6. Civil Tongue

"Stop."

My voice, deep and commanding, halts the shadowy figure before the lights reveal his identity. He obeys at once, and a rush of power sears my nerves.

"Are you alone?"

I watch his silhouette, noting the rise and fall of his chin. Just once—up, and then down—but it's enough.

"Good," I whisper, reaching up to brush my right temple as I shift closer. I hate the easy set of his shoulders. I hate that his hands are clasped behind his back, and not raised in fear to defend himself. I hate his confidence, his godlike stance as he stares down at me. I hate that I have to look up to meet his gaze.

"Yes, you are alone," I say, beginning to prowl a slow arc around him. Now I'm in the light, my skin a canvas of dried bloodstains that tell the story of his coworkers. "There's no one left to hear you die. To hear your last breath."

His head follows my movements, and as my arc passes his shoulder, the lights throw his rugged profile into relief.

I take another step, and then another, and when he starts to turn I smile, relishing the knowledge that I am a threat he won't keep his back to.

My hands curl into fists again, ready for their final mission.

* * *

The ding of a text message jolts me out of my slumber, and as I sit up, it takes me a moment to recognize the open plan of SynCo's third-floor office. Davis glances over at my sudden movement, but doesn't stop typing.

A soft exhale escapes my lips as I try to shake the unnerving confidence and intoxicating power that still lingers in my veins. Are dreams supposed to follow you into consciousness? Are they supposed to be that vivid, let alone serial? They feel more like a memoir of someone else's life, translated into a TV show and released in episodic chunks.

Except instead of watching their life, I become them.

Become who?

I dig the heels of my hands into my temples, and to my surprise the right one flares with a stabbing pain. I gasp, pulling my hands away and staring at them as if they hold the secrets to an ancient mystery.

"You okay?"

I stare over the divider at Davis. "Yes," I snap, so aggressively that it sounds more like I'm trying to convince myself. "I mean, except for the fact that you let me fall asleep at my desk when I should be working, yes. I'm fine."

"You looked like you needed the rest."

"I don't need the rest, I need to fix"—I stab at my keyboard, my trembling fingers pressing the wrong buttons and accidentally paging down to the end of the file—"these goddamn bugs before they...."

Having lost my place in the code, I scroll frantically through the file, wondering why such a dumb thing is making my throat close just like those protesters out in front of the building did. I find the correct line and start typing viciously, my teeth tearing at my bottom lip as I bite back a panicked inhale.

"Why are there so damn many?" I burst out. "How did I let this happen? Why did they ever make me a tech lead? Look at all these"—I point to my second monitor, at the list of defects logged there—"who lets that many bugs slip through?!"

"Ronnie!"

I jump at Davis's shout, looking up to find him staring right back at me, his eyebrows drawn into a sharp V and a frown pulling at his lips.

"Go home," he says, his voice sharp in the empty office.

I start to shake my head, but he talks over me.

"It's been a long day. You just spoke at your first keynote. No one else even came back to the office."

I fold my arms like a petulant child. "You did."

"Yeah, and now I'm glad."

I laugh. Is he seriously saying that if I hadn't come back, he wouldn't have? That I'm the only reason he's typing away in a deserted office on a day the whole company usually takes off to celebrate?

"Something weird is going on with you, Ronnie. I don't know what happened on stage, but we both know you weren't supposed to drop that phone. Carlos wasn't supposed to say any of that."

Silence falls, giving way to the pound of my heart in my own ears. Was it that obvious? I close my hands, hoping that digging my fingernails into my palms will anchor me to reality. But it only reminds me of the last dream, of my fists as I prepared to take down my final enemy.

Are they really dreams if they affect my waking life, too? Am I hallucinating? Remembering? Or—my heart stutters as I remember the vision I had as Sven kissed me in our kitchen—seeing the future?

"I don't want to go home," I whisper. "Sven is still at the convention center. I don't want to be alone."

I stare at the desk as I speak, though I feel his gaze intensify.

"What's wrong, Ronnie?"

Slowly, I raise my eyes to him. He stares back, unblinking, his keyboard forgotten. His hands are clasped under his chin, the right side of his face illuminated in the blue-white light of his monitor.

Maybe I should tell him. Just tell someone, so they can have me committed and drugged like I should be. Something about a tiny cell with padded walls and cameras everywhere sounds safe, enticing. There would be no reason to keep looking over my shoulder, looking inside myself and wondering when I will snap.

"Davis—."

I still haven't fully decided how to answer, but before I can, the stairwell door slams open and Sven appears, briefcase in hand and his blazer tucked over his arm. The sleeves of his button-down shirt are rolled up, his tie loosened like he's just walked through the door at home.

Without a word, Davis turns back to his screen.

I paste a smile on my face, trying to force the tension out of my muscles and hoping I don't look like I'm being strangled. If Sven notices, he doesn't comment.

"It's almost five," he answers my unasked question, his eyes crinkling softly. "Figured we could head home."

I stand up. "Already? Don't you have things to do?"

"Not tonight." He shifts, full-on grinning now. "Except making sure you get home in one piece, I guess."

I let out a small breath. "Yeah, I guess I earned that one, didn't I?"

The clearing of a throat nearby reminds us both that Davis is still on the other side of the divider, concentrating studiously on his computer.

Sven smiles and adjusts his weight, opening the conversation up to both of us. "How's it going down here? Ready for the big launch?"

"You can be sure of it, sir," Davis responds without looking away from his screen.

Sven glances at me, and I offer him a small smile. I still don't know what, exactly, Davis's problem with Sven is—it certainly seems like more than just disliking authority. But if he says he's ready, he's ready.

Sven shrugs, I shrug, and then he tilts his head toward the door. I know he won't leave without me, and I don't want to keep him at the office late. He does that enough on his own that a rare chance like this makes me itch to get outside and on the way home so we can spend the night together. I stand and start unhooking my laptop from its external monitors and keyboard, then slip it into my backpack.

"You know," Davis pipes up as we turn to go, "it's my fault Ronnie was out late last night. So if you want to blame anyone, blame me."

Sven turns back to Davis, whose profile is backlit by the glow from his monitor. The output of a terminal command spits by behind his nose, forgotten.

Sven gives him a long, level stare. "I know," he finally says, taking my hand and guiding me toward the elevator.

I collapse into my seat the second Sven unlocks the car. As he starts to drive, an itch tugs at my eyelids, whispering to just close them for a second, but I force them wider. If I fall asleep, I'll dream again, but the adrenaline and rushing, trembling nerves from both the keynote and my visions have wrung every drop of energy from me.

And yet, in spite of the protests making the news on the radio playing softly between us, all I can think about is the strange power dynamic I witnessed earlier as Sven and Davis debated artificial intelligence. Neither had raised their voice, they'd even worn pleasant smiles, but there was an air of careful control around both of them. Like if they said one wrong thing a bomb might go off and blast away the facade, revealing crumbling ruins underneath. There was something more behind it.

"Can I ask something?"

Sven glances over at my request. He nods, and I chew on my lip for a moment as I try to find the most delicate way to bring up what's on my mind.

Finally deciding that there is no gentle or diplomatic way to ask, I blurt, "Why don't you and Davis like each other?"

Sven looks away from the road to give me a bewildered glance, his eyebrows drawing into a chevron above his nose. "What do you mean? Davis and I get along just fine."

"Yeah," I allow. "You're very civil. I've never seen two people try harder to be civil. Why is it so difficult for you?"

He turns back to the windshield and sighs. "There isn't any other question you could think of to ask?"

"Why is it so hard to answer?" I return.

"It's just...." His hands tighten around the steering wheel. "It's complicated, Ronnie."

"It must not be complicated enough for your feeling to have any ambiguity," I point out.

Again, he sighs, a long, gusty exhale. "You can't un-know some things," he says carefully, like he's dancing with a clown and trying not to step on its ridiculously long feet.

"Like what?" I press. I will get to the bottom of this, whether he and Davis tell me or not. We're set to be married in a few months, and Davis is my coworker—someone I collaborate with constantly, every day. I don't want to be caught in the middle of any drama.

What will you do, pick a side? I ask myself, then shake my head. It can't be that bad. I can make them both see reason.

"Sven," I add for good measure, making sure my voice conveys a warning, even though I probably won't follow through on any threats.

For a second he's quiet, and I'm disappointed that he sees the truth—that I love him too much to punish him for anything—but then he grimaces. His fingers start drumming patterns into the steering wheel, and I can almost hear him wishing the traffic wasn't so bad so we'd be home by now and he could escape into the bathroom or something. He pulls his phone out of the cup holder and stares at it intently for a few seconds, as if willing it to ring, but the only sound is the silence of my anticipation.

And then it happens again: The world telescopes out of focus, the car disappears, and that nightmarish voice rises again from the depths of hell to taunt me.

"Would you let it go!"

And then an impact to my right temple, from a source I can't see, sends me flying back into the real world.

A ghostly breath leaves my lips, my eyes locking on Sven. On his eyes. I search them for traces of the telltale ruby, not knowing if I dread or yearn to find it there—but I don't. Instead, it glows back at me for a split second from the window behind his head, and I squint at the spot as the glare fades away.

I'm left staring into my own eyes in the window's reflection.

I swallow down a ripple of jittery desperation. "Sven, just tell me," I urge, my voice panicky. I'm not asking about Davis anymore, but he has no way of knowing that. I don't care. I just want to hear his voice so I can know it's nothing like the distorted monstrosity that goes along with the hallucinations.

"Just let it go, Ronnie!" he snaps, yanking the steering wheel as we make a left turn.

The momentum throws me against the window of the car, but I would have jerked away from him anyway. I've heard him angry, but never at me. I suck my lips inside my mouth and bite down on them, rubbing the spot where my head hit the window.

My right temple. Tears rush to the surface of my eyes. I yank my hand away from my head, like if I can pretend the bruise doesn't exist then the hallucination never happened.

"What is happening to me?" I whisper under my breath, so softly that Sven can't hear. The air inside the car is unbearably still, and I turn to stare out the window, but I no longer see any of the buildings whisking by.

"Sorry," Sven says suddenly. His voice is quiet, but in the aftermath of the vision it's enough to make me jump. I look at him, surprised how weak he sounds; his elbow is propped on the driver's-side window, his hand holding his temple as if shielding his eyes from the world around. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day."

"Sven, the light is green."

He looks up, sighs, and accelerates through the intersection, only to be stopped at the next light.

"It's just, I can't tell you," he adds after a moment of silence. "And I hate not being able to tell you things. You know I can't lie to you."

He reaches across the center console to take my hand. It's amazing how, even with his eyes focused on the road, he still knows exactly where to find me. Our fingers lock together like two pieces of a puzzle, and my trembles don't cease completely, but they slow.

"You can tell me anything," I say softly, using the index finger of my other hand to trace patterns in the back of his.

He takes his eyes off the road long enough to give me a glance full of regret, his mouth turned down. "Not this. I'm sorry, Ronnie. That's not my decision. I can't tell you."

I let our hands drop onto the center console, but I keep holding onto him as we drive in silence. Not his decision? Nothing is over Sven's head. He's the CEO—people answer to him, not the other way around. If a higher power is involved—or something like an HR investigation, which he can't talk about while in progress—then it's something serious.

Serious enough to get the law involved? I shiver as I think about how close I came to telling Davis the truth earlier. He seemed so earnest, so genuinely concerned for me, but I don't even question who to believe now. Sven doesn't lie, ever.

I look over at Sven, wondering what he would say if he knew how close I came to telling Davis about my dreams. Davis, not him. It feels like days ago, not minutes, and in the telescoping hindsight of my tired mind, I don't know why I ever thought I could trust Davis.

A chill settles into me, and I slump back against my seat, clutching Sven's hand more tightly than before.

Nothing is the way it seems anymore. Not Davis, not even me. I'm becoming something dangerous. I can feel the seams of my reality ripping apart, spilling the contents of its insides into a strange ether where anything is possible and nothing can be explained.

I've never known what to feel, and I'm used to that. But this—not knowing who I am? It makes me want to clamp my hands around myself and never loosen my grip.

I don't know what's real anymore.

{

I just wanted to pop in and say thank you guys for being here and sticking along for this much of the ride!! 💜

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