---
The vault door hissed as the emergency lock disengaged.
Damien didn't move.
Not at first.
His hand was still wrapped around Emilia's, knuckles smeared with soot and dried blood, his thumb brushing over hers like it was instinct.
But the silence had shifted.
It wasn't the silence of safety.
It was the kind that came after a predator had passed — the kind that dared you to breathe too loud.
Above them, the world groaned.
Pipes hissed. Steel creaked. And from Damien's earpiece, Calla's voice came again:
> "West wing. Third corridor. He left something behind."
Damien's jaw locked.
"'Something'?" he said. "Or someone?"
Calla hesitated. Then:
> "I don't know. But he wanted you to find it."
He finally let go of Emilia's hand.
But only because he had to draw his gun.
---
The corridor outside the vault looked like a battlefield.
Sprinklers spat smoke. A chandelier lay twisted on the marble floor, its crystals scattered like fallen stars. The remnants of the explosion left scorch marks up the walls, black smears where priceless art had once hung.
But no bodies.
No blood.
Only signs that something — or someone — had been there.
"Keep behind me," Damien said, low.
Emilia nodded. Her chest still hurt from the blast, but she followed him, steps light, breath held. She didn't ask if it was safe. She didn't ask what he thought they'd find.
Because something was wrong.
Not just with the house — but with the air itself.
---
By the time they reached the west wing, the temperature had dropped.
Emilia felt it first. That cold sinking into her skin.
And then the smell — not smoke.
Not blood.
But something sterile. Metallic.
Like a hospital.
Damien didn't knock.
He kicked the third door open in a single brutal motion.
The room was small. A private study. Bookshelves torn open, papers strewn across the floor.
But that wasn't what made Emilia's breath catch.
It was the mirror.
A full-length antique mirror, left in the center of the room.
And the words painted on it in red:
> "DO YOU SEE HER YET?"
Emilia's pulse spiked.
She stepped forward before Damien could stop her.
That was when she saw it.
Her face.
Not in the mirror.
But behind her reflection.
A woman — thin, pale, motionless — standing in the far corner of the room.
Emilia spun around, heart in her throat.
But there was no one there.
Only a cold draft where the bookshelves had been forced apart to reveal a crawlspace.
Damien moved fast. Checked the corner. The walls. The air.
"She's gone," he muttered. "If she was ever real."
Emilia swallowed. Her voice shook.
"But I saw her."
Damien's eyes met hers — unreadable, intense.
"You saw what he wanted you to see."
---
Calla's voice returned. Sharper now.
> "You need to get out of there. He's watching. The mirror's a feed line. I'm cutting it."
The lights flickered.
And then the mirror shattered — from the inside.
Shards burst outward like a scream. Damien threw himself over Emilia, shielding her as glass rained down around them.
When it was over, the room was empty again.
Except for a single note left on the floor.
Damien picked it up.
Read it in silence.
Then handed it to her.
> "My bride looks better covered in ash. — V."
Emilia stared at the words.
Then at the broken glass.
At Damien.
At the place where that figure had been.
The devil hadn't knocked this time.
He'd walked right in.
And left a trail of ghosts behind him.
---