It's dark outside. But on the staircase, the light goes on forever. I wait atop the stairs, and no matter how hard I try to ignore it, some doors are forced below me. I don't care to remember the ghosts and the monsters they shed. I don't want to meet them again, not even in my dreams. Yet another door invites me in. This one half open. A breeze slips out, cool and sharp. I hesitate once more—but I step inside anyway. The door slides shut behind me with a soft hiss — like a whisper I wasn’t supposed to hear. Abba stands by the window again, their hands resting on the frame, shoulders tense. They don’t turn as I enter. Outside, the sky roils with storm clouds — low and bruised, as though the whole city is holding its breath. The glass dome hums with the wind pressing against it, a constant low vibration in the bones. Lightning flashes, washing Abba’s skin in pale silver. Their shirt clings to the curve of their back, damp with sweat or something darker — and my throat tightens. I linger by the door, pulse thudding. Watching them. Trying to figure out which version of them I’m going to meet. The one that touches me like I’m something precious? Or the one that makes me bleed just to prove I’m real? And I wonder— how long before they’ll thrust their sin upon me. Abba shifts, finally turning, and my chest tightens. There’s a glass of something dark in their hand — fingers wrapped too tightly around it, knuckles pale. They take a slow sip, watching me over the rim. The way they do it feels... deliberate. Like they want me to watch them. Like they know exactly what that does to me. [long pause] “You know, sometimes we think about what it would be like to burn it all down" they murmur, voice rough like they haven’t spoken in hours. Or like they’ve been screaming before I got here. The words sink into my skin, cold and sharp. "Everything," they continue, voice calm. "The city. The people. The system that built us." I blink, unsure what to say. They look at me, and there’s something in their eyes I’ve never seen before—something wild. A flicker of rage. Of grief. “We want to protect you,” they whisper. "But sometimes... sometimes we want to destroy everything that ever touched you. And you…" Abba’s mouth curves — a hint of a smirk that doesn’t reach their eyes. "You always come when I call," they say, swirling the glass. "And yet, you flinch when I get close." I swallow hard. Abba tilts their head, studying me like they’re trying to read something written under my skin. "Why is that?" They take a step closer, slow. Like a predator that knows the prey won’t run far. I fight the urge to step back. But my body betrays me — my shoulders draw tight, and I feel the tremor start in my hands. Abba watches every movement. Not missing a thing. They take another sip. "Come here." The way they say it — not a question. Not even quite a command. Something in between. I hesitate. Their gaze drops to my hands, clenched at my sides, then back to my face. "Afraid of me?" I shake my head — but I don’t believe it. Not really. Abba hums, low in their throat, as if amused. "No," I manage. But it sounds weak. Abba downs the rest of their drink and sets the glass aside with a sharp clink. Then they close the distance. Inches from me now. I can see the faint sheen of sweat on their collarbone. The way their pulse flutters in their throat. The fine line of their jaw, tight with something they’re not saying. Their fingers lift — and for a breathless second, I think they’ll touch me. But they don’t. They reach past me, brushing close enough for my skin to prickle, and take something from a shelf behind. A knife. The onyx blade catches the stormlight, black and glinting like wet stone. Abba turns it over in their hand, fingers tracing the edge. They glance at me — and their smile is soft now. Too soft. Dangerous. "Do you know what this is?" they whisper. I shake my head. Abba steps in so close that their breath warms my cheek. "It’s a promise," they say. "A blade that cuts both ways. Like love." They let the knife trail down their own arm — light, not breaking skin, but enough to leave a line of red in its wake. My stomach twists. They watch me watching them. "May we?" Their voice drops to a whisper. So soft it almost doesn’t reach me over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I freeze, throat too tight to speak, to breathe. Abba leans in — their lips brushing the shell of my ear as they murmur, "Come." And without waiting for my answer, they step back — just enough to offer me the knife, held out between us. Waiting. Daring. My fingers twitch. My chest feels like it might crack open. Outside, the sky reaps apart — but still, no rain comes. Lightning flashes again, bright enough to light their face. For a second, they look like someone I almost remember — but the thought slips away before I can catch it. I reach out — slow, shaking — and take the knife from their hand. Their fingers linger just a second longer than they need to. Watching me. Waiting to see what I’ll do. My flesh tightens painfully. No. I could never do that to them. The thunder cracks. My heart stutters — and the stairs pull me under once more. I hold myself, and I hum a lullaby, I hum quietly and gently, and I sway back and forth, back and forth, and time passes, and I live out of time.
