Tomorrow.
No name. Just the cold brevity of Vince.
But I knew what it meant.
My breath caught. My hands started to shake.
Tomorrow.
I might see them again.
I might see him again.
Sebastian.
The name didn't feel safe to speak aloud. Like it might shatter something if I said it too quickly. But it beat inside my chest like a second pulse.
I pressed my forehead against the glass. My reflection looked pale, eyes hollowed out from weeks of too little sleep and too much grief. The lie of Cassie Parker hung heavy on my skin like a mask I couldn't wait to tear off.
I whispered it anyway.
"I'm not Cassie Parker."
Just saying it cracked something open.
A breath escaped me that I didn't realize I'd been holding for days.
Maybe weeks.
"I'm Olivia," I said louder this time, my voice trembling with something between defiance and relief. "I'm Olivia, and I'm still here."
The words felt dangerous and beautiful all at once. Like I was reclaiming a part of myself that had been buried under fear and silence.
"I'm going to see him tomorrow," I whispered to my reflection.
The ache in my chest didn't leave, but it shifted. For the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn't made of fear. It was made of hope.
I didn't sleep that night.
I just lay there, eyes wide, heart racing toward morning.
Sebastian' POV
Midnight came and went, but I didn't stop moving.
One shirt. A clean one, though it still smelled like motel soap and stress. A half-used lighter. The photo—creased, worn at the edges, nearly torn down the middle but still whole.
I ran my thumb over Olivia's face. Her smile had been real that day. She looked like she was standing on the edge of something good. Like she believed in the world.
My throat tightened.
Tomorrow.
I'd see her tomorrow.
Olivia' POV
The building looked like it had been swallowed by time. Ivy twisted through broken glass panes, wrapping around rusted beams like nature was trying to hold the place together. I pushed open the door and stepped into the stillness. Dust floated like old memories. The air smelled like sun-warmed dirt and decay.
And something else.Something familiar. My breath caught. He was already there.
Standing in a shaft of light, like some forgotten statue carved from shadow and heartbreak. Black hoodie. Backpack slung low. Head bowed. But I'd know that shape anywhere.
Sebastian.
He didn't hear me at first. Or maybe he did and couldn't move. His back was tense, like the weight of the past still clung to his shoulders. I took a step. Then another. My boots crunched softly against shattered tile.
He turned.
His eyes found mine—and I swear the world just... stopped.
His face was thinner. The sharp lines sharper. His hair a little longer, curling behind his ears. And under those eyes... the bruised shadows of too many sleepless nights.
Dark circles that looked like they'd been carved there.
"Sebastian," I breathed, his name falling from my lips like a prayer.
His eyes widened, like he couldn't quite believe I was real. "Liv..."
I didn't say another word.
Didn't ask.
Because I knew. I knew what those nights must've been like. The same ghosts haunted my sleep too.
I just walked to him.
And he met me halfway.
Our bodies collided in the quietest crash—his arms wrapping around me like he wasn't sure I was real, like he needed to feel every inch of me just to believe I hadn't vanished. I buried my face into his chest and breathed in the scent of worn cotton, smoke, and something undeniably him.
His hand trembled against my back.
"I missed you," I whispered, voice thick and breaking. "God, I missed you so much I couldn't breathe sometimes."
His breath hitched.
Then his hand slid into my hair and he held me tighter, like maybe if he let go, the world would fall apart again.
"I missed you too liv he said, voice rasping like he hadn't used it in days. Maybe weeks.
"Liv, I'm not... I'm not doing well," he admitted, his voice cracking. "The nightmares are worse. I wake up and I can't—"
"I know," I whispered, cutting him off gently.
Those eyes.
There was so much pain in them. But behind it—just barely—I saw something else.
A flicker of warmth. Of relief. Of home.
"You look tired," I said softly, my hand brushing the side of his face, but I didn't push it further. I didn't ask what the nightmares had taken from him this time. I just let my fingers trace the edge of his jaw, the way I used to when we still believed in soft endings.
He gave a half-smile. "Didn't sleep much."
"I figured."
"How have you been?" he asked, his voice tentative, like he was afraid of the answer.
"Surviving," I said honestly. "Not living. Just... existing. Being Cassie Parker."
"God, I hate that name," he said with a small laugh that sounded almost real.
I smiled, feeling something in my chest unwind. "Me too. It tastes wrong every time I say it."
A silence fell between us—but not an empty one. It was thick with everything we hadn't said. Every scream we swallowed. Every moment we thought the other might be lost for good.
"I kept hearing his voice," he admitted suddenly. "In the dark. Telling me I was not enough."
My throat closed up.
"But only saying your name kept me alive," he continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "When it got bad... really bad... I'd just say your name and remember what we're fighting for."
His eyes fell shut at that. Just for a second. Like the words hurt.
I reached up and pressed my forehead to his. "you are here now. That's what matters. We found each other again and we are not going into hiding again now we have to finish this once and for all."
He looked at me and then He kissed me then.
Slow. Tender. Like he was trying to relearn the shape of me.
And I kissed him back like I never wanted him to forget it again.
When we finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine, eyes still closed.
The wind stirred outside. The ivy whispered against the glass.
But inside, in that broken greenhouse overtaken by dust and ruin, something new took root.
Hope.Us.