Page 43 of Eternal

AZRA

Present

A masked man, following me, watching me, fighting me.

It’s a new thing now.

I don’t like new things, I hate it. Since when do people know where the fuck I go and what I do?

I stumbled in front of my door, the ride back was rough, my bike felt heavier than usual, every bump in the road sending fresh pain through me. My helmet drags at my neck, and my fingers fumble at the strap.

The injury is healed so why does it still hurt?

Did I push too hard? Did he hit me there? No, he didn’t…

It would’ve been easier to calm myself if he had.

And who the hell was that?

Okay, calm down, Azra. Calm the fuck down.

I shove the key into the door, miss the hole, curse, and try again.

My hands are shaking, I don’t know if it’s from the fight, the cold, or the way my body still feels him, his grip, his weight, his strength pressing against mine.

He fought like a ghost, slipping through my defenses, anticipating my moves.

Who was that?

The door finally unlocks, I step inside, and the silence drops on me immediately, no gunfire, no screaming, no bodies hitting the floor.

It should feel good… It doesn’t.

I drag myself down the hallway, agonizingly slow. My ribs ache, my shoulder is on fire. I don't even know why, but it’s the old wound that worries me, the one that should be healed, the one Damir stitched shut.

I push into the bathroom, flick on the light, to bright, too fucking bright.

The mirror catches me in its reflection, and I almost don’t recognize the woman staring back. Hair tangled, skin pale, blood smeared across my jaw, my eyelid, even my neck. And when I catch my naked reflection in the mirror, it’s like I’m fourteen again, in pain, a stranger to my own body.

Someone I thought was disgusting for being so broken. Someone who thought her body was never hers, and it's still here in a way, it almost feels like a punishment.

This thing they touched. Hurt. Branded .

This is what they wanted, this is what they paid for.

I’m no one.

No mind, no soul.

Just killing. Just fighting.

Is this what you wanted, little Azra?

Do you miss daydreaming and hoping? Because I don’t.

I shrug off my jacket. My shirt is damp with sweat and streaked red where the stitches tore open again.

Fucking hell.

I reach for the cabinet, pulling out my med kit. The movement sends a sharp pull through my ribs, and I grit my teeth, pushing past it. I grab a towel, bite down, and start the slow, agonizing process of stitching myself back together.

The needle goes in, flesh pulls tight, and the pain rips through me.

I muffle the scream against the towel. Again . Another stitch. Again . My vision blurs, sweat slicks down my spine. Again.

By the time I’m done, my hands are trembling.

I let the needle drop into the sink and press the heel of my palm against my forehead, my breathing is shallow, uneven.

I reach for the cabinet again, this time for the painkillers. The bottle is cool in my palm, the label worn from how many times I’ve held it, and my stomach clenches.

It would be easy, so fucking easy. One, just one, to take the edge off, to make the shaking stop.

But I can’t, I need to breathe and calm down, the pain will disappear eventually.

I’ll never get over it, the need to feel the numbness, to not feel.

It never felt like chains, but it was.

“ I need you to be free. ” The whisper is loud in my head but quiet in front of my reflection.

“I. Need. You. To. Be. Free.”

I swallow hard and slam the door shut.

Not tonight.

I push myself up, force my legs to move. A quick shower, hot enough to burn, the blood spirals down the drain, turning the water pink, I scrub hard, but some things don’t wash off.

Scars and ink stretch across my body, carved deep into my skin.

My arms, my ribs, my back reminding me quietly of every fight, every kill, every loss, every moment I didn’t die when I should have. Nothing soft, nothing delicate. It was a body built for abuse.

I trace a scar over my hip, fingers skimming the raised flesh.

Would a man even know what to do with me? Could I ever be normal? Even if I wanted to try, even if I faked it, how long before the truth bled through?

I shake the thought away and turn the water hotter, until the heat stings and the steam chokes me, but even with the water pounding down, it feels like hands pulling me under, dragging me down to hell, the weight of everybody I’ve left behind pressing against me, whispering, screaming at me there's no way out.

No heaven waiting, only this, the pain, the frustration, the blood.

I was born in hell, and my ashes will return to it.

So why dream? Why stop? It’s already written.

I rinse the last of the blood away, step out, and wrap a towel around myself. The mirror is fogged, but I can still see the faint outline of my reflection. I don’t look. I can’t.

I dry off, wrap a fresh bandage around my ribs, and throw on a loose hoodie. I step into the kitchen, make tea with the last of my strength, and sit on my sofa with the same blanket over me. It’s comforting. To have his ghost hugging me.

I sip the tea, ignoring the way my hands won’t stop shaking. My phone sits next to me, silent. The world is still, and I like it. It’s so calm, so soft. I can focus on my breathing before having to put the new information I gathered off Donovan. Then, it rings.

Who’s calling me tonight?

Damir.

I’m not in the mood for that… I pick it up on the third ring, hoping he is simply calling because I forgot to send him a picture today. “Yeah?”

“Hello to you too, partner. Always a pleasure to hear your voice even behind a screen,” I can hear his smile from here, but I’m in too much pain to focus on that right now. “Busy?”

I lean back into the couch, curling into the blanket even more, eyes on the ceiling. I sense cold droplets of water on my back, I need to dry my hair, or maybe braid it?

“I’m busy, Damir. What do you want?”

There’s a pause, then he chuckles. “What are you doing at this time of the night?”

I let out a soft breath, pushing my fingers through my hair. “Nothing that should worry you.”

He laughs again. “Is that so? Thought you’d be out training again like you did the last three days. Or maybe you’re still recovering?”

“Doesn’t concern you.” I take another sip of my tea, trying to ignore the shiver running through me. There’s a brief silence on the other end, and for a moment, I think he’s done. But then… A knock and I freeze.

I place the phone down on the table, pushing myself up slowly. The knock comes again, louder this time, insistent. I move toward the door, glance down at the phone still lying on the table, the screen flashing with Damir’s name.

The door creaks open.

He’s standing there, leaning casually against the frame, his lips curling into a smirk.

Is that a dream? A nightmare I mean.

“Well, I thought you said you were busy,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

I stare at him for a moment, pulse racing, my breath caught somewhere between annoyance and relief. “Guess I lied.”

“Good thing I didn’t believe you and came to see it by myself,” Damir says, holding up two pints of ice cream.

I look at it, then back at him, and I can’t help but smile despite myself. How can I even find the will to smile after killing so many people tonight. “Fine, you win. I need one,” I mutter, stepping aside to let him in.

It’s strange, though. I’m letting him in, really letting him in, and I don't know why. Maybe it’s because it’s almost 4am and I’m too tired to do anything else other than that, or maybe it's the fact that his presence is somehow, not uncomfortable?

“Knew you’d cave,” he grins, and I hate that he’s right.

“Take off your shoes first,” I mutter, the words coming out without thinking. Old habits I got from my mother, I guess.

He glances at me over his shoulder, his grin widening. “Is that a command?”

“If I have to tell you twice, I’ll throw a knife.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says after a low chuckle.

I watch as he slips his shoes off and heads into the living room, but I feel a strange urge to tidy up. I’m not even sure what needs tidying; it’s not like I ever have guests. Apart from Vik and Kat, no one ever comes here. But his presence is making me... self-conscious.

For the first time in a long time, I feel a little vulnerable.

Is that normal? I always thought having people in your house was casual. But why does it feel like I’m showing him a place where I’ve cried and screamed so many times, like he could see the ghosts of me in those moments? Of course, he can’t.

That’s okay, Azra.

“Got a spoon?” he asks, breaking the silence. “Maybe two? Or we can share one if you’re feeling flirty.”

I roll my eyes, already walking toward the kitchen. “You’re lucky I don’t have much dignity left tonight,” I mutter under my breath, pulling open a drawer for spoons.

When I come back into the living room, I hand him one, and then I plop down onto the couch. He’s already settled in, the ice cream pint resting comfortably in his lap, like he’s been here a thousand times before. And mine on the small table.

“You’re too comfortable. I’m almost scared,” I joke, popping the lid off my ice cream and digging in.

He shrugs, smirking. “I like the decor. It suits you.” His eyes flicker to mine, and I can tell he’s waiting for my reaction to this compliment.

Was that even a compliment? My apartment is simple with no decor.

Apart from some books, a lot of DVDs and vinyls and some artworks that I liked and picked with Kat.

How does this suit me? “Honestly, though, I thought you’d throw a knife at me when you saw me. Guess you're too tired for that.”

I take a spoonful of ice cream, slowly licking it off the edge. My gaze meets his for a beat too long before I glance away, trying to shake off that feeling gnawing at the pit of my stomach.