Under the Shadows

The afternoon unfolded in an odd rhythm, the kind Elyne had started to associate with life in this strange limbo. After their meal, the Reclaimer had handed her a book with a casual smile, and despite herself, she'd accepted.

The title was innocuous: The Forgotten Trail. The story followed a young woman hiking through a remote mountain range after losing her job, a journey of self-discovery and quiet resilience. It wasn't poorly written, and Elyne found herself absorbed enough to keep reading, but it didn't reveal much about him. No philosophical manifesto, no grand insights into his psyche. Just a calm, unassuming story that felt oddly at odds with the man who'd handed it to her.

She sat in the corner, legs folded beneath her, turning pages with mechanical focus. Across the room, the Reclaimer lounged with his own book, one leg stretched out, the other propped up as a makeshift rest for the paperback in his hands. The sight of him so at ease, engrossed in the written word, made her stomach twist in ways she didn't care to examine.

There was an undeniable intimacy in the silence between them, the shared presence in such a mundane act. Elyne hated it, hated how it felt like they were normal people in a normal situation. But she also hated how it soothed her, how for a fleeting moment, it made the chaos outside feel distant.

By the time she'd set the book down, her mind was restless again. She moved to the floor, channeling her energy into push-ups, her muscles straining as she counted out reps. The burn in her arms was a welcome distraction, grounding her in something simple and physical. It wasn't until the faint hum of the television drew her attention that she stopped, her curiosity piqued.

The Reclaimer had turned the TV on while he cooked, and the news played softly in the background. Elyne wiped her face with a towel and walked toward the living room, her eyes narrowing at the broadcast.

The anchor was speaking animatedly, accompanied by a series of graphics on the screen. A panel of so-called experts speculated on the Reclaimer's motives, piecing together wild theories that ranged from plausible to outright ludicrous.

"Maybe he's a rogue ex-CIA agent, seeking revenge for something buried deep in classified files," one guest declared.

Another countered, "What if he's just an anarchist? A vigilante who believes the system has failed and wants to tear it all down?"

Elyne folded her arms, her brows knitting. As absurd as some of it sounded, she couldn't help but consider the possibilities. After 48 hours with him, she wasn't much further than these talking heads. His motives were still maddeningly opaque, his past a closed book.

The soft scrape of a plate against the table drew her attention, and she looked over to see the Reclaimer settling onto the couch beside her. He set a steaming plate of pasta on the coffee table, his expression as smug as ever.

"You must love this," she said dryly, gesturing toward the television. "The theories, the speculation. All these people trying to figure you out."

He shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "I won't lie—it's entertaining." He took a bite of his meal, his satisfaction almost palpable.

Before she could retort, the segment shifted, and the screen began displaying a series of tweets. Elyne's jaw dropped as she read the increasingly suggestive posts from women—and men, for that matter—fawning over the Reclaimer.

"If The Reclaimer wants to punish me, I'll gladly misbehave," one read, sparking laughter from the panel.

"He can infiltrate my vault anytime," another quipped.

"That mask? Those eyes? Someone lock me up instead."

Elyne's cheeks burned as a particularly risqué tweet flashed on screen, the writer unabashedly detailing what she'd "let" the Reclaimer do to her. She could barely hear the anchors over the blood rushing to her ears.