ᴬⁿᵒᵐᵃˡⁱᵉˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃˡⁱᵇⁱˢ

"ℍ𝕠𝕡𝕖 𝕚𝕟 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕚𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕖𝕧𝕚𝕝𝕤 𝕓𝕖𝕔𝕒𝕦𝕤𝕖 𝕚𝕥 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕞𝕒𝕟." — 𝔽𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕕𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕙 ℕ𝕚𝕖𝕥𝕫𝕤𝕔𝕙𝕖

The world of literature had lost a star. Anna Davies—brilliant, elusive, a woman who wrote love stories that thrived in the shadow of danger—was dead.

Her name had once dominated bestseller lists, her words weaving tales of romance so haunting they left readers breathless. But after Deadly Devotion took the world by storm, she had vanished from the public eye. Rumors spread like wildfire—had she truly stepped away, or had she enlisted ghostwriters to complete its highly anticipated sequel, Embrace of the Damned?

Now, the headlines whispered something darker.

Anna Davies Found Dead.

Her body had been discovered in her apartment, sprawled across the floor as if she had fallen mid-thought, pen still clutched in one hand. But what truly sent shockwaves through the literary world—through the city itself—was the crime scene.

Blood. Everywhere. But not her own.

🔪💀🪓🖤💢👁️‍🗨️⛓💣

Interrogation Room, Central Precinct

The interrogation room was suffocating, a box of stale air and flickering fluorescent lights. The hum of electricity buzzed in the silence, pressing against Dean's ears as he sat rigid in his chair. Across from him, Detective Alexis Darius Buenaventura III exuded calculated control, his crisp suit unruffled by the tension curling between them. He leaned forward, fingers splayed against the steel table as he flipped open a folder with measured precision.

Inside—crime scene photos. The glossy prints gleamed beneath the harsh light, the macabre images forcing Dean's throat to tighten.

Alexis lifted his gaze. His voice was sharp, laced with quiet authority.

"Where were you on the night of May 8th, Dean?"

Dean inhaled deeply, forcing himself to exhale slowly before he answered.

"Home."

A single brow arched.

"That's interesting," Alexis said smoothly, flipping another page over. "Because according to forensic reports, your fingerprints were found in Anna Davies' apartment."

The words landed like a blow. Dean stiffened, his pulse stuttering as his gaze flickered to the photographs laid before him. The images weren't new to him—he had seen them splashed across headlines, scrolling beneath flashing news alerts. But here, like this, with his name attached to them— it felt different. More real. More damning.

He swallowed hard. "I never went to her apartment. I only knew her as a fellow writer under the same company."

Alexis hummed, almost amused, before sliding another image forward. "And yet, this was found near her body."

Dean's stomach twisted. Blood—his blood.

"A sample was lifted from the scene," Alexis continued, his tone growing sharper. "Care to explain how it got there?"

Dean's jaw tensed. His body screamed for an answer—anything that made sense, anything logical—but all he had was nothing.

"...I don't know."

Alexis leaned back, arms crossing over his chest, studying Dean like a puzzle missing its final piece.

"You don't know?"

The room shrank around him, the silence thick enough to drown in. Dean dragged a hand down his face, his pulse erratic.

"Look, I—I don't remember being there. I swear."

Something dark flickered in Alexis' gaze—curiosity, skepticism, something more dangerous.

"That's convenient, don't you think? That you just happened to forget the hours surrounding a murder?"

Dean's breath hitched, the suffocating weight pressing tighter against his ribs.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

He had lived an ordinary life—free of chaos, free of scandal.

But now, locked inside this room, the walls closing in, Dean felt something unravel deep within him.

Doubt.

🔪💀🪓🖤💢👁️‍🗨️⛓💣

In a quiet voice shaped by fatigue and caution, Dean explained himself in the second round of questioning. It wasn't quite a confession—more like a reluctant truth carefully sculpted.

"I was supposed to meet Anna," he said, knuckles pale as he gripped the armrest. "May 6th. We were working on a possible joint project. A concept piece—it was her idea. Romantic obsession laced with delusion."

Detective Alexis Buenaventura leaned forward. "You met in person?"

Dean hesitated. "No. She cancelled last-minute. Said she wasn't feeling well. But she sent me a draft to review—pages covered in red ink and notes about shared themes. I printed them. Reviewed them. That's probably why my fingerprints are on her things." He glanced toward the folder of photos. "She asked me to mark the edits by hand and return them. I gave the drafts to my editor to forward."

Alexis narrowed his gaze. "But your blood was at the scene."

Dean's jaw worked silently. "Two weeks ago, I tripped on a stairwell at home while reorganizing boxes. Cut my hand pretty badly. I wrapped it up, didn't think much of it."

"And her apartment?"

"I dropped off a gift for her assistant—on request. A signed copy of an old anthology. She asked me to leave it by the front desk. I didn't go in."

He paused, then added, "And that sketch you found—that was hers. She made it years ago. Said I had a face that belonged to heartbreak."

Alexis didn't respond. Didn't need to.

The alibi wasn't airtight—but it wasn't broken either.

The assistant confirmed the package.

The publishing house confirmed the joint concept draft, sent through editorial channels in late April.

But something was off. Dean had a faint tremor in his hand, a fractured expression when pressed about the timeline. He claimed forgetfulness—but not enough to be dismissed. His answers felt too rehearsed, as though written to protect more than himself.

He wasn't lying.

But he wasn't telling the whole truth either.

🔪💀🪓🖤💢👁️‍🗨️⛓💣

After several grueling hours of interrogation, Alexis moved through the dim corridor, the sharp scent of antiseptic barely masking something more sinister—the metallic tang of dried blood. The echoes of hurried footsteps had faded, but the weight of the crime lingered.

The briefing room door creaked as Alexis pushed it open. Dean sat motionless at the table, hands clasped, his expression unreadable.

"The blood and fingerprints at the scene—circumstantial, yes, but damning enough to warrant further investigation." Alexis murmured, scanning his face. "Yet, here you are. Released under investigation. Convenient."

Dean leaned back, exhaling slowly. "I won't argue. My lawyer will handle the formalities, but I'll cooperate." His voice carried a practiced calm.

The door behind them slid open, and Alexis turned just as Alice stepped inside.

She froze.

Dean met her gaze, his lips twitching—not quite a smirk, but something knowing. Something she didn't want to see.

Alice stiffened, gripping the strap of her bag. This wasn't supposed to happen. She had rushed here expecting answers—an update, a sense of direction. Instead, she found Dean walking free.

She needed to leave.

Without breaking stride, she pivoted, moving swiftly toward the hallway, away from prying eyes and the silent questions hanging in the air.

Alexis didn't stop her. Didn't call out.

He simply watched, his sharp mind already piecing together the unspoken tension. His fingers tightening around the folder in his grasp.

Dean walked out of the precinct with a cloud trailing him, heavier than guilt—implication. And Alexis knew that if this story was a novel, Dean was the paragraph you read twice, wondering if you missed something.

This case was far from closed.

🔪💀🪓🖤💢👁️‍🗨️⛓💣

Dean rushed after Alice, his pulse hammering in his ears. His breath came in uneven bursts as he tried to catch up, desperate to make her understand.

"Alice, please, you don't have to worry," he said, his voice raw with urgency. "You have to believe me—I didn't kill anyone. I could never harm anyone."

He searched her face, hoping—praying—that she saw the truth in his eyes.

Alice stood frozen, her complexion drained of color, her hands trembling at her sides. Tears threatened to spill, but she held them back, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat.

"I know, Dean. I believe you." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "But there's something I haven't told you yet..."

Dean frowned, watching her struggle with words.

"Anna..." she hesitated. "I know her. She's one of the authors I worked with."

Dean recoiled slightly, disbelief flickering across his face. "Wait—you mean it's true? She used a ghostwriter for her books?"

Alice nodded slowly. "Yes. But I'm not allowed to speak about it—it's part of my contract. And..." she hesitated again, her brows knitting together as she tried to grasp the fragments of her memory. "I think I saw her a few days before she died."

Dean's expression hardened. "You think?"

She exhaled, shaking her head. "I don't know for sure. You know I've been struggling with these episodes of memory gaps lately. I can't trust what I saw." Her voice wavered, her hands clutching the strap of her bag for grounding. "But when the police called you in, I panicked. I didn't know what to do."

Dean studied her, seeing past the exterior she so carefully maintained. Alice had always carried herself with strength—independent, unwavering. But right now, beneath the weight of uncertainty, she was deeply shaken.

He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "It's okay. You believe me—that's all that matters."

Alice's lips parted, as if she wanted to say something more. But instead, she simply nodded, allowing herself to draw strength from his reassurance.

Somewhere in the distance, the world continued. Footsteps echoed, voices murmured behind doors. But in this moment, in this fragile space between doubt and belief, the only thing that mattered was trust.

And the storm that loomed just beyond it.

🔪💀🪓🖤💢👁️‍🗨️⛓💣

The door groaned as it opened, slow and reluctant, like it knew it wasn't meant to be found. Behind it, the air shifted—stale, cool, and tinged with the faint chemical bite of developer fluid and aging paper.

Alexis stepped inside and sealed the entrance behind him. The bolts slid into place with practiced precision. This wasn't just a room. It was a vault of memory, a temple to fixation. A dimension controlled and constructed photograph by photograph.

The vintage Leica camera sat on its pedestal like a relic. It gleamed under the low-hanging lamp, lens cap long discarded. Always watching. Always waiting.

The walls pulsed with the past. Frames arranged with obsessive symmetry bore images of Alice through the years, each frozen expression a sacred fragment of something bigger. Alice at nine, cheeks puffed and eyes squinting, paused in the moment before a birthday wish. Alice on horseback, her back proud and straight, gripping the reins as a blue ribbon fluttered like a banner of triumph. Alice laughing in the Alps, goggles tipped and snow in her lashes, mid-laugh with his arm half-visible around her waist—proof that he was there before he was.

Alexis moved slowly, reverently. This was sacred ground.

Near the far corner, prints hung clipped to wires. They swayed gently under the warmth of a flickering desk lamp. Their negatives fluttered like ghosts above trays of darkroom solution, clouded with memory. Some were still drying—her face repeating, changing subtly with every frame. No image was recent. None needed to be.

The room whispered. A reel-to-reel machine spun in the background, its low hum ticking away like a secret heartbeat. Across a metal table, stacks of case files lay sprawled open, edges curling with age, filled with flight records, receipts, surveillance notes. Red ink curled across margins in sharp loops, impatient and precise.

The bitter burn of whiskey seared down Alexis's throat as he sat amidst a sea of photographs, each one a testament to his silent obsession. Dozens of images of Alice lay scattered across the floor—moments captured, stolen, cataloged. But there, in every frame, was him. Dean.

His grip tightened around a photograph, crumpling it in his fist before tearing the part where Dean's smug face remained. The mere sight of him was enough to stoke the fire of jealousy, twisting inside Alexis like a blade.

With slow, deliberate movements, he stepped toward the dartboard mounted on the wall, a singular photograph of Dean positioned at its center. His fingers curled around a dart.

He aimed.

He threw.

The sharp point embedded itself into Dean's eye.

A cruel smirk played at Alexis's lips.

"Just you wait. You'll get what you deserve. I will dig a hole so deep that you'll never crawl out of it. Alive." His voice slithered through the room, thick with jealousy, laced with threat.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders before his gaze softened at the sight of Alice's untouched photos.

"Alice, my dearest Alice... You know that hope dies last. And I truly hope you'll soon realize that everything is meant to fall into place. No matter what happens, you will fall right into my arms again."

He traced a finger over the delicate outline of her face, his grip possessive.

"You are mine. And mine alone."

With a sudden burst of anger, Alexis hurled the whiskey glass against the wall. It shattered on impact, golden liquid splattering across the room—coating Dean's photo like spilled blood.

A sharp beep echoed at the sealed door.

Alexis inhaled, eyes narrowing.

A folder slid through the gap beneath the threshold.

More intel on Dean.

He bent down, retrieving it with measured patience. As he flipped open the file, his expression changed—his lips curled into something sinister, something victorious.

A secret.

A weapon.

Dean would never let Alice find out.

But Alexis would.

And he would use it.

🔪💀🪓🖤💢👁️‍🗨️⛓💣

A few days passed in silence too loud to ignore before the summons came—delivered not by call, but courier. Heavy linen paper, her family crest embossed in silver. The lawyer's handwriting: Urgent. Attendance required.

Alice stared at her phone. Four numbers glowed in her contacts list. Her father. The butler. The family lawyer. Dean. Not even her brother earned a place there. Especially not him.

Today was the vote. The final transfer of power. She was to take the helm of Eternal Repose Holdings—a legacy firm steeped in shadow and old wealth, its influence stretched through cemeteries, crypts, and endowments that outlived their benefactors by centuries. Becoming its president wasn't just inheritance. It was coronation.

The boardroom sat high above the city, glass walls overlooking a sprawl she barely recognized anymore. Alice entered with quiet poise, her heels echoing like countdowns. The executives watched with impassive eyes, their suits starched and smiles surgically neutral. At the head of the table, her brother, Alaric, lounged like a serpent ready to strike.

She took her seat. The lawyer cleared his throat. "Shall we proceed?"

Alice opened her mouth to speak—to accept, to rise into the role she was born for.

But Alaric beat her to it.

"If I may, a concern before the vote."

He placed a slim folder on the table. Slid it toward the board. Inside: unsigned waivers, erratic spending authorizations, therapy requests scrawled in her handwriting—but she didn't remember writing them. And then... voicemails. Distorted. Desperate. Her voice, twisted with something manic. Or was it?

"She's not well," Alaric said, feigning pity like it was perfume. "We all want what's best for the company. For her. But this isn't the time to hand her the crown."

The room shifted. Air thickened. Eyes turned toward her—not with support, but scrutiny.

Alice's voice caught in her throat. These weren't just lies. They were too precise, too intentional. She hadn't signed those forms. She hadn't left those voicemails. And yet, the doubt bloomed quickly and violently—like ink in water.

Her credibility unraveled in silence.

The vote passed.

Not in her favor.

Alaric closed the folder with a soft thud, satisfaction curling at the corners of his mouth like smoke. "Forgive me, sister," he said, voice silky, "but the board deserves transparency."

Alice couldn't breathe.

Her chair felt miles away from the table. Every executive now looked at her not as heir, but as question mark. As threat.

"You set me up," she whispered.

He tilted his head, mock confusion blooming in his eyes. "Set you up? Alice, you've always had... eccentricities. We thought they were harmless. But this—" he gestured to the documents "—this is cause for concern."

The chairman cleared his throat. "Miss Deus-Bishop, can you refute these claims?"

Alice opened her mouth—and nothing came out. Her thoughts were a tangle of static. No memory of the paperwork. No awareness of those voicemails. Her voice was stolen before she even spoke.

"I didn't..." she started, then faltered.

Alaric leaned forward like a shark circling blood. "You've been under pressure. Grief can make memory... slippery. It's understandable. But Eternal Repose is delicate. We can't risk instability at the helm."

She saw it then—not just ambition. Delight. He had planned this. Seeded doubt. Crafted a collapse she couldn't outrun.

The vote was called.

Nine hands rose for Alaric.

One abstained.

None for her.

A slow, suffocating silence filled the room. Alice stood, measured and deliberate, though she felt the quake beneath her skin. She would not falter. Pride anchored her posture, held her spine straight as iron, even as the weight of betrayal settled deep in her bones.

She met Alaric's gaze across the expanse—cold, unapologetic, victorious.

"This isn't over," she said, voice sharp as glass. A promise. Or a prophecy.

Alaric leaned back, studying her, amusement glinting in his eyes like a predator toying with wounded prey. His lips curved into something lazy. Indulgent. Cruel.

"For your sake, Alice, I hope it is."

The words lingered, a smirk given shape, a taunt threaded through silk.

Then, as though the knife needed a twist—

"Oh, and by the way, my dear sister... did you attend the car expo a few days ago?"

Alice barely reacted, only offering him a blank stare. "No."

Alaric hummed, fingers tapping idly against the desk. "Really? Because I could've sworn I saw you." A pause, deliberate. "Red racing tracksuit. Hair different, but the way you moved—too familiar. Almost haunting, really. And you hate those kinds of crowds... too raunchy, too suffocating."

A slow inhale. A calculated exhale. She didn't respond.

His grin widened, the sickening pull of satisfaction curling at the edges. "Oh, and don't forget to take your meds, sis." The mockery in his voice was barely veiled, a cruel mimicry of care. "I know you'll be having your panic attacks and paranoia after this. So I went ahead and called our psych doctor—she should be here the moment this meeting ends."

He tilted his head, voice dipped in false sympathy, tainted concern.

"My poor sister. I wouldn't want you to suffer, so I'll gladly take over your place. That way, you can rest... properly."

A pause. A flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

"Wouldn't that be best?"