Chapter 1: The Phantom Pain

The dream always began the same way—with the acrid tang of smoke, sharp and suffocating, clinging thickly in her throat as though it had mass, weight. It wasn't just a scent. It was a memory so visceral it could drag Elara straight up from the blackest depths of sleep, spitting her into wakefulness with a gasp, heart hammering like it was trying to claw its way out.

Tonight, it was worse.

The smoke had presence, had intent. It coiled around her in her sleep like it knew her, like it had waited. Then came the heat—real, or close enough. A scalding wave that licked through her duvet, burned through the thin gauze of sleep until her body reacted. She kicked, writhed, arms scrambling through the firestorm, but found nothing solid—nothing but panic.

And then, the face.

It never came clearly. Always through the haze, blurred and bleeding at the edges like a painting caught in rain. But the eyes… those never changed. Always wide, drowning in terror that matched her own. And beneath that panic—something pleading. What were they asking for? Help? Forgiveness? The face gave no name, no anchor. Man, woman, child—it never settled, only hovered at the edge of recognition until the dream disintegrated in the blaze.

Elara lurched awake with a strangled cry, sheets twisted tight around her limbs. The luxury of the Frette linens—usually one of her few remaining indulgences—only made her skin crawl in this state. Like being buried in silk. She sat up hard, breath clawing its way out in broken bursts, hand flying instinctively to the side of her face. Her fingers traced the old scar that cut down from her temple, across the cheek, and ended at the delicate point of her jaw. Cold. Always cold, even now, while the rest of her still simmered with the illusion of fire. They called it phantom pain. But the pain? That part was real. Always had been.

The digital clock glared at her: 3:17 AM. That hour of strange stillness when the world held its breath. Too early to start the day. Too late to pretend she might still sleep. The nightmare was as familiar as the scar—her companion, her shadow. A looping echo of the night that had sliced her world in two. The fire. The loss. The searing moment everything changed, leaving behind only this broken trail of images her brain refused to make sense of.

Dragging in a breath that felt older than she was, Elara pushed the covers away. Her bare feet touched the cool concrete of her SoHo loft—blessedly grounding. The loft had become her sanctuary, her self-made retreat from a world that once obsessed over perfect skin, over symmetry. Here, surrounded by brick and silence and her own strange creations, she could forget. Mostly.

The studio dominated one end of the space, lit now by the slow gray glow of early dawn bleeding through massive arched windows. It wasn't the bedroom or the sleek, minimalist kitchen that gave her solace. It was this place—the heartbeat of her world. Here, she wasn't Elara, scarred and solitary. Here, she was Anya: sculptor, myth, enigma. Her pieces fetched fortunes and drew crowds, but no one knew the woman behind them. Not really. Only her dealer, and a couple of assistants sworn to silence, had any clue who was shaping those raw, unsettling works.

The anonymity was armor. It let her speak only through her hands, never her history. It gave her a measure of power.

Tonight, the clay called.

She didn't bother with the lights. The shadows were familiar, the path worn smooth by repetition. Her fingers found a block of terracotta—still cool, dense with promise. There was never a plan on nights like these. She let the residue of the dream do the talking. Let the pain tell the story her mind wouldn't give up.

Her hands moved instinctively, kneading, shaping, carving into the clay with a steady rhythm. There was no conscious design, just raw emotion working its way outward. A gash here, like a scream torn in half. A hollowed curve, echoing that gaping loss she couldn't name. And then her thumbs pressed in, just so, carving deep wells.

Eyes.

The ones from the dream.

Time slipped. Hours passed unnoticed. The city outside began to stir, its heartbeat steady and far away. She heard it dimly, felt it under her skin, but didn't stop until the clay began to resist. Until the vision held form.

The bust stood rough and primal, more feeling than face. Not a person, not really—just grief, fear, plea. The details were vague, like the memory. But the eyes—those eyes—burned with knowing. Accusing. Demanding.

A shiver danced across her spine. Not from cold. From recognition.

Sometimes, it felt like she was digging through herself, like an archaeologist of memory. Chiseling away layers of forgetting. But she wasn't sure she wanted to uncover what was buried.

Then came the buzz.

A sharp, urgent sound from the intercom, slicing clean through the quiet. Her hand jerked, a tool nearly toppled. No one visited. Not without calling. Not ever.

Her scar pulsed, low and insistent.

A warning, maybe. That whatever she'd built here—this island, this quiet—was about to change.