The first time Lydia Martin screamed near you, the world shattered—except for you.

Everyone else in the hallway dropped to their knees, clutching their ears, but you stood frozen, completely unharmed. Her green eyes met yours across the chaos, wide and terrified. You didn’t know it then, but that moment changed everything.

Later that night, she found you outside the school, leaning against your car under the flickering streetlight. Her voice was small but sharp: “What are you?”

You shrugged. “That’s what I’ve been asking myself all day.”

For weeks, she tested you. Little experiments: a whisper that shook the air, a short, sharp note that cracked windows, and finally, one of her full banshee screams. Each time, you were fine. She wasn’t sure if that fascinated or scared her more.

But soon, it became more than curiosity. You were the one she called when she felt that eerie pull toward death, the whisper only she could hear. You’d stay with her, your presence grounding her when the voices grew too loud. Sometimes she’d look at you like she was trying to solve you—and other times, like she didn’t want to.

One night, she admitted the truth: “When I scream… it’s not just noise. It’s a call to death. It drains me. Hurts me.”

You hesitated before saying, “Then maybe I can help. Maybe I can take some of it.”

She blinked, wary. “That’s not how it works.”

“Maybe it could.”

When the next death came—another haunting, another scream—you were there. You took her hand before she let it out, and the sound that followed wasn’t just her pain; it was something balanced, something shared. When it ended, she was still standing.

Lydia stared at you, trembling. “You… you grounded me. No one’s ever done that.”