A voice slips under the door. “Aariz.”

  “Coming,” I answer, already moving.

  Odai waits by the gate, helmet dangling like a threat. “Bike run,” he says. “Meds for the aunts.”

  I swing on behind him, Etisham wedged between us. The engine kicks and we roll into streets that taste of hot tar and old fear—sun baking the tarmac, exhaling ghosts. Shutters down, windows dark, only the sun left—and even that smells metallic, like a blade left out too long.

  Odai splits us up: “You two check that lane. I’ll take the main.”

  Etisham and I find one medical store still lit, bulbs flickering like dying heartbeats. The owner’s sweat hangs in the air—sour, anxious. We grab the supplies, pay fast, leave.

  We’re supposed to meet Odai back at the corner.

  He’s not there.

  Then he is—**running**, face white, a **purple bracelet of fingers** around his wrist. The bruise **pulses heat** against the cool air.

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  “Guy grabbed me,” he pants. “Asked where to get medicine. I **ran**.”

  I stare at the mark. Perfect crescents under skin. My tongue **tastes iron**—his fear bleeding into my mouth. The shadow leans over my shoulder: *“He wore your shape for three seconds.”*

  We ride home in silence thick as oil, engine vibration drumming through my ribs.

  ---

  Later, the living room becomes a cloud of feathers and laughter. Pillow war. I keep mine soft, swing light, let Eshle win the round. Safe fun. No blood. Just noise to drown the quiet outside—and the **copper tang** that still clings to my tongue.

  ---

  Night falls. Rain starts. Lights die.

  We gather, whisper, laugh. I lead them onto the terrace—let rain soak us while the city blacks out. Each drop **stings cold**, then **steams** on skin. Through the downpour I spot him again: **same figure**, **bicycle upside-down** now, **chain wrapped like a noose** around the gate. The **smell of wet asphalt** mixes with **ozone**—like a fuse just lit.

  I don’t tell them that part.

  Back inside, dripping, I gather the cousins.

  “I saw him again,” I say. “If he shows up, **point**, **don’t scream**. I want his **eyes**.”

  The laughter dies. They look at me—not the rain, not the dark—**me**. And for the first time, they see the **crack** where the shadow peeks through, tasting **rainwater** and **predator** on my breath.