Arielle couldn't shake the feeling that someone had been in her apartment last night.
The events of the previous evening replayed in fragments—Julien's silence, the strange footsteps, the turning of the doorknob. Her skin crawled at the thought, but she told herself it was nothing. Just an overactive imagination, an anxiety attack in the quiet of the night. She had no proof that anything had really happened. No signs. No one was there.
But there was something she couldn't ignore.
The way the door had moved. So softly. As if someone was trying not to be heard.
She pushed the thought away as she stepped out of bed, her feet meeting the cool hardwood floor.
The apartment was empty. No messages. No calls. No sign of Julien. Again.
Her phone buzzed—finally. It was a notification from an unknown number.
> "Meet me at the café. You'll want to hear this."
Her pulse quickened. She stared at the message for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the screen.
It was from an unknown number, yet it felt strangely familiar, as if she'd been waiting for it without even realizing.
She slipped into her jacket, the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her chest.
---
The café was quiet—intimate, with a low hum of voices and the smell of fresh coffee hanging in the air. Arielle walked in, looking around for whoever had texted her.
A man sat at the corner table, a paper spread out in front of him, though his attention was focused entirely on her as she entered. His dark eyes seemed to pierce through her, as though he knew something she didn't.
He stood when he saw her approach, a slight smile tugging at his lips.
"You must be Arielle."
She nodded, cautiously. "And you are...?"
"I'm someone who knows a few things about Julien." He gestured for her to sit, his hand steady, but his eyes never leaving hers. "I think it's time you learned too."
Arielle sat, trying to mask the growing unease in her stomach.
"Who are you?" she asked, trying to steady her voice.
"Let's just say I know people who know things." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photograph. "This is Julien. But you won't find this picture in his social media accounts, I promise you that."
Arielle took the photograph from him and studied it carefully. It was Julien, but much younger. His face was smeared with what looked like dirt, and he was standing in front of a run-down building, a place she didn't recognize.
"Where was this taken?" Arielle asked, her voice trembling slightly.
"Somewhere he doesn't talk about." The man's expression softened, almost pitying. "But you should know—it's not the first time he's been connected to... certain people."
"Connected to who?" Arielle's voice was barely above a whisper now.
The man hesitated, his gaze flicking around the café before lowering to the table. He seemed to weigh his next words carefully.
"You'll need to ask Julien yourself. But be careful, Arielle. People like him don't just disappear."
Before Arielle could respond, the man stood up, leaving the photograph on the table. His voice dropped lower.
"Don't trust anyone right now. Not even him."
With that, he turned and left the café, disappearing into the crowd.
---
Arielle sat frozen for a moment, the weight of the photograph burning a hole in her palm. What was Julien hiding? What had he been involved in? And why had this stranger—this man—decided to reveal it all now?
Her mind raced as she thought back over the past six years. The moments that had felt right, the times she had brushed off his odd behavior, the excuses he'd made for his absences. Everything was beginning to unravel.
But the question still remained—who could she trust? If even the man in the café was warning her away from Julien, then was there anyone left she could rely on?
She pocketed the photograph, determined to find answers, and stepped out of the café, ready to confront the man she had once thought she knew better than anyone.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows on the pavement as Arielle stepped out of the café. Her fingers clenched around the photo inside her coat pocket like it was a ticking bomb. She didn't look back. She didn't need to. The man who had given her the warning was gone—disappeared as quickly and silently as he had arrived.
Her mind, however, refused to follow suit.
She walked aimlessly for a while, letting her thoughts churn. Each step felt heavier than the last. She couldn't go home. Not yet. Not when her apartment suddenly felt like a stage where someone else pulled the strings.
She dialed Julien's number for the fifth time that day. Still nothing. Voicemail.
"Hey, it's me... again. Call me, please. It's important."
She hung up and stopped walking. She was near a bookstore tucked between a flower shop and a tailor's kiosk. On impulse, she slipped inside, needing the quiet, needing time.
Inside, the smell of paper and ink embraced her like an old friend. A few people moved about quietly, heads buried in pages. She wandered past the shelves, her hand brushing against spines without reading titles. Her heart wouldn't settle.
A sudden vibration broke her daze—her phone again.
Julien.
Her breath caught. She answered on the first ring.
"Arielle," his voice came through, low and clipped. "Where are you?"
She hesitated. "Out. Walking."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"Don't go home," he said quickly. "Just... not yet."
Her blood turned cold.
"Why? What's going on?"
Julien exhaled. "I'll explain. Meet me in an hour—remember that old art studio on Greenway? The one near the abandoned tracks?"
"Julien, what's happening?"
He didn't answer the question. Just said, "Please, Ari. Just trust me. One last time."
And the line went dead.
Arielle lowered the phone slowly. Her reflection stared back at her from the dark screen—confused, worried, but also something else.
Determined.
She looked around the bookstore one last time before turning and heading for Greenway Street.
---
The sun was dipping low by the time she reached the studio. It looked exactly as she remembered—worn, quiet, half-swallowed by ivy and time. She stepped over a broken gate, heart thudding in rhythm with her steps.
The air smelled like rust and damp wood.
She pushed the door open.
Inside, light from a cracked window painted dusty shapes on the floor. Canvases lay scattered, some torn, others unfinished. The place held echoes of something—laughter, maybe. Years ago.
But tonight, it was empty.
"Julien?" Her voice was small in the silence.
A creak behind her.
She spun around.
And saw him.
Standing in the doorway. Face unreadable. Shirt half-untucked, dark circles beneath his eyes.
"Arielle," he said softly, almost like an apology.
She didn't speak. Just waited.
Julien walked in slowly and pulled the door shut behind him. He didn't meet her eyes right away.
"I didn't want you to find out like this," he murmured. "But I guess... that's out of my hands now."
Arielle's throat tightened. "What is?"
Julien finally looked at her—and in that moment, she knew.
Something inside him had broken. A long time ago.
"There are things about my past that I never wanted to bring into this life. Into our life. But someone's forcing my hand now. And if I don't act fast, it'll hurt you too."
He walked to a drawer in the corner of the studio and pulled out a manila envelope. Thick. Sealed.
He handed it to her.
"What's this?"
"The truth."
Arielle looked at it, then back at him. "Why now?"
"Because someone's been watching you. And I think they want to use you to get to me."
She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her.
"Please, just read it. But not here. Go somewhere safe. Then decide if you still want to be part of this."
He took a step back. His voice cracked. "Because after this... there's no going back."
---