Brett always read fanfictions on the ride home.

The subway was hot and crowded. It always was, in summer, waves of tourists squishing together to fit into the small wagon, eager on milking the last days of August before September forced them back to their boring routines. Had it not been so, he might have noticed the hooded man staring intently at him. Then again, transfixed as he was by the story he was reading, he probably would have missed him still. He did indeed remain oblivious of his stalker while he followed him to a less crowded line, one of those that lead you to the outskirts of the city, where most people actually live because rent prices are far lower.

He rarely sat on the subway. He always thought there might be someone who needed to sit more than he did, so he stood on his feet the whole time, a twenty minute ride spent finishing skimming through the last update of his current reading and looking through his reading list for something to entertain himself until the next chapter was up. Had he sat down, maybe he would have seen the odd eyes of the stranger staring at him the whole time reflected on the black window in front of him. But he remained oblivious to his surroundings, his gaze fixed on his phone, too engrossed in Wattpad and too tired after a long day in the library he worked at to care much about anything else.

He got off the train and made his way out of the subway. He still had a seven minute walk ahead of him, and he planned to keep reading all the way through it. If he hadn't, he would have noticed the street around him was unusually, eerily quiet. No cars rushing along the street, trying to outspeed the traffic light going red, no old ladies walking their tiny, fluffy dogs, no men drinking noisily on the bar in the corner, no teenagers heading out of the little shop with soda and chips and maybe some vodka purchased in a non very legal way. But he kept on reading and walking, too engrossed in the story and oblivious to the hooded man still following his very step.

He started to feel queasy a few minutes into his walk home. There was something odd about the street, about the night around him, something he could not put his finger on. He felt there was someone behind him, but they kept themselves right behind him, so he could not see them unless he turned his head around. It was probably nothing, he thought. Just someone like him, going back home after a long day of work. Loads of people lived in that part of the city. Still, the uneasiness would not leave him, so he put his phone in his pocket and started walking faster, ready to run and scream in case he had to. He could hear the soft tapping of his steps on the pavement, rhythmic and steady, metronome-like,

one

         two

one

         two

one

         two

one

         two

one

         two,

echoing the fast beating of his heart. Irrational panic swept through him, and he sped up, ready to break into a run at any moment. He still had a solid five minutes until he reached home, and there was no one around he could ask for help. He unlocked his phone, opened the last received calls list and dialed the first number he found without even looking at it, hoping that whoever he was ringing would pick up. He held his breath, waiting for his phone to make a sound, any sound, but the phone was as good as dead. No reception, no data, no wifi. What the fuck??

His skin itched as he felt the stranger inching closer. He could even smell him now, smokey and acrid, like he was an avid consumer of cigarettes. It was disgusting. He was nearly at home, he could see his building a few meters away. He had to run, he had to run now, but his brain was so all over the place his legs just were not cooperating. He felt the person's hand grab his arm, and a scream started forming in his throat when all of the sudden the hand was roughly yanked away. He heard a thump and suddenly his stalker was on the ground, held against the pavement by a woman straddling him.

"Run!" the woman shouted, and he did.

He was so focused on getting to his apartment that he barely registered how the street he was in had suddenly burst with people and light and sound and -oh God, was that fire? He kept running towards the building, the ridiculous idea that he'd be safe once inside the only thing in his mind at that point.

Another hand grabbed his arm, and he was forced to a halt by a boy who could not be much older than him. His mouth was moving, but it took him a while to register that the guy was actually talking. To him.

"Oi. Oi! You can't go in there, they are waiting for you. Come on, we need to keep moving. There are more coming. Come on!!!" the man tugged at his wrist, and all he could do was follow him towards an alley, through a group of people that seemed to be -fighting?

Then he heard it. Something he had not heard for such a long time, he'd almost forgotten how it sounded. How it resonated within his chest. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes and a soft smile tugging at his lips.

It was music.

The tune was familiar to his ears, and his fingers started twitching without him even being aware of them doing so, the muscle memory still there after so many years. For he had not listened to that particular melody, any melody, actually, in years.

"Hey! Why on earth did you stop? I said keep moving, you d...!"

"It's music" he said, like he was in a trance. "They are playing music".

The boy pushed him into the alley and pulled him to the ground, hiding them both behind some trash cans.

"Yes, yes, we are playing music. We are musicians".

Only then did Brett notice that the man in front of him was carrying something on his back. It was a violin case. "Musicians" he repeated, and the word sounded like a prayer. "But..."

"There is no time to explain. They knew we were coming, we are outnumbered. Listen..."

The sound of guns could be heard, then an explosion, then a scream, and it took Brett a few seconds to realise it had been his.

"Hey, it's alright. It'll be alright. Listen. Hey!" seeing that Brett was nearly out of it, the man snapped his fingers before his face to get his attention. "Listen to me, and pay attention. This is important. They are taking you to prison".

"What? Why?" Prison? He'd done nothing!

"We can't help you now, but we will, soon. But we need you to cooperate. All you have to do is..."

There was a loud bang and the trash cans flew over their heads, exposing them. They'd been discovered.

"Shit. Run!" they sprinted towards the end of the alley, Brett's lungs burning, unaccustomed as they were of exercise. He was starting to panic, his pursuers inching closer and closer, but the man was screaming instructions at him, and he forced himself to listen.

"... that's all you have to do! Remember, and sing!"

"What!?"

"Remember how it felt, and sing!"

"How what felt?"

"How it felt when they destroyed your flute!"

What?

Cold swept through him. It had been so long. His throat itched and tears blurred his vision. No. He could not think about that. He was not allowed to. He had not, for a long time. Why was this guy being so mean to him?

"I know you remember it" he was saying. "And I want you to" he suddenly stopped, Brett nearly tripping over him. The man looked into his eyes, the intensity of his gaze conveying the importance of the message. "I want you to remember it, and sing. Sing everyday, all the time, for as long as you can. We will find you" he promised, and kept running, leaving Brett behind. Brett felt some shots being thrown at the man, but they all missed, and he disappeared into the night.

He was so confused, so tired, so scared, that he barely registered the two men grabbing him by the arms and dragging him to a car parked nearby. The music had stopped and the street was back to its eerie silence. He was pushed inside the backseat and they started to drive him somewhere, but he was too shocked to do any other thing than stare out the window, watching the streetlights sweep by.

He only remembered what the man had said about taking him to prison when they got there. The building seemed more like a hospital than a prison, though, its exterior very plain and full of windows and the inside all white and quiet and so clean. They pushed him along many corridors, some empty, some full of prison workers coming and going, until they reached a desk in which a woman with a stupidly wide smile and annoyingly white teeth droned on about things he couldn't care less about. He felt his anxiety build as the woman explained his situation, and he had to make a great effort to try and pay attention to her while remembering how to get air in and out of his lungs.

He was in prison.

Breathe.

He was charged with being a musician.

Breathe.

Musicians were a danger to society and to themselves, therefore they had to be locked away.

Breathe.

He was to remain there for the time being, for his own protection as well as for that of his fellow citizens.

Breathe.

No, they could not give him back his phone.

Breathe.

No, he could not see his parents, or call them.

Breathe.

No, they did not know how long he would remain there.

Breathe.

No, they could not give him more information.

Breathe.

Later that night, when they finally locked him up in a very small, very white cell, he was so tired it was all he could do to fall head on to the pillow in his bed and cry himself to sleep.