I see his death before I know his name.

The coffee shop is crowded, the line slow, everyone hunched over phones or staring at nothing. I like it here because no one talks. No one touches. I can get my drink and leave without any human contact beyond the transaction.

Safe.

That's what I've built. A careful life of no contact.

And then his hand brushes mine, reaching for the same cup.

, warehouse concrete cold under his back blood pooling dark and warm the smell of rust and cordite his lips moving forming a word my name he's saying my name even though we've never met even though he doesn't know,

I jerk back so hard I knock the cup to the floor. Coffee explodes across the tile. Everyone stares.

"Hey, are you..."

His voice. The same voice that will choke on blood in three weeks.

I don't answer. I grab my bag and run.

My apartment is small and dark and mine.

I lock the door, throw the deadbolt, slide to the floor with my back against the wood. My hands won't hold still. Every muscle is vibrating, pulled taut.

I see death.

That's my curse, my gift, my secret. Touch someone skin to skin, and I see how they die. Not everyone... sometimes it's just a feeling, a shadow. But when it's clear, when it's vivid, it means soon.

Three weeks, maybe less.

The man in the coffee shop is going to die in three weeks.

I close my eyes and see it again. The warehouse, industrial, abandoned. Concrete pillars. Dim light filtering through broken windows. He's on the ground, shot, bleeding out. A figure stands over him, I couldn't see the face... never can see killers' faces... but there was something on his hand. A symbol. Carved or tattooed, circular with intersecting lines.

I know that symbol.

I've seen it in my nightmares for years.

I don't sleep.

Instead, I research.

The man from the coffee shop is easy to find once I start looking. His picture is on a federal press briefing archived online: FBI agent Declan Shaw, lead investigator on the "Symbol Killer" task force. Someone had screenshotted the briefing for a true crime blog.

Symbol Killer.

The screen blurs. I read the name again.

I click through the articles. Six victims over two years. All with the same mark carved into their flesh after death, the symbol from my vision. The symbol from my nightmares. No clear pattern to the victims. No motive anyone can find. The FBI is baffled.

And now the lead investigator is going to become victim number seven.

I should do nothing.

I should do nothing.

That's what I learned at sixteen, when I warned Danny Petrova about the car crash and everyone called me a murderer after he died anyway. Can't change fate, they said. She must have known, they said. She must have caused it.

I lost everything. My friends. My family's trust. My sense of self.

I rebuilt in Portland, three thousand miles from home. New city, new start. Reznikov was common enough that no one connected me to the girl in the news three thousand miles away. New life. No connections, no relationships, no risk.

And now I'm supposed to let an FBI agent die because warning people is what destroyed me.

But I keep seeing his face. The way his lips moved, forming my name in his final breath. A name he doesn't know.

Unless I tell him.

The library opens at nine.

I work the early shift, shelving books in silence, helping patrons find call numbers. It's perfect work for someone like me, minimal contact, maximum solitude. My coworkers think I'm shy. My boss thinks I'm dedicated.

No one knows I'm hiding.

I process returns on autopilot, my mind circling the same questions. Can I let him die? Can I risk warning him? What if I make it worse somehow, the way I made Danny's death worse by talking about it?

"Sasha?"

I look up. Thomas, my boss, is watching me with concern. He's a kind man, gentle, respects my boundaries without asking why I have them.

"You've been staring at that same book for five minutes."

I look down. Crime and Punishment. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

"Sorry. Distracted today."

"Everything okay?"

"Fine." I shelve the book. "Just tired."

He doesn't push. He never does. That's why I can work here.

By afternoon, I've made a decision.

I won't warn him directly. That's what got me in trouble before, face to face, my word against reality. But what if the warning came anonymously? What if I could point him in the right direction without ever revealing myself?

After work, I buy a burner phone. Cash only. I create an email account from a public computer at a different library branch.

The message is simple: Agent Shaw will die in the warehouse on Hawkins Street in three weeks. The Symbol Killer. Check the security footage from this morning at Grounded Coffee on 5th, I'm the one who ran.

I hit send before I can stop myself.

Then I go home, lock my door, and wait.

I don't sleep that night either.

I keep seeing the warehouse. The blood. The symbol carved into something I couldn't quite make out, another victim, maybe, or a warning.

And his face.

Green eyes, sharp features, the kind of face that doesn't back down from arguments. In my vision, those eyes were losing focus, drifting, but not before locking onto me with unmistakable recognition. Like he knew me. Like we'd had more than a single accidental touch.

But that's impossible.

I've never met Declan Shaw. Never will, if I'm smart. The email was a mistake, but it's done. He'll investigate or he won't. I've done what I can.

Now I just have to go back to my life.

Safe. Quiet. Alone.

Except when I close my eyes, I see him dying, and my name is still on his lips.