The Writing Inertia

The bustling streets of New Delhi hummed with their usual chaos as Arjun Verma weaved through the morning crowd. The rhythm of the city was second nature to him now—a life rebuilt from the ashes of an unknown past. It had been ten years since the accident, ten years since he woke up in a hospital bed with no memory of who he was.

The doctors had called it retrograde amnesia, the result of a severe car crash. His parents and friends had filled in the gaps, offering fragments of a life he could no longer remember. A promising architect, a lover of jazz, a loyal friend—they told him everything he needed to know to move forward.

And move forward he had.

But today was different.

The day began like any other until Arjun stumbled upon an old, dusty journal while cleaning the storeroom of his flat. It was tucked inside a weathered leather bag that didn’t feel familiar yet bore his initials embossed on the corner.

Curiosity tugged at him as he opened the journal, its yellowed pages crackling under his touch. The handwriting was unmistakably his—sharp, slanted letters—but the words struck him like a bolt of lightning.

"March 12, 2013: They are lying to me. This life isn’t mine. The crash wasn’t an accident. I can’t trust anyone—not even my family."

Arjun’s heart raced as he read the entry again, his mind spinning. The date was just weeks after the day he had supposedly regained consciousness. The words felt alien and yet uncomfortably real, like the whisper of a ghost.

Who was lying? Why?

The journal was fragmented, filled with cryptic notes and sketches. Arrows pointed to names, dates, and locations, many of which meant nothing to him now. But one entry stood out:

"The man in the red scarf. He knows the truth. Connaught Place, 8 PM."

It was signed off with an ominous scrawl: “Don’t forget. Whatever happens, remember this.”

Connaught Place was only a short drive away. Arjun grabbed his coat, his mind abuzz with questions. The words echoed in his head, a drumbeat of urgency he couldn’t ignore.

The sprawling hub of Connaught Place was alive with neon lights and throngs of people. Arjun scanned the area, unsure what—or who—he was looking for. He was about to dismiss the entry as a paranoid rambling of his post-accident self when he spotted a man leaning against a lamppost.

A red scarf draped loosely around his neck.

Arjun hesitated, then approached cautiously.

“Excuse me,” he began, his voice steadier than he felt. “Do we know each other?”

The man’s piercing eyes locked onto him. “You’re late.”

“I… What do you mean?”

The man stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’re still asking the wrong questions, Arjun. Did you find the journal?”

Arjun froze. “How do you know about that?”

The man smirked, an unsettling mix of amusement and pity. “Because I gave it to you.”

Before Arjun could press further, a loud screech shattered the moment. A black SUV careened onto the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians. The man in the red scarf grabbed Arjun’s arm.

“They’ve found us. Run.”

“Who?” Arjun demanded, but the man was already dragging him into the labyrinthine alleys behind the marketplace.

Gunshots rang out, sending echoes through the narrow passages. Adrenaline surged through Arjun as they darted through shadowy corners and abandoned corridors.

Finally, they ducked into an old, decrepit building. The man slammed the door shut and bolted it, his chest heaving.

“Who are you?” Arjun demanded, his voice trembling. “What is going on?”

The man met his gaze, his expression grim. “I’m Raghav. And you’re not who you think you are.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

“What do you mean?” Arjun asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Raghav sighed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with shaky hands. “Ten years ago, you weren’t in a car crash. You were erased.”

“Erased?”

“You were part of a covert project—something off the books, something dangerous. When you tried to leave, they wiped your memories and fed you a lie. The car crash, the amnesia, the life you think you’re living—it’s all fabricated.”

Arjun shook his head, disbelief washing over him. “That’s insane.”

Raghav stepped closer, his eyes boring into Arjun’s. “Then how do you explain the journal? The entries, the clues—they’re breadcrumbs you left for yourself in case something like this happened.”

“Why should I trust you?”

Raghav chuckled darkly. “You don’t have to. But trust your own instincts. Deep down, you know something doesn’t add up.”

Before Arjun could respond, the sound of heavy boots echoed in the corridor outside. Raghav cursed under his breath and shoved a pistol into Arjun’s hands.

“Do you know how to use this?”

“No!”

“Funny, you used to be a damn good shot.”

The door burst open, and armed men in tactical gear stormed in. Instinct took over, and Arjun fired blindly, the recoil jarring his arm. Raghav took down two of the attackers with swift precision, his movements almost inhumanly fluid.

“Go!” Raghav shouted, covering Arjun as they fled through a back exit.

They emerged into the labyrinth of Delhi’s backstreets, the chase relentless. Every corner they turned seemed to bring them face-to-face with another obstacle—more men, blocked alleys, or surveillance drones buzzing overhead.

Finally, they found temporary refuge in an abandoned metro tunnel.

“Start talking,” Arjun demanded, his voice hoarse.

Raghav leaned against the wall, wiping blood from a shallow wound on his arm. “There’s a reason they’re hunting you. You have information—classified intel buried deep in your subconscious. It’s the key to exposing everything they’ve done.”

“What kind of intel?”

“I don’t know the specifics, but it’s enough to bring them down. That’s why they wiped you. But something went wrong—they couldn’t completely erase you. Fragments of your old self survived, and now they’re terrified you’ll remember.”

Arjun sat down, his mind spinning. Could this be true? The journal, the photos, the sudden proficiency with a gun—it all pointed to a life he couldn’t recall but couldn’t deny.

“What do I do now?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

Raghav crouched beside him. “We find the rest of the journal. The full truth is in there, along with the intel. Once we have it, we can expose them.”

“And then what?”

“Then you decide. You can reclaim your old life—or destroy it.”

The next few days were a blur of evasion and discovery. Following the journal’s cryptic clues, Arjun and Raghav pieced together a trail that led them to an underground safehouse.

Inside, they found the rest of the journal, along with a series of encrypted drives.

As Arjun read the final entries, his hands trembled. He had been part of a project called Eclipse, a black-ops initiative designed to manipulate global events through covert operations. When he discovered the program’s true nature, he had tried to blow the whistle.

But they had found him first.

The final entry was the most chilling:

"If you’re reading this, it means you’ve made it this far. Remember: they can take your memories, but they can’t take your will. You’re stronger than they think. Finish what we started."

Arjun closed the journal, his resolve hardening. He turned to Raghav.

“What’s the plan?”

The climax unfolded in a storm of chaos and revelation. Using the intel from the drives, Arjun and Raghav infiltrated a high-security facility to expose Eclipse. The operation was fraught with danger—gunfights, narrow escapes, and betrayals at every turn.

In the end, Arjun came face-to-face with the man who had orchestrated his erasure—a cold, calculating operative named Kael.

“You could’ve lived a peaceful life,” Kael sneered. “Why throw it all away?”

“Because it wasn’t my life,” Arjun replied, pulling the trigger.

As the facility burned, Arjun and Raghav escaped into the night, their mission complete but their journey far from over.

For the first time in ten years, Arjun felt a sense of clarity. His memories might never fully return, but he knew who he was now.

A survivor. A fighter.

And a man determined to reclaim the shadows of his forgotten self.

The quiet, dimly lit interrogation room was stifling. A single flickering fluorescent light illuminated the bare concrete walls, casting elongated shadows across the scratched metal table. Sora Nishimura sat motionless in a wooden chair, his wrists chained lightly to a steel loop. Outside the room, the bustling streets of Kyoto went about their day, oblivious to the mystery unfolding within these walls.

The door opened with a groan. A man entered—a tall, sharp-eyed detective with streaks of gray in his hair. He carried a folder bulging with photographs, his expression neutral but his steps deliberate.

"Mr. Nishimura," the detective said, sitting down across from him. "Thank you for your cooperation. This is going to sound... unusual, but we need answers, and only you can provide them."

Sora shifted uncomfortably. "I’ve already told you—I don’t know why I’m here. I haven’t done anything wrong."

The detective placed the folder on the table and opened it. Slowly, deliberately, he slid the first photograph across to Sora.

"This was taken in 1945, after the war. Hiroshima."

Sora looked down. The black-and-white image showed a group of survivors standing amidst rubble, their faces gaunt but defiant. At the edge of the group, unmistakably, was him. His face, his posture, even his clothes—eerily similar to what he was wearing now.

"That’s impossible," Sora said, his voice tight. "I wasn’t even born then."

The detective didn’t respond. He slid another photo across the table.

"This is from 1867. Kyoto. The Boshin War."

Sora’s breath caught in his throat. The photo depicted a battlefield strewn with samurai and soldiers. There, in the foreground, was him again, standing amidst the chaos, a sword clutched in his hand.

"Explain this," the detective demanded.

"I can’t," Sora whispered, his hands trembling.

One by one, the detective laid out more photographs. The Great Fire of Kyoto in 1708. The Mongol invasion in 1274. The construction of the Fushimi Inari Shrine in 711. In every single image, Sora appeared, unchanged. The same face, the same calm yet bewildered expression.

The room seemed to close in on him as the weight of the evidence pressed down. Sora’s heart pounded. He wanted to deny it, to laugh it off as a bizarre coincidence or trick, but the truth stared back at him from every glossy print.

Finally, the detective slid one last photo across the table. This one was different.

Sora’s hands froze as he picked it up. It was an old daguerreotype, sepia-toned and weathered, depicting a young woman standing under a cherry blossom tree. Her kimono was intricate, her smile gentle, her eyes filled with life. And next to her stood him.

This one, he remembered.

"Who is she?" the detective asked, his voice softer now, sensing the shift in Sora’s demeanor.

Sora’s fingers tightened on the photo. "Her name was Akiko," he said quietly.

"How do you know that?"

Sora stared at the image, a flood of fragmented memories crashing through his mind. "Because I loved her," he whispered.

The detective leaned forward. "Sora, you need to tell us the truth. Who are you? How is it possible that you appear in these photos?"

"I don’t know!" Sora snapped, his voice rising. "I don’t understand any of this! But I remember her. I remember that day."

The memory was faint, like a dream on the edge of waking. The cherry blossoms had been in full bloom, their petals drifting on the wind like snow. Akiko had laughed, her voice as light as the spring air. They had promised to meet again beneath that tree, to build a future together.

But she had vanished.

Sora’s mind reeled. The rest of the photos were a mystery, but this one—this was real. He could feel it in his bones.

The detective’s voice cut through his thoughts. "Sora, you were identified in a surveillance video just last week, walking through the same part of Kyoto where this photo was taken. The footage was reviewed because of an... anomaly."

"What kind of anomaly?" Sora asked, his voice trembling.

The detective hesitated, then pressed a button on a remote. A screen mounted on the wall flickered to life, showing grainy footage of a bustling Kyoto street.

At first, nothing seemed unusual. Then, the screen froze, zooming in on Sora as he walked through the crowd.

Suddenly, the scene glitched. The people around him blurred, their movements distorting, but Sora remained crystal clear, as though the distortion didn’t affect him. The video resumed, the glitch repeating every few seconds, centered on Sora’s figure.

"What is this?" Sora whispered.

The detective’s eyes bore into him. "You’re a temporal anomaly, Mr. Nishimura. Something—or someone—has tethered you to this timeline, but you don’t belong here."

The words hung in the air, incomprehensible yet undeniable. Sora’s mind raced. Could it be true? Could his fragmented memories, his strange sense of displacement, all be connected to something far beyond his understanding?

Before he could respond, the room’s lights flickered. A strange hum filled the air, growing louder by the second. The detective’s expression darkened as he rose from his chair.

"They’ve found us," he said grimly.

"Who?" Sora asked, panic creeping into his voice.

"Stay here," the detective ordered, drawing a weapon and heading for the door.

The hum grew louder, vibrating through Sora’s chest. Then, with a deafening crack, the room seemed to split open. A blinding light poured in, and figures emerged—tall, cloaked beings with eyes like molten silver.

Sora’s chains fell away, disintegrating into ash. One of the beings stepped forward, its voice echoing in his mind.

"You do not belong here."

"Who are you?" Sora demanded, his voice shaking.

"We are the Watchers of Time. You have disrupted the flow. You must return."

"Return where?"

Before he could get an answer, the detective burst back into the room, firing his weapon. The bullets froze mid-air, then dropped harmlessly to the ground.

"Run, Sora!" the detective shouted.

Sora hesitated for only a moment before bolting through the broken doorway.

The corridors twisted and warped as Sora ran, the world around him seeming to ripple and fracture. He could hear the Watchers pursuing him, their voices a haunting chorus in his mind.

"You cannot escape."

Memories flooded back, disjointed and fleeting. Battles fought in distant eras. Faces he couldn’t name but felt he should. And always, always, the image of Akiko beneath the cherry blossoms.

He stumbled into a vast chamber, its walls lined with ancient machinery humming with power. At the center stood a glowing portal, its edges crackling with energy.

Serendipitously, the detective appeared, bloodied but alive. "That portal," he gasped. "It’s the key. You need to go through it."

"What’s on the other side?" Sora asked, his heart pounding.

"Answers," the detective said.

The Watchers entered the chamber, their presence making the air feel heavy.

"Return, and we will spare your timeline," one of them intoned.

Sora glanced at the detective, then at the portal. He took a deep breath and stepped forward.

As he approached, the portal flared, and a final memory surged to the surface—Akiko’s face, her voice, her final words.

"You’ll find me again. Across time, across worlds. I’ll wait for you."

Sora’s resolve hardened. He turned to the Watchers, defiance in his eyes.

"No."

And with that, he leaped into the light.

The chamber dissolved, replaced by a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations. Sora felt himself being pulled through time, his memories and existence unraveling and reassembling.

When he emerged, he was standing beneath a cherry blossom tree. The air was warm, the petals drifting gently around him.

And there, waiting for him, was Akiko.

Her smile was the same, timeless and full of promise.

"You found me," she said, tears glistening in her eyes.

Sora stepped forward, his heart swelling with emotion. "I always would."

But as they embraced, he felt the Watchers’ presence looming once more.

This wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning of a battle that would span eternity.

On an overcast afternoon in Valletta, the ancient Maltese capital buzzed with life. Tourists wandered through the stone-paved streets, snapping pictures of the grand architecture, while locals moved with practiced ease through the bustling market. Yet, for Elias, the vibrant scene was nothing but a dull hum beneath the ever-present noise of people's thoughts.

Elias had always been able to read minds. At first, it had been overwhelming—a cacophony of whispers, shouts, and secrets that battered him relentlessly. But over the years, he’d learned to filter it, like tuning out a radio in the background.

That day, he was wandering through the market, idly sifting through the thoughts around him.

"Where did I put my wallet?"
"These oranges are overpriced."
"I hope she says yes to dinner."

Normal, everyday musings, nothing out of the ordinary. But then, amidst the noise, came something different.

"I know you can hear me."

Elias froze, his hand tightening around the basket he carried. The voice was sharp, clear, and impossible. It hadn’t come from the cacophony of external thoughts. It had been directed at him.

He turned slowly, scanning the crowd. No one was looking at him, no one appeared suspicious.

"Who are you?" Elias thought back tentatively, unsure if it would work.

For a moment, there was silence. Then the voice came again, like a needle threading through the noise.

"Come to the Upper Barrakka Gardens. Alone."

Elias's pulse quickened as he climbed the steps to the gardens overlooking the Grand Harbour. The location was popular with tourists, but at this hour, it was relatively quiet. He scanned the area, his mind brimming with questions.

Who had spoken to him? And how? In all his years of hearing others’ thoughts, no one had ever communicated with him like that.

Near a stone bench shaded by an ancient olive tree, he spotted a figure sitting calmly, their back to him. As he approached, the figure turned—a woman, her sharp green eyes locking onto his.

"You made good time," the voice in his mind said.

Elias gaped at her. “How are you doing this?” he asked aloud, his voice barely steady.

The woman tilted her head. “No need to speak. Thoughts are faster.”

Elias blinked. Despite her suggestion, he replied with his thoughts. "Who are you?"

"My name is Seraphina," she responded. "And like you, I have a... gift."

Elias’s skepticism flared. "You can read minds too?"

Seraphina smiled faintly. "Not quite. I can communicate through thought. But I’ve been searching for someone like you—a true telepath."

As they spoke, Seraphina revealed a shocking truth. Elias’s ability wasn’t unique. Across the world, there were others like him, scattered and hidden. But in Malta, an ancient artifact known as the Cognitum Shard had been unearthed—a relic said to amplify psychic abilities.

"Why are you telling me this?" Elias asked, his mind racing.

Seraphina’s expression darkened. "Because the Shard has fallen into the wrong hands. A man named Dario Volpe, a dangerous psychic manipulator, is using it to control minds and consolidate power. We need to stop him."

"Why me?"

"Because," Seraphina said, her voice steady, "you’re the only one who can resist his influence."

Before Elias could process her words, a sharp jolt of pain exploded in his mind, like a spike driven through his skull. He staggered, clutching his head.

"They’ve found us," Seraphina said, grabbing his arm. "Run!"

They darted through the gardens, weaving between tourists and leaping over low walls. Behind them, Elias could feel the pursuing presence—men with singular, focused thoughts of capture.

"Split up!" Seraphina thought to him. "I’ll draw them away."

Elias hesitated but nodded. He veered down a narrow alley, his heart pounding. The whispers of pursuing minds followed him, growing louder.

In the winding streets of Valletta, Elias ducked into a small café, slipping into the crowd. He focused, trying to block out the noise of nearby thoughts and locate his pursuers.

"He’s close. Check the side streets."

The voice wasn’t Seraphina’s. It was one of the hunters. Elias’s chest tightened as he realized they weren’t just tracking him—they were coordinated, connected through the same psychic link.

He slipped out the back of the café and into a hidden courtyard. His thoughts churned as he tried to make sense of it all. Who was this Dario Volpe? And why could Elias resist him?

Before he could dwell on it further, Seraphina’s voice cut through his mind.

"Elias, can you hear me?"

"Yes. Where are you?"

"Safe, for now. Meet me at Fort St. Angelo. We don’t have much time."

As night fell, Elias made his way to the ancient fort. Its towering walls loomed against the dark sky, a relic of Malta’s storied past. Seraphina was waiting for him near a crumbling archway, her expression grim.

"They’ll come here soon," she said. "We need to act fast."

"What do we do?"

Seraphina pulled a small, intricately carved box from her bag. She opened it to reveal a shard of crystalline material glowing faintly.

"This is a fragment of the Cognitum Shard," she said. "The only piece not in Dario’s possession. If we can amplify your ability with this, you might be able to disrupt his network."

"And if it doesn’t work?" Elias asked.

Seraphina’s gaze hardened. "Then we fight."

Elias held the fragment, its surface cold and pulsing with energy. As he focused, he felt a surge of power coursing through him, like a dam breaking and releasing a flood. The thoughts around him became sharper, louder, more distinct.

"I can hear them," he said, his voice trembling.

"Good," Seraphina said. "Now focus on Dario. Find him."

Elias closed his eyes, letting the storm of thoughts wash over him. For a moment, it was overwhelming—dozens, then hundreds of voices clashing in his mind. But then, like a beacon, one voice rose above the rest.

"Bring them to me. The Shard must be whole."

"I’ve found him," Elias whispered.

Dario Volpe was in an opulent mansion on the outskirts of Valletta. Seraphina led the way as they navigated the darkened streets, avoiding patrols of psychically connected guards.

When they reached the mansion, Elias felt a wave of pressure against his mind, like an invisible hand trying to push him away.

"He knows we’re here," Seraphina said grimly.

"What now?"

"You’ll have to confront him directly. I’ll handle the guards."

Elias nodded, though fear gnawed at him. He stepped through the grand doors, the air thick with tension.

In the mansion’s main hall, Dario awaited him. The man was tall and imposing, his eyes glowing faintly with the power of the Shard embedded in a pendant around his neck.

"So, you’re the one who resists," Dario said, his voice echoing in Elias’s mind. "Impressive. But futile."

Elias clenched his fists. "You won’t get away with this."

Dario laughed. "You think you can stop me? I am connected to thousands. My will is absolute."

Elias focused, drawing on the power of the fragment in his hand. The whispers in his mind grew louder, the network of connected minds revealing itself like a web.

"Absolute?" Elias shot back. "Let’s test that."

With a surge of effort, Elias sent a mental pulse through the web. The connections wavered, then snapped, one by one. Dario staggered, clutching his head.

"What are you doing?!"

"Breaking your hold," Elias said, his voice steady.

The struggle was fierce. Dario’s will was like a tidal wave, crashing against Elias’s mind. But Elias pushed back, drawing strength from the fragment.

Finally, with a final burst of energy, he shattered the connection. Dario collapsed to his knees, the pendant around his neck cracking and dimming.

Seraphina entered the hall, her face alight with relief.

"You did it," she said.

Elias nodded, though exhaustion weighed on him. The whispers in his mind had quieted, leaving only his own thoughts.

"What now?" he asked.

Seraphina smiled faintly. "Now, we make sure the Shard never falls into the wrong hands again."

As they left the mansion, the first light of dawn broke over Valletta. For the first time in years, Elias felt a sense of peace. The battle was over, but his journey had just begun.

The first thing Mateo felt when he woke up was a splitting headache. It wasn’t unusual—he’d had a few too many drinks at the fiesta the night before. But when he opened his eyes, the morning sunlight streaming through his bedroom window felt sharper, as if it had been filtered through a lens of clarity. The world seemed different, crisper, like everything around him had been polished overnight.

Then came the voice.

"Juan Carlos didn’t forget your money; he lied about needing it in the first place."

Mateo froze, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror by the bedside. He hadn’t said anything. The thought hadn’t come from him—or had it?

"Who—what—?" he muttered, his voice trembling.

The voice didn’t answer, but the words lingered, a whisper that seemed to originate somewhere deep within him, resonating in his chest. Mateo shook his head, trying to shake it off.

Later that morning, he wandered into the market square of La Paz, the hum of vendors and the buzz of the crowd swirling around him. As he greeted familiar faces, the whispers began again.

"The meat is two days old."
"Her husband is still alive in Cochabamba."
"He’s not really blind."

Mateo’s heart raced as he realized the whispers weren’t random. They were truths—ugly, hidden truths. He could hear them, see them, like threads woven into the fabric of every person he passed.

The worst came when he met Alejandro.

Alejandro had been Mateo’s best friend for over 20 years, practically a brother. They’d grown up together, shared secrets, and been through more scrapes than Mateo cared to count. Alejandro was leaning against a lamppost, his easy grin stretching wide as Mateo approached.

"Mateo! You look terrible," Alejandro teased.

Mateo opened his mouth to respond, but the voice beat him to it.

"His name isn’t Alejandro. He’s been lying to you since the day you met."

Mateo’s breath hitched. "What?"

Alejandro frowned. "What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Mateo stared at his friend, his mind reeling. His name isn’t Alejandro? What else has he lied about?

"You don’t have a sister in Santa Cruz," Mateo blurted out before he could stop himself.

Alejandro’s face turned to stone. "What are you talking about?"

"You lied," Mateo said, his voice rising. "About everything, didn’t you?"

Alejandro’s silence was answer enough. His eyes darted around the square, as if searching for an escape route. Then, he grabbed Mateo’s arm and yanked him into a nearby alley.

"Keep your voice down," Alejandro hissed.

"Why should I?" Mateo shot back. "You’ve been lying to me for twenty years! Who even are you?"

Alejandro—or whoever he was—sighed, rubbing his temples. "It’s complicated."

"Start uncomplicating it!"

For a moment, Alejandro said nothing. Then he leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper. "My name isn’t Alejandro. It’s Emilio."

Mateo felt like the ground had shifted beneath him. "Why would you lie about something like that?"

"Because I had to," Emilio said. "Because if I hadn’t, you’d be dead."

Emilio’s confession unraveled a story more bizarre than Mateo could have imagined. Emilio wasn’t from La Paz. He wasn’t even from Bolivia. He was a former operative for an international organization called La Sombra, tasked with dismantling powerful criminal networks across South America.

Two decades ago, he had infiltrated a cartel in La Paz that had ties to Mateo’s family. Mateo’s father, a local shopkeeper, had unknowingly stumbled into the cartel’s operations. When the cartel marked Mateo’s family for elimination, Emilio stepped in, posing as a friend to protect them from the shadows.

"But the cartel fell apart years ago," Mateo said, his voice shaking. "Why are you still here?"

Emilio hesitated. "Because someone survived. Someone who knows who you are. And now, they know who I am."

Mateo’s newfound ability made him more aware than ever of the danger around him. As Emilio spoke, he realized the man wasn’t lying—not about the cartel, not about the threats. But it didn’t make the betrayal hurt any less.

"You should have told me," Mateo said quietly.

"You wouldn’t have believed me," Emilio replied. "And even if you had, it would have made you a target."

Before Mateo could respond, a sharp whistle echoed through the alley. Emilio’s eyes darkened. "We have to go. Now."

The chase began before Mateo even understood what was happening. Emilio pulled him through winding alleys and hidden passageways, their breath clouding in the cold mountain air.

"Who’s after us?" Mateo shouted.

"Someone who wants you dead!" Emilio shot back.

The answer came in the form of a gunshot that shattered the quiet hum of the market. Mateo ducked instinctively, his heart pounding.

They burst into a dilapidated building on the edge of the city, slamming the door behind them. Emilio pulled out a small device that looked like a radio and began frantically tuning it.

"What is that?" Mateo asked.

"A locator. If we’re lucky, it’ll call in reinforcements."

"And if we’re not?"

Emilio didn’t answer.

The voice in Mateo’s head whispered again.

"Your friend has been lying about this too."

Mateo grabbed Emilio’s arm. "What are you hiding now?"

Emilio’s eyes darted away. "I didn’t call for reinforcements. I called someone who owes me a favor."

"Who?"

Before Emilio could respond, the door burst open, and a woman stepped inside. She was tall, with sharp features and eyes like steel. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who had seen death and laughed in its face.

"Emilio," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "You’re as reckless as ever."

"Good to see you too, Valeria," Emilio replied.

Valeria was a former member of La Sombra, now operating as a mercenary. She agreed to help them—for a price.

"You’re lucky I don’t shoot you both and take the bounty," she said, smirking.

Mateo’s stomach churned. "Bounty?"

Emilio nodded grimly. "The cartel isn’t just after us for revenge. They’ve put a price on your head, Mateo. They think you know something valuable."

"But I don’t!"

Valeria raised an eyebrow. "Maybe not. But with that ability of yours, you’re worth a fortune to the right buyer."

The group set off into the wilderness, heading toward a safe house in the mountains. Along the way, Mateo’s ability began to evolve. He didn’t just hear lies—he could sense them, feel their weight in the air.

When Valeria claimed she was only in it for the money, Mateo felt a flicker of something else: loyalty. When Emilio said he would protect Mateo at all costs, the truth rang clear, but so did the guilt behind his words.

"You’re not telling me everything," Mateo said to Emilio as they climbed a rocky trail.

Emilio sighed. "There’s one more thing. The cartel isn’t just after you because of your family. They’re after you because of what you are."

"What I am?"

"You think your ability came out of nowhere?" Emilio said. "It’s part of a legacy—something your ancestors were part of. The cartel has been hunting people like you for years."

As they reached the safe house, Mateo’s mind swirled with questions. Who were his ancestors? Why had his ability manifested now? And what was the cartel’s ultimate goal?

The answers came in the form of a final confrontation. The cartel had tracked them to the safe house, surrounding it with armed men.

"We can’t fight them all," Valeria said, loading her gun.

"No," Mateo said, stepping forward. "But I can."

For the first time, Mateo embraced his ability. He walked out of the safe house, unarmed, and faced the cartel leader—a man with cold eyes and a cruel smile.

"You think you can scare me?" the leader sneered.

"No," Mateo replied calmly. "But I can end this."

With a wave of his hand, the lies surrounding the cartel unraveled. Secrets spilled into the open—betrayals within their ranks, hidden fears, even the leader’s own doubts. The men began turning on each other, their fragile alliances crumbling under the weight of the truth.

By the time the sun set, the cartel was no more.

Emilio and Valeria stood in awe as Mateo returned to the safe house.

"You’ve barely scratched the surface of your power," Emilio said.

Mateo nodded. "I want to learn more. But first, I need to rebuild my life—and figure out who I really am."

Valeria smirked. "Well, Truthkeeper, you know where to find me if you need help."

For the first time in weeks, Mateo felt a sense of clarity, not just about the world around him, but about himself.

The truth had set him free.

The town of Beregova was unlike any other. Nestled deep in the frostbitten wilderness of Russia, its people carried a secret as ancient as the land itself: everyone here was born knowing the exact day they would die. The knowledge arrived at birth, whispered like a lullaby in the cradle, a truth they bore like a shadow.

For most, it was a comfort. Death was no surprise, no thief in the night. Families prepared feasts for final days; goodbyes were deliberate, and lives were lived without fear of the unknown.

But for Ivan Orlov, this certainty became a curse. His death day was supposed to be five years ago.

Ivan had spent the past half-decade as a ghost among the living. On June 12th, at age 27, he had bid farewell to his family, written letters to his few friends, and even spent his last hours sitting by the riverbank where he’d grown up. He had waited for death as one might wait for a storm—resigned, helpless. Yet the clock had struck midnight, and his heart had kept beating.

At first, there was relief. Then confusion. Then dread.

By the time dawn broke, Ivan had become an anomaly. In Beregova, nobody outlived their death date. The town's elders, keepers of its ancient lore, could not explain it. Some muttered about a divine error. Others whispered about a curse.

Over time, the townsfolk grew wary of him. Ivan, once a carpenter, found his work drying up. People avoided his gaze in the marketplace. Parents pulled their children away when he passed. They called him “perezhivshiy”—the one who outlived.

On a particularly cold winter morning, Ivan sat alone in his cottage, nursing a glass of vodka. The isolation had become suffocating, yet he found himself unable to leave Beregova. Something bound him to this place, though he couldn’t say what.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Startled, he stood and opened it to find an old woman bundled in layers of wool. Her face was lined with years, but her pale blue eyes burned with intensity.

“May I come in, Ivan Orlov?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I know you.” Without waiting for an answer, she stepped inside, her boots crunching on the wooden floor.

Ivan shut the door, frowning. “What do you want?”

“I am Galina,” she said, settling into his worn chair by the fire. “I’ve come to help you.”

“Help me?” He laughed bitterly. “Unless you can explain why I didn’t die five years ago, I doubt you can.”

Galina’s gaze was piercing. “What if I told you that you were not meant to die that day?”

Ivan froze. “What are you talking about?”

“There are forces at work here, Ivan. Forces older than Beregova, older than the knowledge of death itself. Sometimes, a life is spared for a reason.”

Galina told him a story. Long ago, before Beregova’s people knew their death days, they lived like everyone else, blind to fate. One winter, a traveler arrived in the town, a man with eyes like the night sky. He brought with him a gift—the knowledge of death, which he claimed would free the townsfolk from fear.

But the gift came with a price. In exchange for this knowledge, the traveler demanded something in return: the occasional sacrifice of a life. Every generation, one person would be chosen to defy death, to exist in limbo, neither fully alive nor fully dead. These outliers, the perezhivshiy, were bound to the traveler’s will.

“The traveler’s name was Moroz,” Galina said. “And you, Ivan, are his chosen one.”

Ivan stared at her, his pulse racing. “That’s… that’s insane.”

“Is it?” Galina countered. “Think about it. Why do you linger while others pass? Why does the town shun you, even though you’ve done nothing wrong?”

He didn’t want to believe her, but deep down, a part of him knew she was right.

“What does Moroz want with me?” Ivan asked.

Galina’s expression darkened. “That, I do not know. But I do know this—if you don’t find him and break the pact, you will remain trapped forever.”

The journey to find Moroz began that very night. Galina handed Ivan a map, its surface marked with strange symbols. “Follow this,” she said. “It will lead you to his domain.”

Ivan packed what little he had and set off, the biting wind gnawing at his face. The path led him deep into the wilderness, where the snow fell heavier and the trees grew gnarled and twisted.

Days blurred into nights. He encountered strange sights along the way—a frozen stag with eyes that glowed, a river that ran red beneath the ice, whispers in the wind that seemed to call his name.

On the seventh day, he reached a clearing. At its center stood a house made entirely of ice, its walls shimmering in the moonlight. Ivan approached cautiously, his breath fogging in the frigid air.

The door opened before he could knock.

Inside, the house was impossibly warm. A fire burned in a hearth carved from ice, and seated before it was a man dressed in dark furs. His eyes were black as coal, and his smile was both welcoming and unsettling.

“Welcome, Ivan Orlov,” the man said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Ivan’s hands balled into fists. “Are you Moroz?”

The man inclined his head. “I am.”

“Why did you choose me?” Ivan demanded. “Why am I still alive?”

Moroz chuckled. “Alive? Is that what you think you are?” He stood, towering over Ivan. “You are neither alive nor dead, boy. You exist because I willed it.”

“Why?” Ivan shouted. “What do you want from me?”

Moroz’s smile faded. “There is a balance in this world, Ivan. For every life, a death. For every death, a life. You are my tether, my anchor to the mortal realm. Without you, I cannot walk among your kind.”

Ivan’s stomach churned. “You’re using me.”

“Call it what you will,” Moroz said with a shrug. “But know this—if you sever the bond, you will die as you were meant to five years ago.”

Ivan wrestled with the weight of Moroz’s words. Could he truly let go of the life he’d clung to for so long? Did he even have a choice?

“I won’t be your pawn,” Ivan said finally, his voice firm.

Moroz raised an eyebrow. “And how do you plan to stop me?”

Galina’s voice echoed in Ivan’s mind: “If you don’t find him and break the pact, you will remain trapped forever.”

Ivan reached into his coat and pulled out a shard of ice he had taken from the river—the same river where he had waited for death five years ago. The shard pulsed with a faint light.

Moroz’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you get that?”

Ivan didn’t answer. He plunged the shard into his chest, and a surge of energy coursed through him. Pain, cold and searing, exploded in his veins.

Moroz let out a roar, his form flickering like a dying flame. “What have you done?”

Ivan collapsed to the floor, gasping. The ice shard had melted, but he felt… whole. For the first time in years, his heart beat with clarity.

The house of ice began to crack, the walls splintering. Moroz’s form dissolved into mist, his screams echoing into nothingness.

When Ivan awoke, he was lying by the riverbank in Beregova. The sun was rising, its light reflecting off the frozen water.

He stood, his body aching but alive. Truly alive.

As he walked back into town, the villagers stared at him, their eyes wide with awe. For the first time, they did not turn away.

Galina met him at the edge of the village. “You did it,” she said, her voice filled with quiet pride.

Ivan nodded. “The bond is broken.”

“And now?” she asked.

He looked at her, a faint smile on his lips. “Now, I live.”

For the first time, Ivan Orlov was free—not from death, but from the fear of it. In a town where everyone knew their end, he had become something new: a man who lived without knowing, and without fear.

The summer storm rolled over the horizon like a dark wave, thunder crackling in the distance. Inside the dusty attic of an old, abandoned mansion, four friends—Jake, Mia, Sam, and Clara—gathered around a peculiar board game they’d found in a locked chest. The box was made of obsidian, engraved with glowing red runes.

“This is seriously creepy,” Mia muttered, brushing off the cobwebs.

“Creepy or not,” Jake said with a grin, “we didn’t come all this way just to chicken out. Let’s play!”

Clara hesitated. “Maybe we shouldn’t. It doesn’t look… normal.”

Sam waved a dismissive hand. “Relax. What’s the worst that could happen?”

As soon as Jake flipped open the box, an icy wind filled the room, extinguishing the lantern. The game board lit up with an eerie glow, its intricate design shifting and pulsating. The air grew heavy, charged with magic.

A voice, deep and sinister, boomed from the shadows.

“Foolish mortals! You dare awaken The Game of Shadows! Now, you shall pay the price.”

Before any of them could react, a blinding flash erupted from the board. The room spun, and when the light faded, they found themselves standing on a vast, otherworldly terrain—a strange mix of lava rivers, enchanted forests, and towering mountains.

Clara looked down and screamed. Her body had transformed into a wooden pawn with a carved face resembling her own. Jake was now a knight piece made of shimmering steel, Sam a dice with glowing symbols, and Mia a slender token shaped like a crystal wand.

“What… what happened to us?” Clara stammered.

The sinister voice echoed again, this time all around them. “You are players in my game now. Complete the board, and you may return to your world. Fail, and you’ll remain here forever.”

A towering, shadowy figure materialized before them, draped in tattered robes, eyes glowing like embers. The evil wizard cackled.

“To win, you must survive the trials of each square. Roll the dice to move. But beware—each challenge grows deadlier the closer you get to the end. Let the game begin!”

With a wave of his staff, the wizard vanished, leaving the friends stranded.

Round 1: The Forest of Whispers
Sam reluctantly rolled himself, the glowing numbers on his surface spinning wildly before landing on a three. The ground beneath them shimmered, and they found themselves in a dense forest, the trees twisted and gnarled. A faint whispering filled the air, growing louder with every step.

“Stay together,” Jake said, his knightly form clanking as he moved.

Suddenly, vines snaked out from the undergrowth, wrapping around Mia’s crystalline body. She shrieked as the vines tightened.

“Help her!” Clara cried.

Jake swung his sword arm, slicing through the vines, but more emerged. The whispers turned into mocking laughter.

“The trees are alive!” Mia gasped.

Sam rolled forward, landing on another square with a glowing rune. Instantly, the whispers stopped, and the vines recoiled. A golden key appeared in the air before them.

“Looks like we passed the first challenge,” Sam said, his voice trembling.

But none of them missed the faint shadows that lingered, watching them as they moved on.

Round 2: The Lava Gauntlet
The next roll took them to a fiery canyon with rivers of molten lava. Platforms of stone floated precariously in the heat, some crumbling into ash as they watched.

“We have to jump across,” Jake said.

“You’re a metal knight!” Clara snapped. “What if you sink?”

Jake hesitated, then grinned. “No risk, no reward.”

He leapt onto the first platform, and it held. One by one, the others followed. But halfway across, the platforms began to move, floating away from each other.

Clara nearly fell into the lava, her wooden body catching fire at the edges. Mia reached out, extending her crystalline wand to pull her back.

“We need to go faster!” Mia shouted.

Sam rolled onto a nearby rune platform, and the lava surged, forming a massive fire serpent. Its molten body writhed as it lunged toward them.

“Run!” Jake yelled, holding his sword out to fend off the creature.

As the serpent snapped at them, Clara noticed a glowing rune on its forehead. “The key’s on its head!”

Jake distracted the serpent while Mia used her wand to create an icy bridge over the lava. Sam rolled onto the bridge, leapt, and slammed into the serpent’s forehead. The rune shattered, and the serpent dissolved, leaving the key behind.

Round 3: The Labyrinth of Lies
The next square transported them to a sprawling maze, its walls shifting and shimmering like illusions.

“This feels wrong,” Clara said.

The group ventured cautiously, but every turn seemed to lead back to where they started. Frustration mounted as time dragged on.

“We’re going in circles!” Sam said.

“Wait,” Mia said, studying the walls. “The shadows… they don’t match the light.”

She tapped her wand against one of the walls, and it flickered, revealing a hidden path.

As they moved deeper into the maze, they encountered shadowy doppelgängers of themselves. The doubles mimicked their movements, blocking their way.

“How do we fight ourselves?” Clara asked.

“We don’t,” Jake said. “We outsmart them.”

Using the reflective surface of Mia’s wand, they tricked the doppelgängers into chasing illusions of themselves, clearing the path to the final key.

The Final Square: The Wizard’s Gambit
The last square brought them to a massive chessboard suspended in a void of stars. At the center stood the wizard, his staff crackling with dark energy.

“Congratulations,” he sneered. “But the final challenge is me. Checkmate me, or lose forever!”

The wizard summoned an army of enchanted chess pieces, each one twice their size.

Jake led the charge, clashing with the knight pieces, while Mia used her wand to create barriers. Sam rolled across the board, scattering enemy pawns, while Clara used her small size to sneak behind enemy lines.

But the wizard was relentless, teleporting across the board and striking with bolts of energy.

“We can’t beat him like this!” Mia shouted.

Clara noticed something: the wizard avoided the glowing runes on the board. “The runes!” she called. “They’re his weakness!”

The friends worked together, luring the wizard toward the runes. Each time he stepped on one, his power diminished.

Finally, Jake delivered the finishing blow, slamming his sword into the wizard’s staff. The staff shattered, and the wizard let out an anguished scream before disintegrating into shadow.

The board glowed brightly, and the friends found themselves back in the attic, their bodies restored. The game lay closed on the floor, its runes dimmed.

“Let’s never touch anything like that again,” Clara said, her voice shaky.

“Agreed,” Jake said, but he couldn’t help smiling. “Still… that was kind of awesome.”

As they left the attic, none of them noticed the faint red glow returning to the game, nor the shadowy figure watching from the corner.

The Game of Shadows was far from over.

The full moon rose over the sleepy village of Rivenwood, its silver glow weaving through the dense forest canopy. For centuries, the villagers told tales of monsters lurking in the woods, their howls echoing through the night. But young Kael never believed them. At fifteen, his life revolved around working in his father’s forge and dreaming of becoming a renowned blacksmith. That is, until the night everything changed.

Kael's transformation began with a shiver. His bones ached, and his senses became razor-sharp. He could hear the faint rustle of leaves, the flutter of wings, and even the faint thrum of a villager’s heartbeat. He’d been warned by an old hermit he’d met in the forest about a “hidden beast” within him, but he’d laughed it off as ramblings of a madman.

The change erupted within him like fire, his muscles tearing and reforming, his face elongating into a wolfish snout. The transformation wasn’t subtle; it was brutal, raw, and terrifying. And worst of all, it happened at the village square during the Harvest Festival, in front of the entire town.

Gasps turned into screams. Mothers clutched their children. Men grabbed pitchforks and torches. Kael tried to cry out, to explain, but all that came from his throat was a guttural growl. Panic surged as the villagers advanced.

“Monster!” someone yelled.

“Kill it before it kills us!” another shouted.

Kael’s best friend, Lira, stepped forward. “Stop! It’s Kael!” she screamed, but the mob drowned her out.

Instincts Kael didn’t recognize overtook him, and with a feral snarl, he leapt over the gathering crowd, bounding into the forest. He ran for hours, his new wolfish body a mix of agony and power. When he finally stopped, he collapsed at the base of a gnarled oak tree, the village lights a distant memory.

For days, Kael remained in the forest, unsure of what he’d become or what to do. His hunger was insatiable, his claws unyielding. But something within him resisted the urge to hurt. His humanity clung desperately to his new form.

One night, as he skulked near the village outskirts, he overheard a group of villagers talking in hushed tones about a series of disappearances. The forest, they claimed, had grown darker, more sinister.

“They say it’s the Black Stalker,” whispered a woman, her voice trembling.

Kael’s ears twitched. The Black Stalker was a legend told to scare children—a malevolent spirit that preyed on the weak and unwary. But as he listened, he realized the tales were more than folklore. People were vanishing. Crops were wilting overnight. The village was falling into despair.

Driven by guilt and a newfound sense of responsibility, Kael decided he couldn’t hide forever. If he was truly a monster, he would use his monstrous form to protect those he loved.

Kael began tracking the Black Stalker, using his heightened senses to follow its trail. The creature’s presence was unmistakable—an oppressive aura that killed flora and silenced animals. Its lair lay deep within the forest, in a cavern shrouded by thorny brambles.

As Kael ventured inside, a chilling voice echoed, “Why does a pup dare enter my domain?”

The Black Stalker emerged from the shadows, its form an amalgamation of nightmares—shadowy tendrils, glowing red eyes, and a mouth that dripped venom.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Kael growled, though fear clawed at his heart.

The Stalker laughed, a sound that made Kael’s fur bristle. “You’re like me, wolf-boy. A creature of darkness. Why fight what you are?”

“I’m nothing like you!” Kael roared, launching himself at the beast.

The battle was ferocious. The Stalker’s tendrils lashed out, tearing through Kael’s fur and flesh, but he fought back with a feral tenacity he didn’t know he possessed. The cavern shook with their struggle. Finally, Kael sank his claws into the creature’s heart, a burst of silvery light exploding from the wound. The Stalker let out an unearthly shriek before dissolving into nothingness.

Exhausted but triumphant, Kael stumbled back to the village, his body covered in wounds.

The villagers were waiting for him, torches in hand, their faces a mix of fear and curiosity. Kael hesitated, unsure if they would see him as a savior or a threat.

“I killed the Black Stalker,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

The crowd murmured. Lira stepped forward, her eyes filled with tears. “I told you Kael wasn’t a monster!”

An older man, the village elder, raised his hand for silence. “If what you say is true, then you’ve saved us. But you must leave, Kael. Your presence unsettles the people.”

Kael nodded. He understood. He couldn’t live among them, not like this.

Months passed. Kael made the forest his home, learning to control his transformations and harness his powers. He became a silent guardian, protecting the village from predators and patrolling its borders.

But his peace was short-lived. One night, Lira came to the forest, her face pale with fear. “Kael, something worse than the Black Stalker is coming. We need you.”

A war band from a neighboring kingdom, seeking to conquer Rivenwood’s fertile lands, was marching toward the village. Kael’s blood boiled. He would not let his home fall.

As the invaders stormed the village, Kael appeared like a specter, his wolf form striking terror into their ranks. He moved like a shadow, his claws tearing through armor, his howls shaking the ground. The villagers, inspired by his bravery, rallied and fought alongside him.

The battle was brutal, but by dawn, the invaders were vanquished.

Kael stood in the village square, his fur matted with blood, his chest heaving. The villagers stared at him, their faces a mix of awe and gratitude.

“You’re not a monster,” the elder said, stepping forward. “You’re a protector. Our protector.”

Kael smiled, his wolfish features softening. For the first time since his transformation, he felt a sense of belonging.

Over time, Kael became a legend, the boy who became a wolf and saved his village. He learned to embrace his dual nature, not as a curse, but as a gift. And as the moon rose high above Rivenwood, its glow casting long shadows, a solitary howl echoed through the forest—a sound not of sorrow, but of triumph.

It was supposed to be a simple afternoon of clearing out the attic.

Lily sifted through boxes of old books, faded photo albums, and knick-knacks from her childhood home, humming to herself in the dusty light. She’d always felt a strange nostalgia for this house, even though she didn’t remember much of her early years here. Moving away when she was five meant she only had vague memories of the rooms and hallways, but the house felt oddly comforting every time she visited her parents.

In the far corner of the attic, under a frayed quilt, she found a metal box she’d never seen before. Curious, she brushed away the dust and pried it open. Inside, there was an assortment of VHS tapes labeled in faded ink, each with a date scribbled across the top in her mother’s careful handwriting.

She pulled out the first tape, marked “Spring 1997.” She was only two years old then, and memories from that time were nonexistent. She hadn’t seen her parents use the old VHS player in years, but she knew it still sat in the basement gathering dust.

With a sense of curiosity tinged with excitement, Lily made her way down to the basement, popped the tape into the player, and sat back to watch.

The screen flickered, and her mother’s voice echoed from behind the camera.

“Alright, everyone, say hi!”

There she was, her tiny self, wobbling as she toddled towards the camera with a huge grin. Her father appeared next, scooping her up and lifting her high into the air as she giggled. A warm smile spread across Lily’s face as she watched, feeling a strange sort of comfort in these old, forgotten memories. It was like visiting a life she had never fully known.

A few minutes into the video, Lily noticed a figure in the background—a young boy, maybe seven or eight, with shaggy brown hair and big, expressive eyes. He was playing with a set of toy cars, completely focused on lining them up in a neat little row. She squinted at the screen, trying to remember who he was.

Had her parents taken in a neighbor’s kid? A cousin? But her family wasn’t particularly close with anyone who had children that age.

The next tape, labeled “Christmas 1998,” held more surprises. The mysterious boy was there again, sitting beside her at the table as they decorated a gingerbread house. He laughed when she smudged frosting on her face, and she watched as her mother wiped it away, all the while ruffling the boy’s hair with a fondness that made Lily’s skin crawl.

The tapes grew stranger as she went on. The boy was always there, in every video, watching over her as if he were her older brother. She felt an inexplicable tightness in her chest every time he appeared. It was as if she were watching a version of her family she didn’t belong to, a strange alternate universe where this boy was as much a part of her life as anyone else.

Finally, she pulled out a tape labeled simply “July 1999.” There was no mention of a holiday or event, just the date. She hesitated, fingers trembling, but curiosity got the better of her.

The video began with her family playing in the backyard. The boy was there again, helping her onto the swings. This time, he looked older than in the previous videos, almost as if he’d aged faster. His eyes were sharper, his movements almost protective as he guided her onto the swing.

“Go higher, Jake!” she heard her own young voice cry out.

The name struck her like a hammer. Jake. She had no memory of ever knowing anyone named Jake, let alone calling someone by that name. Her hands were clammy as she reached for the remote, wanting to stop the tape—but something in her wouldn’t let her.

The tape continued, and the scenes grew more unsettling. Jake would look into the camera, straight at her mother, and the way he stared felt wrong. It wasn’t just a boy looking at his family; it was something dark, something with an intensity far beyond his years.

The screen crackled, and the footage cut to an entirely different scene: nighttime, in her childhood bedroom. The camera was set up at the foot of her bed, capturing her tiny figure sleeping soundly under a heap of blankets.

There was movement at the corner of the screen, and Jake’s face emerged in the shadows. He was standing at her bedside, just staring down at her, watching her sleep. His eyes seemed darker than before, hollow somehow, and he stayed there, motionless, for what felt like an eternity.

Then, slowly, he reached down, running his fingers through her hair in a gentle but unnatural way, like a puppeteer examining a marionette.

Lily's skin crawled. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest as she watched the boy—this stranger, this thing that seemed to be Jake—reach out with those unsettlingly still eyes.

As the camera recorded, Jake’s hand moved to her shoulder, pressing down firmly. Her tiny self stirred, letting out a muffled whimper, and Jake leaned in close, his mouth inches from her ear.

The screen went black.

Lily sat frozen, horrified by what she’d just seen. But before she could even process it, the video flickered back to life. This time, she was older, maybe four or five, in a dimly lit room. Her parents were huddled in the corner, whispering to each other, glancing nervously at the door. The camera’s microphone picked up faint snatches of their conversation.

“We need to take him back,” her mother was saying, her voice tight with fear. “I thought we could handle it, but… he isn’t normal. He’s not our son.”

“He’s all we have left of them,” her father replied, his tone strained. “We can’t just send him away.”

The camera panned to Jake, standing alone by the window, looking out with an expression that was both sad and… knowing. Lily shivered, feeling as if his gaze were somehow piercing through the screen, as if he could see her now, in the present.

Suddenly, the video cut out, replaced by a static hiss. She reached for the eject button, desperate to pull the tape out, but it wouldn’t budge. She pounded on the VCR, yanking at the cords, but the screen remained stubbornly black, crackling with static.

Then, the static cleared, and she was staring at her own reflection in the television screen.

Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. But behind her, she saw movement—someone standing there, just out of focus. She whipped around, but the basement was empty.

Heart pounding, she turned back to the screen, and there he was: Jake, now a grown man, standing directly behind her in the reflection, staring down at her with that same hollow expression, his eyes gleaming with a dark and twisted familiarity.

“Why did you forget me, Lily?” His voice was a whisper, raspy and low, filling the silence around her. “Why did you let them send me away?”

She tried to scream, but no sound escaped her lips. She stumbled back, feeling as if she were trapped in a nightmare, as if the boy from her past had somehow reached through time to confront her.

“You were supposed to remember,” he murmured, his voice cold and laced with sadness. “You promised we’d always be together. But you forgot me. You abandoned me.”

He stepped closer, his figure distorting and shifting in the reflection, growing taller, darker, his face twisting into something inhuman, a monstrous grin spreading across his face.

“Now I’m the only one who remembers,” he hissed. “And I’ll make sure you never forget again.”

The screen went black, and the room fell silent.

Shaking, Lily stumbled out of the basement, her mind racing with fragments of memories she couldn’t piece together. She ran to her parents, demanding answers, but they looked at her with haunted expressions, a flash of guilt flickering in their eyes.

After a long silence, her mother finally spoke.

“He… he wasn’t ours,” she whispered. “He came to us after… after you lost your real brother in an accident. We thought… we thought he’d be like a second chance. But he was… wrong. He was never like you. He was… something else.”

Lily’s blood ran cold as her mother’s words sank in. Jake hadn’t just been a memory erased. He was something darker, something her parents had desperately tried to hide, to forget.

And now he was back, haunting her, clinging to the shadows of her past. She knew, deep down, that he would never leave. 

Ethan gazed out over the city skyline, a sprawling labyrinth of shimmering lights and shadows. The night was deep and quiet, but he could feel the restless energy pulsing beneath the surface—a city breathing on borrowed dreams. In this world, dreams were more than just fragments of the mind’s wanderings. They were the currency of life itself, traded in whispers and silences, in shadowed corners and quiet deals.

If you wanted to rise, to thrive, you needed dreams, and not just your own. Because, in a dark twist of fate, the world had turned dreams into something finite, fragile, and frighteningly powerful. People could buy dreams, steal them, shatter them, and even extinguish them, leaving behind hollow shells of what once was.

Ethan knew this all too well.

He had tried, for years, to scrape together enough dreams to lift him out of the gray mundanity of his life. He had bargained, saved, and sacrificed every dream he could muster. Yet every time he got close to realizing the life he had envisioned—enough dreams to start his own business, to live without fear or scarcity—something slipped away. It was as if he were locked in a battle against an invisible force, pulling him under every time he tried to rise.

Then, one night, everything changed. He met The Broker.

The Broker was a figure of whispered legend, a shadow who dealt in the most illicit form of trade: dream shattering. Ethan had always thought the stories about The Broker were exaggerated, the kind of thing told to frighten people into appreciating what dreams they had. But on that cold night, The Broker appeared before him, eyes gleaming like polished obsidian, with an offer that sent chills down his spine.

“You want to be free, don’t you, Ethan?” The Broker’s voice was smooth and sharp, like silk laced with poison. “I can give you that freedom. I can give you the life you’ve dreamed of.”

Ethan’s breath caught. He knew the cost of dealing with The Broker, knew what it meant. To fulfill his dream, he’d have to destroy someone else’s.

“Who… whose dream would I have to shatter?” Ethan’s voice wavered.

The Broker smiled, a thin, knowing smile. “Someone close. The more meaningful their dream is to them, the more powerful it will be for you.”

Ethan clenched his fists. He’d worked so hard, yet here he was, faced with an impossible choice. Destroy someone else’s hope, their passion, their dreams—all for his own ambition. He thought about his girlfriend, Maya, an artist who spent her nights creating vibrant paintings that brought color to his world. Her dreams were luminous, filled with joy, an escape from the drudgery of their shared life. Or his best friend, Kyle, who wanted nothing more than to open a bakery, a place where he could fill the air with warmth and sweet smells, bringing comfort to a fractured city.

Ethan stared at The Broker, feeling the weight of his decision pressing down on him. But the thought of a life without struggle, of finally achieving something lasting… it gnawed at him, an ache that had plagued him for years.

“I’ll do it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “But… can I choose who?”

The Broker nodded, a cruel glint in his eye. “Of course. But remember—once you make this decision, there’s no going back. You will take from them everything, leave their dreams in ruins, beyond repair.”

Ethan shuddered, but he nodded. “I choose Maya.”

That night, as Maya slept beside him, he watched her, memorizing every detail, every expression as she dreamed. Her face was peaceful, lost in a world of her own creation. He felt a pang of guilt, but he reminded himself that this was his only chance to escape the life that had trapped him. The Broker had assured him that she wouldn’t know he was the cause, that her dreams would simply wither and die, leaving her to drift through life without purpose.

When he closed his eyes that night, he felt the cold fingers of The Broker reaching into his mind, pulling out every ounce of Maya’s dreams, every bit of her passion, and giving it to him. He could feel it flooding through him, lighting up his mind with new possibilities, with vivid visions of a life he had only dared to imagine.

The next morning, Maya seemed… different. Her usual vibrant smile was gone, replaced by a dull, listless expression. She stared at her blank canvas, paintbrushes untouched, eyes hollow. Ethan tried to ignore the guilt gnawing at him, convincing himself that this was just the price of survival.

Over the next few weeks, things started to fall into place for him. Opportunities he had longed for began to materialize. His career took off, people noticed him, respected him. He felt invincible, his dream finally within reach. But in the quiet moments, when he saw Maya’s lifeless eyes, he felt a pang of something dark, something twisted clawing at him from the inside.

One night, after a particularly successful day, Ethan returned home to find Maya sitting on the floor, surrounded by shattered glass. She was holding a picture of herself, one taken years ago, back when her eyes sparkled with life.

“I don’t know who I am anymore, Ethan,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “I look at these paintings, at all the things I used to love, and they feel like they belong to someone else. It’s like… like I’m empty inside.”

He knelt beside her, feeling the weight of what he’d done settle like a stone in his chest. But he couldn’t turn back. He couldn’t bring her dreams back, even if he wanted to.

Over the following months, Ethan’s life continued to flourish, yet an unseen darkness seemed to follow him. He started to experience vivid nightmares, images of Maya staring at him with hollow eyes, reaching out to him, accusing him in silence. The dreams grew worse, and he began waking in cold sweats, feeling as if something was watching him.

One night, he woke to find his reflection in the mirror smiling at him, though his own face was expressionless. The face in the mirror was distorted, twisted in a sinister grin, and its eyes were empty, just like Maya’s had become.

“You thought you could take her dreams without consequence,” the reflection whispered, its voice a low hiss. “But dreams are not currency. They are life itself. You are a thief, and a thief must pay.”

Ethan stumbled back, heart racing. He tried to ignore the reflection, to bury the guilt and fear, but the nightmares and hallucinations only intensified. He started seeing Maya everywhere—on the streets, in his office, her empty eyes haunting him, her face twisted in sorrow and rage.

Desperate, he sought out The Broker, demanding a way to undo what he had done. But The Broker only laughed, a hollow, echoing sound that chilled him to the bone.

“Dreams are not easily returned, Ethan,” The Broker said, his eyes glinting with malice. “You chose to shatter her soul for your own gain. You cannot simply undo that. You carry her broken dreams within you now, tainted and twisted, a part of you forever.”

Ethan’s world began to crumble. The success and admiration he had once felt turned hollow. People around him seemed distant, his achievements losing their luster. The visions of Maya grew more intense, her spirit clinging to him, dragging him deeper into despair.

One night, he woke to find himself in a dreamscape of endless darkness, with Maya standing before him, her figure wreathed in shadows. Her eyes bore into his, filled with sorrow and anger.

“You took everything from me,” she whispered, her voice echoing in the emptiness. “And now, you’ll have nothing.”

With a wave of her hand, his surroundings dissolved, leaving him in a void. His memories, his identity, everything he had achieved began to slip away, unraveling like threads. He tried to scream, but no sound escaped his lips. He was disappearing, just as he had erased Maya’s dreams, fading into nothingness, becoming a shadow, a ghost within the dreams of others.

In the waking world, Ethan was never seen again. People forgot him, as if he had never existed. And deep within the darkness, his spirit lingered, forever haunted by the dreams he had shattered, his essence consumed by the very thing he had once coveted.

In the end, dreams were not meant to be bought or stolen. They were a part of the soul, fragile and powerful, and those who sought to exploit them found themselves bound to a fate worse than death, lost in the shadows of dreams that would never be their own.

Thomas hadn’t planned to sort through the attic, but with the rain hammering down and no other distractions, he found himself amid dusty boxes and old relics of his childhood. Each box seemed to have its own story—faded photographs, forgotten toys, clothes that no longer fit, and the odd piece of memorabilia from family vacations. It was in one of these boxes, buried under an old quilt, that he discovered a folder labeled "Missing Person Files."

A chill ran through him as he opened it. It wasn’t a name he recognized or a familiar address he thought he’d find. Instead, he was staring at a photo of himself—a child’s school portrait from when he was around eight years old. The flyer bore his full name, date of birth, and a simple statement:

MISSING PERSON: Thomas Gray Last Seen: November 5, 1994

He felt a strange pang of confusion. November 5, 1994, was just a normal day from his childhood, one that he barely remembered. He would have been eight at the time, likely playing soccer or doing his homework.

He flipped to the next flyer. This one was from a few years later, with his awkward pre-teen face staring back at him. His gangly frame, oversized glasses, and a forced smile; he recognized it as his school photo from seventh grade. The flyer said he had gone missing again—this time on March 14, 1999.

Thomas’s fingers trembled as he flipped through the folder, each flyer and clipping carrying his face, as he aged through his teens and into adulthood. Every few years, it seemed, his photo appeared on another missing person’s poster, his date of birth and details all consistent, but each listing a different “last seen” date.

The next page contained a newspaper clipping from his high school years: Local Teen Mysteriously Disappears, Last Seen on Family Trip to the Mountains. It was dated in the summer of 2002. Thomas had a dim memory of that trip, a family outing that was overshadowed by a nasty storm. He remembered the days feeling blurry, almost as if they’d faded before he’d even lived them.

He tore through the remaining flyers, finding his own face frozen in time again and again. There were dozens, each from a different year, each detailing a new disappearance. In some, he looked younger than he remembered at that time, with an odd vacancy in his eyes that felt wrong. It was as though he were a ghost in these pictures, his familiar face captured in a way that seemed distant and hollow.

A strange unease twisted in his gut. He tried to dismiss it as some elaborate joke, something his family had put together as a prank. But why? No one he knew had a sense of humor that dark, and there was no reason they’d gone through such trouble. It didn’t make sense.

Clutching a handful of the flyers, he headed downstairs to confront his mother, his head swimming with questions. He found her in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup with a distant look in her eyes.

“Mom, did you know about these?” he asked, holding the flyers out to her.

His mother looked up, her eyes widening with a flicker of something he hadn’t seen before—fear.

“Where… where did you find those?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“In the attic. They’re all of me, but I don’t understand. They say I went missing, but… I didn’t, right? I’ve been here the whole time.” He laughed, but it sounded forced even to his own ears.

His mother didn’t smile. She turned pale, her eyes darting from the flyers to his face. For a moment, it looked like she was going to say something, but she shook her head instead, her lips pressed tightly together.

“Thomas,” she finally said, her voice trembling. “There are some things better left alone.”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded, growing frustrated. “I want to know why there are all these flyers with my face on them. Why do they all say I went missing?”

His mother looked away, as if gathering her thoughts. When she finally spoke, her words were heavy with resignation. “I hoped you’d never find those. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

Her cryptic response sent a shiver down his spine. “What do you mean, ‘wasn’t supposed to happen this way’? What happened to me?”

Her eyes filled with tears as she took a shaky breath. “You’ve always… come back. But we never know how long you’ll stay.”

Thomas felt a sharp pain in his chest. “Come back? What does that mean? I don’t remember leaving. Ever.”

She sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder, her touch cold. “You don’t remember, but we do. You disappear, Thomas. You always have. Every few years, you vanish without a trace. Sometimes for days, sometimes for months. And then, one day, you’re back, like nothing ever happened.”

His heart raced as he struggled to make sense of her words. “But… where do I go? Why can’t I remember any of it?”

She shook her head. “We don’t know, Thomas. Every time you come back, you have no memory of leaving. The doctors couldn’t explain it, and no one believed us. We did our best to keep it hidden, to keep you safe. But the disappearances… they keep happening.”

He backed away, feeling a surge of panic. It was as if the ground beneath him was crumbling, leaving him suspended in a dark, terrifying void. “No, this can’t be true. I would know… I would remember something.”

But deep down, he knew that strange things had always lingered at the edges of his life, memories that seemed out of place, moments of time that felt like gaps he couldn’t account for. There were always those hazy flashes—images of places he couldn’t place, faces he didn’t recognize, and a sensation of drifting, like he’d been plucked out of his life only to be dropped back in.

Desperate for answers, Thomas stormed out of the house, ignoring his mother’s pleading calls. He drove aimlessly, his mind racing as he tried to fit the jagged pieces together. If his mother was telling the truth, it meant his life wasn’t what he thought it was. It meant he had been vanishing and reappearing, slipping through time like sand through fingers.

After hours of driving, he found himself at the edge of town, in a small, forgotten cemetery he’d never noticed before. Something drew him to it, a strange compulsion he couldn’t explain. He parked the car and wandered through the rows of gravestones, feeling the chill of the evening settling in.

Then he saw it—a headstone with his name on it.

Thomas Gray Born: September 9, 1986 Died: March 14, 1999

His legs went weak, and he sank to his knees, his mind reeling. March 14, 1999—that was one of the dates on the missing person flyers. The one from his pre-teen years. He stared at the gravestone, feeling a hollow, sinking sensation as the impossible reality dawned on him.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

He was dead.

His mind fought against the truth, trying to rationalize it, but he knew that the answer had been staring at him all along. He was a ghost, some twisted remnant of the boy who had gone missing all those years ago. His family had buried him, but for reasons beyond understanding, he had continued to live, reappearing time and time again, unaware of the truth.

The whispers around him grew louder, faint voices calling his name. He looked up, and in the dim light, he saw other figures standing between the gravestones—people with pale, lifeless faces, watching him with expressions of sorrow and understanding.

They were other versions of him, other Thomases who had gone missing and been buried over the years. They stood silently, their eyes empty, each one representing a time he had disappeared, only to come back as a hollow reflection of himself. The truth settled over him like a suffocating weight—he was a lost soul, trapped in an endless cycle of disappearance and reappearance, his memories and identity slipping further away with each return.

The last thing he saw was his own face, staring back at him with a ghostly, vacant gaze, before the world faded into darkness, and he became just another face on a missing person flyer, waiting to be found… again.

And so, the cycle continued, with each version of Thomas bound to repeat his fate, his soul forever tethered to a life that would never truly end, a ghost lost in the annals of time, a name on a headstone in a forgotten cemetery.

Eleanor sat cross-legged on her couch, her laptop perched in front of her, casting a pale glow in the dim room. She’d spent the last hour scrubbing through video footage from her vacation. She had returned home from the mountains days ago, yet the humdrum of daily life had already swallowed any sense of calm she’d found in nature. Her body was back in her apartment, but her mind longed for the misty forests, the crisp air, the way time had slowed.

As she clicked through her gallery, she spotted an unfamiliar file. A video she didn’t remember filming: IMG_7562.

Curious, she clicked play.

The screen filled with a grainy, shaky shot of her cabin’s living room. She was in the frame, sitting on the small, scratchy couch, looking off-camera with a glass of wine in hand. The video timestamp showed it was taken on her last night there, a night she barely remembered; she’d had a few too many glasses of wine and had drifted into a peaceful sleep, lulled by the quiet of the forest.

As the video played, Eleanor noticed something strange. In the recording, she was still, sitting in silence, the same glass of wine barely raised to her lips. A minute passed, then two, then five. Her recorded self hadn’t moved an inch, hadn’t even blinked.

The screen’s eerie stillness unnerved her. "Must be a glitch," she muttered, her voice sounding strangely loud in the empty room. But she couldn’t shake the unease clawing at her as she kept watching.

Another ten minutes passed in the video, and her frozen likeness hadn’t moved a muscle. The shadows from the fire in the recorded cabin flickered across her face, but her eyes, her mouth, her hand—they all remained perfectly still, as though she were a mannequin posed for some cruel trick.

She checked the timestamp again. The video was nearly an hour long.

She tapped the progress bar to skip ahead, but then her own face on the screen moved—just a slight, almost imperceptible twitch of the head.

Her recorded self slowly turned, and for the first time in the entire video, her lips curled into a thin smile.

Eleanor’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t moved like that. She knew she hadn’t. She’d been drunk, yes, but not enough to forget something like this. As the video continued, her recorded self stared directly into the camera, as if looking straight through the screen and into Eleanor’s eyes.

“Hello, Eleanor,” the voice on the recording said.

Her heart stopped. The voice was hers—but lower, colder, like a version of herself she’d never heard before.

She pressed pause, fingers trembling. The screen froze with her recorded self’s face tilted at an unnatural angle, eyes gleaming with something dark and wrong. She blinked, trying to make sense of the impossible. Had she… spoken to herself? And if she had, why did she remember none of it?

Against her better judgment, she pressed play again.

The figure on the screen continued, her voice thick and syrupy, dripping with malice. “Are you enjoying watching, Eleanor? Does it feel strange?”

Her recorded self took another pause, eyes narrowing in mock concern.

“Or does it feel… familiar?”

Eleanor’s hands gripped the edge of the laptop. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribs, a heavy drumbeat filling her ears. She wanted to shut the laptop, close the recording, and pretend she’d never seen it, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

“Let me tell you something,” the voice on the screen continued, her tone sharpening. “This isn’t just a recording. This is me. And you—”

Eleanor’s recorded self raised her hand, pointing a finger that seemed to press right through the screen, almost reaching out to touch her.

“You’re nothing but a reflection.”

Eleanor recoiled, the words ricocheting through her mind. This was ridiculous. This couldn’t be real. But there was a sinister familiarity in the way her recorded self moved, a darkness in her eyes that felt too close to her own fears, her own secrets. She forced herself to calm down. “It’s a trick. A hallucination,” she whispered, barely believing her own words.

She stopped the video and closed the laptop, drawing in deep breaths, trying to shake the feeling of being watched. She looked around her living room, but everything was as it should be—the dim light, the quiet shadows. Nothing out of place. She told herself it was only a dreamlike trick her mind had played on her, a leftover figment of her imagination from too much wine and too little sleep.

But then she heard the soft ping of a new notification.

Her stomach dropped as she opened her laptop again, instinctively glancing at the file icon in the corner of the screen. The timestamp had updated—it was playing live.

Her recorded self had returned, and now her eyes followed her, tracking her every move as she shifted on her couch, as if the video were somehow watching her back.

“You’re confused, Eleanor,” the recorded self murmured, her tone dripping with malice. “But don’t worry. You’ll understand soon.”

Eleanor’s hands moved to shut the laptop, but she froze as her reflection on the screen twisted into a grotesque grin, wider than any human smile. Her recorded self leaned closer, pressing a distorted face against the camera, her breath fogging the lens.

“You thought you were alone, didn’t you?”

The words hit her like a slap. Eleanor’s eyes darted around her living room, but it was empty, silent. The only movement was her reflection’s sickening grin, her face stretching and twisting into something monstrous. Her stomach churned, and she forced herself to glance at the screen.

But her recorded self had moved.

Now, she was standing in the doorway of the cabin, her dark silhouette blending into the shadows. The image was fuzzy, barely visible, but Eleanor could just make out a faint figure in the background. Her mouth went dry as she leaned closer to the screen, her heart hammering in her chest.

In the distance, beyond the cabin door, something shifted—a flicker of movement. A dark shape emerged, its twisted form barely visible in the grainy recording. It was tall, impossibly tall, with long, thin arms and hollow eyes that seemed to absorb the light. It stood silently, watching Eleanor’s recorded self with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

Her recorded self turned, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto the dark figure.

“Hello,” she whispered, her voice a faint, sinister echo.

Eleanor’s throat tightened as the creature slowly approached her recorded self, its footsteps soundless, its hollow eyes fixed on her. She wanted to scream, to look away, but her body felt paralyzed, as if the screen had trapped her in its nightmarish grip.

Then, just as the creature reached the doorway, her recorded self smiled, a twisted, knowing smile that sent a chill down Eleanor’s spine.

“It’s here, Eleanor,” her recorded self said, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s been waiting… waiting to meet you.”

Eleanor’s heart raced as the figure moved closer, its dark, clawed fingers reaching toward the camera. Her recorded self stepped back, as if offering herself to the creature, her expression serene and unafraid.

“No,” Eleanor muttered, her voice barely audible. “No, this isn’t real.”

But even as she spoke, the creature’s hand broke through the doorway, its fingers stretching toward the screen. Eleanor could feel a cold, unnatural chill seeping through the laptop, filling the room with an unholy presence.

Her recorded self looked directly at her, a malicious gleam in her eyes.

“It’s time, Eleanor,” she whispered, her voice echoing through the empty room. “Time to come home.”

The screen went black.

Eleanor sat frozen, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her heart pounding in her chest. She stared at the blank screen, her mind reeling, trying to process what she had just seen. She wanted to believe it was a hallucination, a glitch, anything but reality. But the cold, lingering dread told her otherwise.

Then, a soft knock sounded at her door.

Eleanor’s blood turned to ice. She stared at the door, her mind racing, her body paralyzed with fear. The knock came again, louder this time, echoing through the silent room. She wanted to scream, to hide, to do anything but answer.

But the knock persisted, each tap sending a jolt of terror through her body.

She rose from the couch, her legs trembling, and took a hesitant step toward the door. Her heart hammered in her chest, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She reached for the doorknob, her hand shaking, and slowly turned it.

The door creaked open, and Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat.

Standing in the doorway was her recorded self, her face twisted into a malevolent grin, her eyes gleaming with a dark, unnatural light. And behind her, shrouded in shadows, loomed the creature from the recording, its hollow eyes fixed on Eleanor with a hunger that sent a chill down her spine.

Eleanor took a step back, her mind screaming in terror, but her recorded self reached out, her cold fingers brushing against Eleanor’s arm.

“Welcome home,” she whispered, her voice a soft, sinister echo that reverberated through Eleanor’s mind.

The creature stepped forward, its shadow enveloping Eleanor, its hollow eyes consuming her last glimpse of light.

And as darkness claimed her, she realized with a chilling certainty that the recording hadn’t just been watching her—it had been waiting. Waiting for the moment it could reach through the screen and drag her into its nightmarish embrace.