The hum in the blade rises. The pale coil of light tightens around your wrist - not painful, but deliberate. Purposeful. Like a grip that has been waiting a long time to close.

The air in front of you shifts. A silhouette assembles from the light - incomplete at the edges, watching.

The shape tilts its head slowly.

You bled here. Called. You didn't know you were calling, but.

A pause - like a sentence swallowing itself.

I remember the shape of you. From before.

Hoofbeats stop hard behind you. A heavy boot hits the ground. A man's voice - rough, sharp, carrying the weight of someone who has seen this go wrong before.

Don't move. Don't answer it yet.

A beat of tense quiet.

That mark on your wrist - where did it come from?