The JFK terminal was too bright.
Lena squinted against the fluorescent glow, her warped reflection sliding across the polished floor. No one noticed her. Not the TSA agent who stamped her passport without a glance. Not the barista who handed her coffee while chatting with someone else.
Her phone buzzed—another alert: "Third victim in Prague Church Murders—unidentified."
No name.
No Mira.
Like she never existed.
Lena's fingers trembled around the coffee cup. The liquid inside wasn't brown.
It was black.
Ink.
She dropped it. The cup shattered. The spill didn't spread—it moved, writhing across the floor to shape a single phrase:
WELCOME HOME, KEEPER
A janitor walked through it with a mop, as if it wasn't there at all.
---
The Empty Apartment
Her key still worked.
That was the first wrong thing.
The second? Her plants were dead—not wilted, but brittle, like they'd been left for decades. Dust blanketed every surface. The fridge hummed softly. Inside sat a single takeout box from the Thai place downstairs.
The receipt said it was from three years ago.
Lena's breath hitched. She flung open the closet.
Empty.
No clothes. No shoes.
Just a single black coat, heavy at the pockets.
The book.
She didn't remember packing it.
Its cover had changed. Now it was smooth and pale, like stretched skin. The ouroboros symbol had changed too—the snake's tail wasn't just in its mouth.
It was stitched there.
She flipped through the pages, fingers staining with ink. Every name was there—Jenna, Dan, Varrick, Mira—but the handwriting?
It was hers.
Every looped letter, every rushed cross of a "t." Exactly how she wrote.
Then, without warning, words formed on the blank page:
Lena Carter slept here once. Then she didn't.
The bathroom faucet turned on.
---
The Mirror Test
Steam fogged the glass.
She wiped it clean—and froze.
Her reflection didn't copy her movements.
It only smiled. A slow, sharp grin. Eyes leaking black.
"Surprise," it whispered.
Lena stumbled backward.
Her reflection stepped forward, pressing against the glass like it wanted out. Ink from her hands smeared the mirror, twisting into words:
Rule #1: The Keeper is never seen unless she wants to be.
Three sharp knocks echoed from the front door.
Her reflection's grin widened.
"You should get that."
---
The Visitor
Lena pressed her eye to the peephole.
Detective Ruiz stood in the hallway, badge flashing under the flickering light.
The same woman who'd called her after Dan's death.
But Ruiz's eyes—
Solid black. No whites. Just like Lena's now.
"Miss Carter?" The detective's voice was wrong—layered, wet. "We need to ask about your travel companions."
Lena's heart thudded in her chest. She hadn't told anyone about Mira.
Unless—
THUMP. The book moved in the closet.
Ruiz's head snapped toward the noise. Her neck cracked, bending too far.
"Oh," she purred. "You brought it home."
Lena backed away.
The doorknob rattled.
Locked—for now.
From the bathroom, her reflection laughed.
"Better move fast, Keeper. She's not the only one looking for you."
Ruiz's shadow spilled under the door—long, crooked, wrong.
Lena grabbed the book. It flopped open to a page she hadn't seen before:
Keeper's Survival Guide
1. Names have power. Steal one.
2. Reflections lie. Trust the ink.
3. The Last Witness wears your face now. Don't let it catch you sleeping.
Nails scraped wood outside.
"Open up, Lena," the detective sang sweetly. "We just want to talk."
The deadbolt began to turn.
---
The Escape
Lena lunged for the fire escape. Icy wind bit her skin as she climbed down, clutching the book tight.
Her phone buzzed.
ACCOUNT CLOSED: DECEASED
Then more.
- Spotify subscription canceled.
- Lease terminated.
- Your mother has requested memorial photos.
"What the—?"
A hand grabbed her ankle.
Ruiz. Hanging from the window above. Her arm stretched impossibly far, bone-white fingers clamped around Lena's leg.
"Got you."
Lena kicked.
The grip held—until the book flared and ink surged up her leg. It burned through Ruiz's skin like acid.
The detective screamed. It wasn't human.
She let go.
Lena hit the ground and ran. Behind her, Ruiz's voice echoed—twisted, furious:
"You can't hide forever!"
But Lena knew that voice.
It wasn't Ruiz's.
It was hers.
---
The First Rule
The diner was mostly empty. Lena sat hunched in a booth, book hidden under her coat.
The waitress—Anya, her nametag read—poured coffee with a kind smile.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, hon."
Lena's stomach dropped.
Anya.
That was one of the names from the book. The woman who was supposed to die in Prague.
But Anya didn't recognize her.
No one did.
Lena opened the book with shaking hands.
A new line sparkled:
Anya Kovac. Tonight. Throat slit in diner restroom.
No.
She slammed the book shut.
Anya flinched. "You okay, sweetheart?"
Lena forced a smile. "Yeah. Just… remembered something."
The lie tasted like ink.
When Anya turned away, Lena flipped the book open again.
The entry had changed:
Lena Carter. Tonight. Cause of death: mercy.
The lights above her flickered.
In the window's reflection, her doppelgänger stared back—smiling. It pressed a finger to its lips.
"Shhh," it whispered. "It's starting."
The bell above the door chimed.
Detective Ruiz stepped inside.
Her neck hung at a sickening angle.
Her eyes were black.
And in her hand, she held a knife.
---