Part 111
He felt her eyes on him even when she wasn't in the room.
It was subtle — the faint hesitation before she spoke, the way her smile lingered a beat too long.
Alex was starting to watch again.
Not out of love.
Out of instinct.
That scared him more than the chain ever had.
Because the last time she'd sensed something was wrong, he'd woken up to find every sharp object in the house gone.
No pens.
No forks.
Not even the strings on his guitar.
Now, every move had to be measured, gentle — perfectly in rhythm with her expectations.
He picked up the old notebook from the table, pretending to reread his lyrics.
He made sure to keep his posture loose, his face relaxed, like he'd given up thinking of anything beyond these walls.
But under the table, hidden by the folded blanket, his fingers brushed against the small phone again — his lifeline.
He had spent nights memorizing where to hide it, how to silence every notification, how to erase any trace before she could notice.
He wasn't sure how much longer he could play this game.
The messages online had grown louder now — fans analyzing old interviews, dissecting his lyrics, even tracing people connected to his staff.
They were getting closer, he could feel it.
And that meant he needed to hold out just a little longer.
He glanced toward the kitchen.
Aura was humming softly again, washing dishes. The same melody, always the same — slow, repetitive, hypnotic.
He forced a smile.
"Alex, your singing's getting better," he called out, making sure his tone carried warmth.
She laughed gently.
"You always say that."
He did. Because she liked hearing it.
And because praise was the safest distraction in the world.
He leaned back on the couch, forcing his heartbeat to slow.
One mistake, and she'd know.
One slip, and this fragile connection to the outside world would vanish.
So he stayed still, letting the minutes crawl, letting the lie breathe.
And in the quiet hum of the house, he repeated one thought over and over:
"Not yet. Just a little longer. They're coming."