The Number on the Mirror

The sound of rain hitting the windshield was almost hypnotic. Valeria couldn't stop staring at her reflection in the rearview mirror. Dark circles, damp hair, distant eyes.

When was the last time she had a decent night's sleep?

Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat. Another unread message.

> Sandra: Are you there yet? Please stop digging into this. It's dangerous.

She sighed. Pressed the gas pedal.

The motel stood at the edge of the city—an old structure, forgotten by time and untouched by law. According to the anonymous tip she received, Daniel Cortez, the third missing person, had stayed there.

Valeria slipped her recorder into her coat pocket, camera hanging from her neck. The man at the front desk handed her the key to room 103 without a word. Maybe someone paid him to keep quiet. Or maybe he was just scared. Or both.

Inside, the room was frozen in time. Sagging mattress, flickering lamp, the damp scent of mildew—and something else. Sharper. Metallic.

Blood.

She turned on her phone's flashlight and scanned the room. Empty drawers. Nothing in the bathroom. Nothing behind the closet.

Until she saw it.

On the foggy mirror, written in a shaky finger…

A number.

> 9

It wasn't graffiti. It was the same kind of number found at the scenes of the other missing people.

7.

8.

And now, 9.

Valeria's heart pounded in her chest. Not just because the connection between the cases was real now. But because, in the bottom corner of the mirror, barely visible beneath the condensation, were two more words:

> "You're next."

The light flickered. The door slammed shut behind her.

And for the first time since she began this investigation, Valeria felt real fear.