Page 4 of The Scars of War (Of Ruin and Fire #1)

Uninvited Ink

I haven’t slept for two days.

Not really. I drift for a few minutes here and there…head slumped against the back of the couch or folded over this shitty little sketchpad I keep mangling with charcoal. But real sleep? That thing people seem to sink into like warm water?

Not for me. Not when the silence talks back.

My fingers are strained, the tips gray-black from dragging lines across paper that doesn’t want to take the pressure.

I’ve gone through twelve sheets tonight alone, each one scratched with fire.

Not realistic flames. These are distorted, frenzied.

Sharp edges where there should be curves.

Smoke without origin. Heat that feels like it’s bleeding through the page and into my skin.

Somewhere around page five, I stopped looking at what I was drawing. My hand just keeps moving, like there’s something inside me trying to claw its way out. Something ancient and burning and very, very tired of being ignored.

My neck cracks when I shift. My spine feels like rusted metal. I should get up. Drink water. Take a breath. Instead, I flip to another blank page.

The lines start before I can think.

Wide curves. Jagged streaks. A shape I don’t remember learning, something inhuman, mouth wide open like it’s screaming, but there’s no sound. Just smoke curling around its jaw like a crown.

I stop.

And that’s when I smell it.

Smoke.

Not just the faint, someone-left-the-oven-on kind. This is thick. Bitter. Sharp enough to cut the inside of your nose. The scent of insulation and scorched wood and something that should never burn…but does.

I freeze, every muscle locked. The pad slips from my lap, lands face-down on the floor with a soft thwack. I don’t look at it.

Instead, I stare at the gap beneath my front door.

There’s smoke curling under it. Thin tendrils of gray, licking the tile like a lover’s tongue.

It’s happening again.

I don’t remember standing, but I’m across the room in an instant, hand on the doorknob. It’s cool to the touch. That means something, doesn’t it? It means it’s not real. Not like last time.

Not like before.

My heart slams against my sternum as I yank open the door.

Nothing.

Just the dark hallway of my shitty apartment building. One overhead light is flickering like it’s trying to whisper secrets. No smoke. No smell. Just silence.

I stare for too long. Waiting for the fire to bloom again. For the heat to rise up and swallow me whole.

But the world doesn’t catch .

I close the door slowly, click the deadbolt back into place with shaking fingers. I press my back to the door, try to will my lungs to remember how to pull air.

That’s when the smoke alarm lets out a single sharp chirp.

Just one.

A warning.

I press the heel of my hand to my sternum and sink to the floor, legs folding beneath me like paper. I breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Pretend I’m normal. Pretend this is normal.

But I can still smell it.

I cough once. Twice. Then harder.

And that’s when something dry and black flakes onto my tongue.

Ash.

I spit it out onto the floor in front of me. Tiny fragments of grey, clinging to my lips like a goddamn confession. I stare at it .

I don’t touch it.

Because if I touch it, I’ll have to admit it’s real. And if it’s real, then so is everything else.

I try to distract myself…clean, sketch, scrub the kitchen grout with a toothbrush, as if I’m erasing a crime scene.

The envelope stays in the freezer for exactly fourteen hours and eight minutes.

I know because I count. Every hour that passes, I get more restless.

It’s still there. Now cold, and still waiting to be opened.

Every time I open the freezer to make sure it's still there, it seems to have moved.

Maybe that’s dramatic. But so is having a stranger leave something sealed with a murder-chic wax stamp inside my locked apartment.

Eventually, I snap and yank the envelope from the freezer, throw it on the table, then pace in circles like it's going to talk first. It doesn’t.

I didn’t touch it after I took it out of the freezer, just stared at it, heart jackhammering in my chest. I don’t know how it got in my apartment or who left it just know one minute it wasn’t there… and the next it was .

By the time I finally pass out, it’s almost dawn. My alarm screams two hours later, and I drag myself through a shower, a cup of gas station coffee, and walk to work like a half-dead raccoon wearing lipstick.

Dragana eyes me the second I walk in. “You look like you lost a knife fight and then had a conversation with God.”

“I won the fight,” I mutter. “God was less helpful.”

She tosses me a clean rag and points toward the bar. “Wipe down and stock the garnishes. A delivery’s coming at noon.”

I nod. It’s easier to fall into a routine than admit I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that I’m being watched since the moment I woke up.

Everything feels off. Like the lighting in the bar is too bright.

Like the music is skipping even when it’s not.

Like the shadows don’t quite stay where they should.

The regulars don’t notice. Marv’s already slurring about cryptids in the Appalachians, and Tara is rolling her eyes so hard she might sprain something. Everything looks normal, but it’s not. I can feel it. Like the world is a puzzle someone solved wrong, and now the corners are peeling.

I grip the bar tighter, forcing my focus back to the bottles and the sound of a knife slicing through lime. I can pretend a little longer, but I can’t outrun what’s in my apartment. And I sure as hell can’t outrun what’s inside my head.

The next two days are hell. I go to work. I fake smiles. I pour drinks and pretend the edges of reality aren’t folding in on themselves…even though I know they are. Dragana doesn’t ask questions. But she watches me. Quiet, sharp. She knows something’s off.

I catch myself staring at the VIP booth again and again, like I expect him to be there. Do I want him to be there?

He isn’t.

Another day, another shift. The sketchbook's call is as persistent as ever, even before I'm home. My hands are itching to draw and create. I just hope that once I reach my sketchbook it isn’t one of the men that I’ve been drawing.

I want to sketch freely. I unlock the door and see it staring at me—the envelope I had hoped would vanish as suddenly as it appeared.

It’s on the counter...where it’s been since I took it out of the freezer.

I stopped trying to hide it. The wax seal stares at me like it’s daring me to try to open it, but I don’t open it. Not yet.

I tell myself I’m waiting for something like a sign or a reason. But I know better. I’m waiting because the moment I open it, everything changes. This is about me. The symbols. The dreams. The drawings I don’t remember making. Whatever this is, I’m not just in it…I’m the fucking target.

I pace. I clean. I open the fridge, close it.

Open it again. Nothing inside has changed.

The envelope sits front and center, sprawled across the counter like it owns the place.

I can’t stop staring at it. I tell myself I’m being dramatic.

That this is nothing, that whoever left it is just trying to rattle me, and I’m too stubborn to break.

But that’s a lie, because I am rattled. I am breaking.

Whoever sent that envelope knew exactly what they were doing.

I’ve spent years building my walls, brick by brick, sarcasm layered over trauma, sharp eyeliner over panic. And now? One touch. One wax seal. One whispered name, and those walls are crumbling .

I grip the edge of the sink so hard my knuckles go white.

The shadows in my apartment feel thicker now.

Like the air’s congealing. Like I’m not alone, even when I’m the only one breathing.

I check the locks again. All three deadbolts.

Still sealed. Still not enough. I glance at the clock, and my reflection in the microwave is pale and furious.

I look like someone on the edge of a decision that’ll wreck everything.

And maybe I am, but I’m also tired of pretending like I don’t want to know.

I finally grab the fucking envelope and then drop it as if it’s made of lead.

It lands with a sound that’s louder than it should be.

I don’t know what I’m expecting. A trap.

A curse. A note that says “I see you” in bleeding ink?

“Get a fucking grip,” I whisper to myself as I pick up the envelope and break the seal.

Inside is a single card. Black. Heavier than paper should be.

Stamped with that spiral again, the blade gleaming like polished bone.

And across the center in dark red, glistening ink…

an address. No name. No time. Just a place.

I don’t recognize the street, but I know the area.

Old money territory. The kind of place where people pay extra not to be found.

The card hums against my sk in like a live wire.

I should call someone. I should say something. What would I even say?

“Hi, Officer, a possibly telepathic stalker broke into my apartment and invited me to a death palace. No, I don’t have any real evidence other than a random envelope. No, you can’t find it online. No, I haven’t been sleeping much. Why do you ask?”