Till Death Do We Start

Chapter 1 - The Frequency That Heals

Suki wasn't breathing right.

Lexi noticed it before she even fully set the mug down.

A shallow rise. A sharp stop. Then another uneven pull of air like her body had forgotten the rhythm it was supposed to follow.

"Suki..." Lexi's voice dropped instantly.

The cat was curled in the corner of the kitchen, too tight, too still between movements. Not asleep. Not resting. Something worse—aware of something Lexi couldn't see.

Lexi crossed the floor fast, dropping to her knees.

Her hand hovered for half a second before settling gently into Suki's fur.

"Hey... hey, it's okay," she whispered.

The kitchen was quiet in that late-evening way—sunlight stretched thin across the counters, everything painted in soft gold like nothing could go wrong in a room that looked like this.

But something already had.

Suki's heartbeat was too fast under Lexi's fingers.

Not panic-fast.

Wrong-fast.

Like her body was reacting to something she refused to acknowledge.

Lexi swallowed and reached for the small portable speaker beside her knee. Her phone was already in her hand before she fully thought about it.

Old habit.

Control.

Fix it.

Her screen lit up.

A list of saved frequencies filled it—carefully labeled, organized, trusted.

Inflammation reduction. Cellular repair. Nervous system calm. Respiratory stabilization.

Lexi exhaled slowly.

"Okay," she whispered. "We'll start with Respiratory stabilization."

Her thumb tapped.

A low tone slipped into the room.

Barely audible.

Not sound exactly—more like pressure settling into the air. Something you didn't hear so much as feel in the space between thoughts.

Suki flinched.

Lexi froze immediately.

That wasn't normal.

"Suki, no—hey, it's okay. It's me," she said quickly, lowering her hand again. "I've got you."

But Suki wasn't calming.

She was listening.

To something else.

Lexi frowned slightly.

There was something under the tone.

Not loud.

Not obvious.

A second layer that didn't belong to the file she'd selected.

Her eyes flicked to the phone.

The waveform was stable.

Visually perfect.

But the air wasn't.

Suki's breathing shifted—just slightly.

Better.

Then worse.

Then better again, like something was pulling her in two directions at once.