Hacking the Portal

"So," Julian said, the silverware clinking softly against his plate. He didn't look at me. He was focused on the chicken, cutting it with a precision that was almost surgical. "How does the future look from where you're sitting?"

I pushed the cold pasta around my plate. It had turned into a congealed lump, unappetizing and grey.

"It looks... cloudy," I said. "Uncertain."

He smiled. A small, tight expression that didn't reach his eyes. "That's why we plan, Elara. That's why we build structures. To keep the uncertainty out."

He took a sip of his wine. The glass left a faint red ring on the white tablecloth, right next to the stain I had made earlier.

"Speaking of plans," he said, setting the glass down. "I was thinking about the summer house."

"The summer house?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. We didn't have a summer house. We could barely afford *this* house.

"The one we're going to build," he said, his eyes gleaming with a manic kind of hope. "After the... settlement."

*Settlement.*

Life insurance.

"Where?" I asked, playing along. I needed to keep him talking. I needed to keep him distracted.

"Somewhere quiet," he said. "Maybe the coast. Or the mountains. Somewhere with good bones."

He looked at me then, really looked at me. His gaze was intense, possessive.

"You'd like the mountains, I think. Clean air. No neighbors."

*No witnesses.*

"It sounds lovely," I said.

He reached across the table and took my hand. His grip was firm, almost painful.

"It will be," he said. "Just you and me. And no more... interruptions."

He squeezed my hand.

"You were always so beautiful," he said softly. "Even when you were falling apart."

*Were.*

Past tense.

He was already eulogizing me.

"I'm not falling apart," I said, pulling my hand away. "I'm just tired."

"I know," he said. "That's why I'm taking care of everything."

He picked up his fork again.

"Do you remember our first date?" he asked.

"The Italian place," I said. "On 4th Street."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "That was our *second* date. Our first date was at the coffee shop. The one with the terrible acoustics."

I frowned. He was right. Why did I remember it wrong?

"You were wearing a blue scarf," he continued. "And you were reading *The Bell Jar*."

"I... I don't remember the scarf."

"I do," he said. "I remember everything."

He leaned forward.

"I remember the way you looked when you talked about your sister. The guilt. The fear. It was... captivating."

He smiled.

"You were a project, Elara. A fixer-upper. But I saw the potential."

I stared at him.

"Is that all I am to you?" I asked. "A renovation?"

"Everyone is a renovation," he said. "We're all just trying to fix the cracks."

He took another bite of chicken.

"But sometimes," he said, chewing thoughtfully, "the structural damage is too deep. Sometimes... you have to tear it down and start over."

He looked at me. His eyes were cold. Dead.

"Don't edit me, Elara," he said softly.

My breath hitched.

"What?"

"Earlier," he said. "You corrected me. When I used the past tense."

He put down his fork.

"Don't edit the narrative. It's disrespectful to the author."

The author.

He really believed he was writing this story.

I felt a surge of anger. Hot and sudden.

"Maybe the author is a hack," I said.

His eyes narrowed.

"Careful," he warned. "You're still in the draft."

He stood up.

"I'm going to get dessert," he said. "Stay here."

He walked into the kitchen.

I watched him go.

I looked at the clock on the mantel. 7:38 PM.

Twenty-two minutes until the pickup. Until the accelerant.

Until the end.

I looked at the table. The half-eaten food. The wine stains. The unlit candles.

It was a stage set. A tableau of domestic bliss, moments before the curtain fell.

But I wasn't going to let the curtain fall.

I stood up.

I walked to the sideboard.

There was a drawer there. The junk drawer. The one Julian hated. He tried to organize it once a month, but it always descended back into chaos.

I opened it.

Rubber bands. Batteries. A screwdriver.

And...

A lighter.

Not the grill lighter. A small, disposable BIC lighter. Pink.

I grabbed it. I shoved it into my bra, next to the burner phone.

"Elara?"

He was back.

He was holding a tray.

Two crème brûlées. And a kitchen torch.

He set the tray down on the table.

"I thought we could do this together," he said, handing me the torch. "Fire is... cleansing."

He smiled.

"Don't you think?"

I looked at the torch. It was heavy. Industrial.

And it ran on butane.

Gas.

He was handing me a weapon.

"Yes," I said, taking the torch. "Cleansing."

I looked at him.

He was watching me, waiting for me to light the dessert. To play my part.

But I wasn't looking at the crème brûlée.

I was looking at the curtains.

The heavy, velvet curtains that covered the French doors.

They were old. Dry.

Flammable.

I thumbed the ignition.

*Click.*

A blue flame shot out.

"Careful," Julian said. "It's hot."

"I know," I said.

I looked at him.

"You missed a spot," I said.

He frowned. "Where?"

"In the story," I said.

I turned the torch toward the curtains.

"The heroine," I said, "usually fights back."

I squeezed the trigger.

The flame hit the velvet.

It caught instantly.

Fire raced up the fabric. Orange. Hungry.

"Elara!" Julian screamed.

He lunged for the curtains, trying to pull them down.

"What are you doing?!"

"Renovating," I said.

I dropped the torch on the rug. The fire spread. Fast.

I ran.

I ran for the kitchen.

"Get back here!" he roared.

I didn't stop.

I ran through the kitchen. Past the hissing stove. Past the ruined dinner.

I reached the back door.

I threw it open.

Rain. Wind. Freedom.

I ran out into the night.

I didn't look back.

But I heard it.

The sound of glass shattering. The sound of a man screaming.

And underneath it all