A stranger sat at her table, claiming to be her soulmate.


Steam curled from her cup, thick as ghosts, curling upward only to vanish before it reached the dim light of the café’s overhead bulbs. Outside, headlights slashed through mist, reflecting in puddles like restless specters. The hum of conversation, soft and indistinct, bled into the streets where taxis idled, exhaling diesel ghosts into the wet avenues. The city lived in half-tones, the smear of neon, the endless drone of existence reduced to an endless sequence of meetings, figures, signatures on documents she barely read anymore.

And then he was there.


A man in a gray coat, collar upturned, hands folded neatly on the table like a patient surgeon. He wasn’t waiting for a reaction. He had already decided she would believe him.


He said her name. No hesitation. No guesswork.


She had never seen him before.


"They built this world for you," he said. "To keep you here. I’ve been trying to reach you."


She pressed her fingertip to the rim of the cup, tracing a slow circle. The office, the meetings, the sheets of numbers lined up in endless, unreadable rows. The white glare of screens. The world behind glass. When was the last time she had spoken to someone outside of work? The subway blurred past, her reflection doubled and warped in the windows. Eyes down. No calls. No dreams. Not really.


"You don’t have to believe me yet. But listen."


She walked. After work. Before work. An aimless rhythm in a city of endless loops. Streetlights flickered over wet pavement. Her reflection, a ghost on the black windows of shuttered shops. One night, she found herself by the river, the skyline behind her, all towering glass and indifference. She thought about letting go. Just slipping forward, vanishing beneath the cold, dark surface. But the case. The millions. The loopholes. The men in navy suits speaking in static, their voices flickering like a bad signal. She was needed, even if they never quite looked at her when she spoke.


The case was everything. A class-action lawsuit against a monolith, a corporate beast so vast it had no real name, only acronyms, only shell companies devouring other shell companies. Money siphoned in decimal points so small no one ever noticed—except for her. She sat in rooms where men droned in jargon, where legalese wrapped around itself like a snake eating its own tail. They saw her, but they didn’t. Another cog. Another fixture. She worked late, staring at documents until the words unstitched themselves, dreamed of numbers sliding between her fingers like water.


A week later, the same café. The same table. The city, like clockwork, spinning around them. His presence had weight, a thing precariously balanced, a coin at the edge of a table, waiting to fall.


"They took you from me," he said. "They built this life around you. Walled you in. We fought together. We still can."


She watched the steam rise from her cup, felt the warmth of the ceramic against her palms. The city made no sense to her. The same motions, the same numbers, the same screens. She forgot what her own hands looked like. She forgot who she had been before.

"I need to wake you up," he said. "I need you back."


She nodded. Just to see what would happen.


She let him lead her through streets she had walked alone. In his presence, they became something else. The park, where rain collected in puddles. The subway, where silver rails gleamed in the dark. The market, where he picked a pomegranate, split it open with his thumbs, pressed seeds into her palm like tiny drops of blood. She let him into her apartment. He cooked. They watched films, flickering ghosts on the walls. He said, "Do you remember?"


She didn’t. But she wanted to.


He told her about the war. The other world. The cause. How they had fought together, side by side. How they had been caught. How they had built this city for her, to keep her docile, distracted. He had spent years trying to find her. He whispered plans as they lay on the couch, her head on his shoulder, his fingers tracing slow circles on her wrist.


She stopped checking her phone. Let emails pile up. The case dragged. The whispers in the conference room—she ignored them. Let them think whatever they wanted. She had something else now. Something real.


"What do you do?" he asked. In bed, his breath warm against her skin.


"Lawyer."


"For who?"


She hesitated. He kissed her shoulder. "You can tell me."


"Big case," she said. "Millions."


He listened. Asked questions. She answered. It felt good to be heard.


She came home late. He was waiting, dinner warm on the table. He held her, kissed her hair, asked her about the loopholes, the files, the encrypted emails. She let it spill from her lips like an incantation. He listened. He took notes.


The morning after the trial, he was gone. The bed cold. The coffee pot empty. His jacket missing.


By noon, the news broke. A leak. Confidential documents. Internal memos. Client records. The firm in chaos. The rival firm had everything. Her name wasn’t mentioned. Just the leak. The betrayal.


She called him. No answer.


She ran to the café. The table was empty. The city moved around her, indifferent.


She walked home in the rain. Opened the drawer beside the bed. His watch. His wallet. Proof he had been real. She gripped the watch until the metal cut her palm.


At work, whispers turned to murmurs turned to silence when she entered the room. The firm burned. Lawsuits. The case collapsed. In the conference room, they talked over her.


"Weak link."


"Someone got to her."


"We’ll never prove it."


She stood. Walked out. Nobody stopped her.


She rode the subway with no destination. Stared at her reflection in the glass. A stranger stared back.


The knife in her coat pocket was small. The weight comforting.


She found him in a bar, laughing. His face was different now. Brighter. He was alive in a way he had never been with her. She walked up to him. He turned. His eyes widened.


"You—"


She didn’t let him finish. The blade slid between his ribs, quick and clean. Warmth spread across her hand. Gasps. A chair scraped the floor. Someone screamed.


She stepped back. The world slowed. He fell.


She exhaled.


And drove the blade into her own throat.


The city didn’t stop.


It never did.