I didn't realize I was bleeding until the floor began to glow.
A thin, silvery light spread beneath my hands, reacting to something warm and dark dripping between my fingers. I pulled my palm back sharply. A shallow cut split the skin just below my thumb—too clean to have come from falling.
Too deliberate.
The pearl lay dull and quiet in my other hand, as if pretending innocence.
"That wasn't there before," I said hoarsely.
The man followed my gaze. His jaw tightened. "No. It wasn't."
I tried to stand. The tower tilted again—not as violently as before, but enough to make my knees buckle. He caught my arm before I hit the ground.
"Easy," he said. "You pushed back harder than you should have been able to."
"I didn't do anything," I snapped. "I just—"
"You refused," he finished. "And refusal has weight here."
The cut on my hand began to sting, then burn. Not like pain—more like pressure, as if something beneath my skin were waking up. I clenched my fist instinctively, but that only made it worse.
"What's happening to me?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he released my arm and stepped back, watching me with an intensity that made my chest tighten.
"You're being recognized," he said finally.
"I don't want to be."
"That was never one of the options."
The tower groaned softly around us. The silver veins along the walls dimmed, then flared brighter, settling into a new pattern—less chaotic now, more deliberate. Like lines being redrawn.
I pushed myself upright, ignoring the dizziness. "You said it remembered me."
"Yes."
"And you said I wasn't powerless."
"That too."
"Then tell me what it took from me," I demanded. "Because it touched me. I felt it."
His gaze flicked briefly to my injured hand. "It didn't take anything."
"That's a lie."
"No," he said quietly. "That's the problem."
The pain in my palm spiked suddenly, sharp enough to steal my breath. I cried out as the cut widened—not bleeding now, but glowing faintly, the skin around it etched with thin, branching lines.
A mark.
Not carved.
Imprinted.
The tower reacted instantly. The nearest wall flared bright silver, symbols briefly surfacing and dissolving before I could focus on them. A deep, resonant sound echoed upward through the structure, like a bell struck underwater.
"What did it mark me for?" I whispered.
He looked away.
That was answer enough.
The pearl pulsed weakly, responding to the mark with a faint echo of light. I felt something settle in my chest—not pain, not fear—but awareness. A subtle shift in perception, like a door inside my mind had been left slightly ajar.
I could feel the tower now.
Not its shape—but its attention.
"Great," I muttered. "Now the building is watching me."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "It always was. You just couldn't feel it before."
The chamber began to change. The sealed mirrors behind us cracked open—not violently, but carefully—revealing new corridors where old ones had been. The air warmed slightly, though the chill from the door lingered like a memory.
"I don't like this," I said. "Every time I survive something here, it feels like I lose a piece of myself."
"You're not losing it," he replied. "You're being rearranged."
"That's not comforting."
"It's honest."
A distant sound reached us then—faint, but unmistakable.
Rain.
I froze. "That's impossible. We're inside."
"Not entirely," he said.
The sound grew louder, echoing through the corridors—dripping, splashing, relentless. With it came a strange pressure behind my eyes, and sudden images flickered through my thoughts without warning.
A streetlamp flickering in heavy rain.
A figure standing under it, face obscured.
Someone saying my name—not aloud, but close enough that I could feel the breath.
I staggered, clutching my marked hand.
"What's happening now?"
The man's expression hardened. "The door didn't open fully," he said. "But it reached farther than it should have."
"You said it was bound."
"It is," he agreed. "But bindings stretch when tested."
The rain sound split suddenly—branching, multiplying—until it felt like it was falling in more than one place at once.
Not just inside the tower.
Outside it.
"You're saying it followed me," I whispered.
"No," he said. "I'm saying it noticed where you belong."
The mark on my palm throbbed in response, sending a pulse of sensation up my arm and straight into my chest. For a terrifying second, I felt split—part of me anchored here, another tugged somewhere distant and familiar.
Somewhere wet.
Somewhere dark.
Somewhere waiting.
The tower shuddered again—not in alarm, but in adjustment. Pathways realigned. Doors sealed. Others unlocked.
"You don't have much time," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"To choose where you stand when the rain reaches you."
I swallowed hard. "And if I choose wrong?"
His eyes met mine, serious and unflinching. "Then next time the door knocks," he said, "you won't be the one answering."
The rain grew louder.
And for the first time since entering the tower, I was no longer sure I was alone inside my own body.