What They Took

DAHLIA’S POV

A hard click.

And then—darkness.

The kind that steals everything. Color. Distance. Certainty.

The streetlight through the window died. The microwave’s digital clock blinked out. Silence rushed in, and I was alone with it.

Except… I wasn’t.

As my eyes strained, the shadows began to move.

No sound. No breath. Just shifting silhouettes.

My brain knew better—but my body? It started cataloging every unnatural twitch, every finger-shaped slither along the counter’s edge.

Hands.

Not real.

They can’t be real.

But I could see them.

Curling over the granite like spider legs. Wet. Pale. Bone-deep red smeared across the knuckles.

No.

No, no.

This is just residual dream panic. Sleep paralysis. Mental projection. Something rational.

“There’s no such thing as spirits,” I whispered to myself. “There’s no such thing as entities. There’s always an explanation.”

And yet, my body was tightening, adrenaline spiking.

I backed up a step. My Glock firm in both hands now, muzzle following the motion crawling toward me.

You’re hallucinating, Dahlia. Your brain is still catching up. Just turn on the—

Something moved.

Fast.

A flicker to my left. Just out of frame.

I spun.

And lunged.

My body crashed into another with the full force of fear-driven instinct. We hit the ground hard, my knee in their ribs, my forearm pressed to their throat.

“Fuck!” the figure choked, coughing. “Dahlia—what the hell?!”

The lights blinked on overhead.

White. Blinding.

I squinted, heart hammering as the world righted itself.

Underneath me—gasping, face flushed red—was Dean.

My boyfriend of four years.

“Dean?!” I gasped, yanking my arm off his throat.

He coughed violently, one hand rubbing his neck, the other bracing against the floor. “Jesus—that grip! Are you training with a death cult now?”

“Oh my God,” I scrambled off him. “I’m sorry—I thought—why the hell were you creeping around like that?”

He sat up, breathing raggedly, and gave a sheepish laugh. “I didn’t mean to sneak. I just… couldn’t wait. I needed to talk to you.”

I frowned, tension still buzzing in my limbs. “Talk to me at seven in the morning by playing kitchen ninja? You almost got shot.”

He nodded toward my Glock still clutched in my hand. “Yeah, you might want to put that away before the neighbors call SWAT.”

I set it back into my holster with a shaky laugh, brushing back sweat-damp curls from my forehead.

“Well, whatever it is, it’s gonna have to wait. The Captain just called. I’m summoned.” I snatched my keys from the bowl near the door.

And then—his voice stopped me cold.

“I think we should break up.”

The words hit harder than the dream.

I turned slowly, blinking. “What?”

Dean stood now, eyes darting anywhere but mine. “I’ve tried, Dahlia. I really have. But I can’t keep doing this. You never have time for me. You skip dates. You dodge marriage talk. It’s like you don’t want this anymore.”

My throat closed up.

I took a breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ve been busy. You know what this case means. I’m this close to closing it—then we can take that vacation you’ve been on about. I swear, I’ll have more time. I—”

“I’m seeing someone else.”

I froze.

“Excuse me?”

He raised both hands, backing up instinctively when my hand flew toward my holster.

“Whoa! Easy! I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t plan for this to happen. I just… I can’t keep being second to your job. I’m done waiting.”

The silence buzzed in my ears like hornets. My stomach dropped.

Dean reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a keychain.

Clink.

My spare key hit the counter.

And beside it—

An ivory envelope.

I stepped closer, heart in my throat.

My name wasn’t on it.

But a date was.

A venue.

My fingers trembled.

“Are you—” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

He met my eyes just long enough to look ashamed. “I didn’t mean to do it like this. But I can’t lie to you anymore. Goodbye, Dahlia.”

Then he turned.

And left.

The door shut behind him like a tomb sealing.

I didn’t move. Not for a full minute.

My eyes stung, my jaw clenched so tight it ached.

But when the tears came, they didn’t fall. I blinked them away, grabbed my badge, and stormed out the door.

Let him get married.

Let him walk away.

He didn’t deserve any part of me.

The drive to the station was mechanical. Automatic. I barely felt the wheel in my hands. His words rang louder than my thoughts.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“I’m seeing someone else.”

Married?

I gripped the steering wheel so tight my knuckles paled.

What kind of person did that—after everything?

My foot pressed harder to the gas pedal. The dream, the figures, the pain—Dean—it all collided in my skull like shattered glass.

When I pulled into the precinct lot, I parked, then leaned forward, gripping the wheel again, forehead to leather.

Breathe, Dahlia.

In.

Out.

This is just a storm.

You’ve survived worse.

Wipe your tears.

Fix your face.

Don’t give them the satisfaction.

I stepped out of the car.

The building loomed ahead—gray, cold, brutal as always.

Inside, the old, chipped tiles of the precinct buzzed under fluorescent lights. As I walked through the bullpen, heads turned. Not in admiration.

Mocking.

“Morning, princess,” one of the meatheads from Homicide said with a sneer. “Heard you cracked the coffee machine last week too. Want a medal?”

Snickers followed me. I ignored them.

I always did.

Only woman in the unit. Always one mistake away from being labeled “emotional,” “unstable,” “too much.” But none of them had my closure rate. None of them had bled like I had for this job.

My fight to prove myself?

It just cost me my relationship.

So if one of their stupid, narcissistic asses got in my face today—I’d gladly slap the teeth off and walk myself into jail for assault.

I got to the Captain’s office.

Knocked once.

“Come in,” he said.

Captain Marshall sat at his desk—tired, gruff, a lifer. The kind of man who’d seen it all and still pretended nothing shocked him.

I walked in, file in hand, heart hammering.

“Sir,” I said, dropping it on his desk. “You’re gonna want to see this. I got Hall. Dead to rights. Surveillance footage, dates, IDs—he’s finished. All we need now is to—”

“Dahlia.”

He didn’t look at the file.

Just me.

Cold. Distant.

“You’re fired.”

The room spun.

“What?”

“I said,” he repeated, folding his hands over the desk, “your services are no longer required at this department.”

For a second, I didn’t feel anything.

Then everything hit.

All at once.

The dream. Dean. The betrayal. The file. The fight. And now… this?

“Why…” I whispered. “Why is everything happening to me today?”

And all Captain Marshall did was look back down at his paperwork.

Like I was never there.