ᴰᵃᵐⁿᵉᵈ ᵃʷᵃᵏᵉⁿⁱⁿᵍ

"𝕀 𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕕. 𝕀 𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕪𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕚𝕕𝕖 𝕞𝕖. 𝕀 𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝕖𝕩𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕚𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕞𝕪𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕗". -𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕖𝕥𝕒𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕡𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕚𝕤 (𝟙𝟡𝟙𝟝)𝔽𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕫 𝕂𝕒𝕗𝕜𝕒

Alice didn't remember leaving the lights on.

She stood at the threshold of her apartment, pulse drumming against her ribs. The glow from the living room spilled into the hallway, unnatural in its quiet invitation. Her keys trembled in her grip as she stepped forward, her senses sharpening with every cautious move.

Inside, the air felt wrong.

Her books had been yanked from the shelves, scattered across the floor like discarded thoughts. Her desk drawer was left open, its contents spilled—pens, letters, fragments of past lives. And then, the mirror.

Three words. You Will Die.

The letters were thick, smeared across the glass in deep red. Her breath hitched. The scent—metallic, raw—clung to her skin.

Salem.

Her hands flew to her mouth as she stumbled backward. Her cat. His blood.

A strangled sob crawled up her throat. Something inside her shattered, but there was no time to mourn—not now. Someone had done this. Someone had been inside her home.

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"I need a police escort," Alice whispered into the phone, gripping it like a lifeline. "I'm not safe here."

Hours later, an officer was stationed outside her apartment door, reassuring her with routine procedures and hollow words. Still, sleep evaded her.

In the haze between consciousness and exhaustion, something gnawed at her—the unease wasn't just about what had happened. It was about what she couldn't remember.

Her fingers trembled as she flipped open her notebook. Scribbled words swam in and out of focus. The handwriting was hers, but the name at the bottom—

She suffers in remembering, and aches in forgetting—yet both belong to her.

Anna.

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The next morning, the silence was absolute.

Alice stepped into the living room, her pulse hammering. Then she saw him.

The officer—the man assigned to protect her—lay sprawled across the floor, unmoving. His eyes, wide and empty, stared at nothing.

The marking on his back—wings torn, as if something had been ripped from him. The same markings as the other murdered women.

Her chest tightened, breath shallow. She backed away, her movements stiff, disconnected.

Then, the thought slid through her mind like a whisper, like an unwelcome visitor.

I have seen this before.

But where? When?

The memory danced just beyond her grasp.

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Dean was at her apartment within the hour, his expression set in a grim mask.

"You can't stay here anymore, Alice." His voice was firm, but underneath, she heard something else. Fear.

Alice pressed her arms against her ribs, hugging herself. "It's happening again."

Dean reached for her shoulders, his touch grounding. "Then let me help you. Move in with me. Stay where I can keep you safe."

Safe.

The word felt distant, like something unattainable.

Her gaze flitted to the mirror—the words still staring back at her, mocking her.

"Dean..." She hesitated. "What if it's not someone following me? What if—" Her voice broke. "What if it's me?"

He frowned, his concern deepening. "Alice, what are you talking about?"

She let out a shuddering breath. The answer hovered at the edge of her consciousness, terrifying in its implications.

Who was she?

And—God help her—what had she done?

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Dean paced the length of his apartment, checking his phone for the third time in ten minutes. Alice was supposed to be here. He had told her to come straight over after work—no detours, no time alone in that cursed apartment.

But she wasn't answering.

Grabbing his jacket, he rushed outside, ignoring the gnawing voice in his head that told him something was very, very wrong.

When he arrived at Alice's place, the door was slightly ajar.

"Alice?" His voice faltered as he stepped inside.

Everything was in disarray—the couch cushions overturned, papers scattered, and—his breath hitched. The mirror.

The blood-red message was gone. But in its place, something worse.

HELP ME.

The words, jagged and frantic, were scrawled into the glass—as if someone had carved them with shaking hands.

A deep chill ran through him. Alice had been here. Had she written it? Had someone forced her to? And if she wasn't here now—

Where was she?

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Alice woke to the sensation of something cold beneath her fingertips.

The world was quiet, too quiet, and her limbs felt weighed down, sluggish.

Where was she?

Panic fluttered in her chest as she tried to piece together her last memory. Leaving work. Heading home. The anxiety of stepping into her apartment again. Then—nothing.

Now, she was in an unfamiliar room. A single light flickered overhead. Shadows curled along the walls, stretched longer than they should have. Her breath came faster. Think, Alice. Think.

Her gaze dropped to the desk before her—papers scattered in a chaotic mess. Scribbles, half-legible sentences. Her handwriting.

She skimmed through them with trembling fingers. Some pages contained fragmented thoughts. Others—recollections that weren't hers.

Then she saw the name again.

Anna.

She inhaled sharply, gripping the paper like a lifeline. She had written it. Again and again.

But who was Anna?

Her reflection in the dusty mirror caught her eye, and for the first time—she wasn't entirely sure who was staring back.

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Dean found Alice sitting on the edge of his couch, staring blankly ahead.

He knelt before her, his fingers gently brushing against her wrist, a quiet attempt to tether her back to reality.

"Alice, talk to me." His voice was softer now, pleading. "What's happening to you?"

She swallowed hard. "I—I don't know," she whispered. "I lose time. Hours vanish, and when I wake up, I—" Her voice wavered. "I find things I don't remember writing. I see names I don't know. But somehow... somehow they feel familiar."

Dean felt his heartbeat slow, his grip tightening slightly around her hand. "Are you saying—" He hesitated. "You think you knew the victims?"

Alice shook her head. "No. Yes. I don't—" She let out a shuddering breath. "I feel like I was them. Like I lived their lives before they died."

A deep silence settled between them.

Dean exhaled. "You're staying with me."

Alice blinked. "Dean, I—"

"No arguments." He stood, his expression unreadable. "You're not going back to that apartment. Not until we figure this out."

Her shoulders trembled, and for the first time, she let herself lean into him—just a little.

And Dean?

Dean held her like he was afraid she might disappear, just like the others.

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Alice sat in her office, a coffin-shaped table stretching before her like a secret she wasn't ready to exhume. The tea in her porcelain cup had long gone lukewarm, but she sipped it anyway—ritual over comfort. Across the black lacquered wood lay the magazine, spread open like an accusation.

Is this me... or someone who looks identically like me? Do I have a long-lost twin sister somewhere?

Her eyes skipped across the glossy page again, unable to blink away the image.

No... don't tell me she's one of those whore's child, the thought lashed through her mind, sharp and fast. It had been buried—intentionally, she supposed—on page three. A profile on rising artists disrupting the old blood in the quarter. But all she could see was her.

The woman in the photo was fire and angles. Crimson hair slid like lacquered ribbon over one shoulder. Lips half-parted in the kind of practiced snarl that says yes, I see you staring. But it was the eyes—her eyes—that rooted Alice to the spot.

She froze. The page trembled in her hands like it might burn.

The editors hadn't touched them. Not the iris. Not the wary tilt. Not the way they narrowed like wolves when cornered—or thrilled. That face looked back at her with perfect mimicry. Yet something in the carriage, the tension in the wrist holding the glass... That wasn't her.

Eloise de Rêverose, the caption whispered.

The name hit like a shot of absinthe down a raw throat.

With a rough jerk, Alice tore the page free—jagged edges hissing in the quiet. Her chest had gone tight, like her ribs were bracing for an old memory to punch through.

She didn't remember that photograph. She didn't remember painting. But something shifted under her skin, ancient and restless, like a name someone else had borrowed.

The mirror on the wall fractured—not from touch, but from gaze alone. Her reflection blinked a heartbeat too slow.

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The envelope arrived without a return address.

Unmarked, creased at the edges, the paper smelled faintly of turpentine and ash. Dean slit it open, expecting junk—what he found was a single line, typed on what looked like an old Remington:

"She paints in your image. You should see for yourself."

No name. Just a location scrawled at the bottom in red ink—Pier District, Warehouse 13.

Dean didn't follow the clues like a detective. He moved like a man stumbling through someone else's dream. A receipt from a framer. Red paint beneath her fingernails she insisted was nail polish. The envelope, now folded into quarters in his coat pocket, pulsed like a second heartbeat.

The warehouse stood like a dying relic at the edge of the district—shuttered windows, ivy clinging to rusted piping. Inside, turpentine clung to the walls like ghosts. Easels slouched like corpses. Linen-draped canvases fluttered as he passed.

A worktable lay in disarray—paintbrushes stiff with age or slick with something not quite paint. Letters littered the floor, every one signed in the same looping, unfamiliar script:

—E. de Rêverose.

He paused at a sketch pinned to the wall. His own face, sleeping. Vulnerable. Drawn with the intimacy of someone disturbingly close—or disturbingly obsessed. He had no memory of posing for it.

Something shifted beneath his skin. Wonder, or fear.

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He hadn't told Alice. He wasn't sure he could. This wasn't something to drop casually over breakfast. Whatever this was—it was fragile, buried beneath layers of obsession, artistry, and something darker. And Alice would see the fear he couldn't name.

He'd started digging. Quietly.

That night, he tried again. Scoured every auction registry, art blog, and underground gallery database he could find. Nothing. No trace of E. de Rêverose. Just rumors. Mentions in encrypted forums, a trail of vanished exhibitions, whispers about collectors who disappeared after acquiring her work.

He searched for the artist. For the warehouse's owner. Records led nowhere. Exhibits, auctions—nothing legitimate. Just fragments. Half-whispers. Forums now wiped clean. What he did find suggested he hadn't uncovered a reclusive artist, but the gateway to a curated hallucination hidden in plain sight.

The warehouse wasn't listed anywhere. It didn't exist—on paper.

And yet, here he was. Standing inside it.

He moved deeper into the back room, sealed off with a curtain stitched from old canvases. Behind them: hundreds of small portraits. Eyes. Just eyes. Some blue, some glassy, some closed, some still bleeding. All fixed into rough wooden frames, scratched with dates and single-word captions.

Then he saw his own.

Or something close. Slightly off. A crooked eyelid. A scar on the temple he didn't remember having. Beneath it, the word:

Still.

A sound scraped across the floor behind him.

Dean spun around. Nothing.

Or someone.

He felt them before he saw them.

He fled—with the envelope tucked in his coat pocket, folding it again and again as he ran. By the time he reached the street, it pulsed like something alive—hot, rhythmic against his chest. Like a second heartbeat. Like a choice he hadn't consciously made.

The next morning, he told Alice he'd slept badly. Didn't mention the warehouse. Didn't mention the sketch. Or the fact that now he dreamed in thick, crimson strokes—brushes that turned into scalpels, canvases that sighed when touched.

He was already past the point of explanation.

He thought—

It wasn't just art.

It was an invitation. Or a warning.

And he had already accepted.

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Alaric moved through life with the effortless grace of a man who had never known failure. Tall, dark-haired, and sculpted by privilege, he was the golden son—trained, though never truly disciplined—to inherit the empire. Unlike his elder sister, Alice, whose path was carved in steel and strategy, his upbringing had been indulgent, his lessons laced with leisure.

And so, Alaric learned only one truth: anything he desired would be handed to him—wrapped in silk and served on silver.

Yet beneath the polished charm and easy smile, he seethed. He coveted Alice's place—the position everyone whispered should have been his. Their relatives, their board members, even strangers in cocktail-lit corridors murmured that he was the true heir. He had grown up hearing it, believing it. The thought festered. Alice was unnatural—too perfect, too unfeeling, too untouchable. Three years his senior, yet she was always beyond his reach. To the world, Alaric was the flirt, the mischief-maker, the smooth talker—dangerous in his allure but kind in his demeanor. A man adored. But behind closed doors, he was ruthless. Cold. He switched women as easily as one changes suits, each affair a fleeting conquest, each name forgotten before dawn. Had their bodies not held reputations, scandals would litter every corner in ink. He paraded his lovers like brands—collecting, discarding, forgetting.

Tonight, he drove. Fast. Reckless. A smirk tugged at his lips as the city blurred around him. He was due at a car expo, the guest of honor, a known enthusiast. The irony of the event—a fundraiser for victims of crashes—was not lost on him. But obligations weighed lightly on Alaric. He wanted speed, he wanted control. He had once dreamt of being an F1 driver, had imagined the roar of engines in his bones. But, of course, his mother had denied him that freedom.

And Alice? Alice never denied him anything—she merely ignored him. He chased her attention, chipped away at her calm, made himself a thorn in her side. If she would not acknowledge him, then he would make her. Take everything, if only to force her gaze. His love for his sister was twisted, tangled with resentment, fascination, and quiet fury. Their relationship was clinical—employer and employee, strangers with blood in common. She likely did not even have his number saved.

Alice always kept to herself.

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The car expo pulsed with energy—engines roared in distant showcases, the scent of leather and gasoline thick in the air. Alaric strode in, a living contradiction among the industry elite. As expected, women flocked to him—soft hands against his arms, lips grazing his cheek, whispers dripping with longing. Like moths entranced by a flame, they circled, drawn to his effortless allure, his reputation. He played his part well. Smiling, nodding, indulging.

The usher guided him to the VIP section, an area drenched in exclusivity. He waited, half-listening to the speeches, eyes flickering over the sea of guests. And then—he saw her.

A woman in a red racing tracksuit.

His pulse flickered, uneven. For a moment, he thought his mind was betraying him, constructing fantasies out of shadows. The resemblance was uncanny—the way she moved, the sharp line of her posture. It couldn't be Alice. And yet, the thought clung to him, persistent, insistent. His gaze followed her, tracking each step, each turn. He nearly rose, nearly chased, but then—

His name was called.

The voice echoed through the room, dragging him back to reality. A calculated smile slid into place as he strode to the stage, the applause a distant hum against the thoughts thrumming in his mind. He had lost her.

The speech was nothing—routine, polished, meaningless words strung together for appearances. He delivered them with ease, a practiced charisma masking the growing unease beneath his skin.

As soon as the ceremony ended, he pulled out his phone, dialing swiftly. The line clicked, and without preamble, he spoke.

"There's a woman here. Find her."

A pause. Then the cautious reply from the other end. "Description?"

Alaric exhaled sharply, eyes scanning the crowd. "Red racing tracksuit. Alone. You'll know her when you see her. I want answers."

If his instincts were correct, if his assumptions were not mere paranoia, then Alice was playing a dangerous game. And for once, he intended to know the rules.

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Alaric stumbled through the lobby, the roar of applause still fizzing in his skull. Champagne clung to his breath, and the world around him pulsed—sharp edges softened by intoxication. He nodded at a few executives with vacant charm, their words collapsing into static.

Reflections shimmered. Red flickers. Familiar silhouettes. He squinted, tried to focus, but the images bled like watercolors in rain. She was gone. Like mist. Like memory.

He called for his driver. The man was already waiting—door open, coat folded like a promise, eyes respectfully averted.

Alaric slid into the car, limbs heavy, head humming. The interior reeked of bergamot and leather—sharp, grounding, a contrast to the dizzy blur of the evening.

"Drive," he mumbled, slurring. "But slow..."

He thumbed through his phone clumsily, smearing the screen. The tracker app blinked back at him—his team, precise as ever, already moving. He barely remembered instructing them.

Then the phone lit up again. A message.

No need to find me. We're already playing. Attached: a blurry photo. Eyes in frames. Distorted. Overexposed. And in the corner—his own portrait. Hazel eyes, too bright. Just red paint trailing like a wound. Caption beneath: "Almost."

He blinked hard. Cold flushed down his spine, cutting through the haze. That wasn't a prank. That wasn't fanfare. That was deliberate.

And it wasn't Alice's style. Too playful. Too cruel. Unless—

Unless she wanted him to question everything.

He dialed. Voice low, disjointed.

"Trace the sender," he said.

A pause. Then: "If it's her?"

Alaric leaned against the window, watching streetlights dissolve into smears.

"Then find out..." he whispered, "how long I've been the goddamn exhibit."