𝕋𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕪 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕤𝕙𝕖 𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤, 𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕪 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕤𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕠𝕥—𝕤𝕙𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕖𝕥𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕝𝕕𝕤. -ᴀ𝓁𝒾𝒸𝑒
Alice froze at the doorway of her apartment.
Furniture lay overturned, clothes scattered like remnants of a storm. Shattered glass glistened under the dim light, littering the floor. Damp tissues clung to the hardwood, the air thick with something she couldn't place.
Someone had been here.
Her phone buzzed violently in her pocket, making her flinch. A beep from her voicemail box.
You have six missed calls and two voicemails.
She hesitated, then pressed play.
Beep.
"Alice, where are you?"
Next message.
"Alice, answer me. Don't hide from me. I will find you."
Beep. End of message.
Her breath hitched. Her fingers trembled as she hurried to change clothes, the urgency gripping her ribs. She needed to leave— now—before the walls closed in. Fumbling with her car keys, she barely managed to grip them before sprinting out the door.
The entire drive, she swore she felt someone watching her. Following her. The feeling gnawed at her spine, tightening the air around her.
By the time she reached her office—Eternal Repose Holdings Inc.—her pulse was erratic. The scent hit her before she saw the flowers.
A bouquet rested on her desk, delicate and unsettling. A small, folded note nestled among the petals.
She hesitated. Then, slowly, she unfolded it.
> "In the quiet spaces between words, I wait. Shadows hold whispers, and echoes carry names never spoken aloud. If you find this, know that some stories are meant to be rewritten—some fates, overturned. > > Tell me, stranger... will you answer?" > > —A.D.
Alice staggered backward, nausea overtaking her. The scent—God, the scent—made her stomach lurch violently.
She knew who sent it. She wouldn't say his name. Not yet.
Fighting her trembling hands, she rapidly dialed Dean's number.
One ring. Two rings. The waiting was unbearable, but she clung to it like it was the only thing keeping her sane.
Click.
"Thank God, Dean! You answered. I need to see you... please?" Her voice cracked with something dangerously close to desperation.
"Alice? What's going on?" Dean's tone sharpened with worry.
"I'll explain once we meet. Please."
A pause. Then—
"Alright. I'm sending you my address. Just come straight here."
🔪💀🪓🖤💢👁️🗨️⛓💣
Meanwhile.
Dean swung his ax down with precision.
One, two—heave ho! The firewood split, landing in the pile beside him. The rhythmic thunk of the blade against wood grounded him, the fresh scent of cedar filling the cool air.
Despite the bandage wrapped tightly around his wrist, he persisted, each swing deliberate, each impact a quiet defiance against the pain.
His loft stood quiet behind him—four rooms, a tool shed, a backyard perfect for sculpting and carving.
A distraction.
As he lined up the next block of wood, movement caught his eye.
Alice's car rolled up the driveway.
Sweat dripped down his chest, his muscles taut from exertion. But he barely had time to acknowledge the weight of his exhaustion before Alice stepped out, her expression tight—too tight.
A wide grin stretched across his face despite the tension in the air.
"I tried knocking, but no one answered. So I let myself in. No wonder—you were all the way back here." Her voice carried a nervous edge.
"That's fine! I was finishing up when you called. What's going on? You sounded worried."
Alice hesitated, rolling up her sleeves absentmindedly.
Dean's stomach dropped.
Bruises littered her arms.
His jaw tightened. "Hey. What happened? Did someone hurt you? Just say the word, Alice—I'll protect you."
Alice shook her head, a shiver running through her. "I— I don't even know where I got these bruises. But someone broke into my apartment. I'm scared, Dean. I don't know what to do." Her words wavered, barely held together.
"Did you file a police report?"
"No! No cops—please. I don't want my name in the tabloids by morning. The scandal—the speculations—it would ruin everything. I just... I just need to get away from that place."
Dean studied her for a long moment, then exhaled.
"Stay here for a while." His voice was steady, certain. "I've got plenty of space. No one will find you here."
Alice shook her head again, just as quickly. "I don't want to impose. I just... need someone to talk to."
Dean didn't argue.
Instead, he ushered her inside, quietly brewing a cup of chamomile tea.
She took it, fingers wrapped tightly around the warm ceramic.
"Thanks," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe this is all I need."
🔪💀🪓🖤💢👁️🗨️⛓💣
Dean watched Alice, her vulnerability laid bare in the dim glow of the room. Slowly, he reached for her hand as she set the cup down, his fingers brushing against hers—a silent reassurance, a promise that she wasn't alone.
He pressed her trembling fingers into his palm, steadying her. He could feel the unspoken fear in her touch, the weight she carried in silence.
Without thinking, he pulled her closer, wrapping her in an embrace.
"You're safe here." His voice was soft, reassuring.
Her hands found his lips—delicate, hesitant. Dean kissed her fingertips gently, as if trying to seal away the cracks in her fragile resolve.
Alice exhaled. The tension melted from her body as she allowed herself to let go—just this once. She let Dean hold her, breaking down the walls she'd built for years.
Outside, the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting deep amber shadows through the window. They remained entwined, exhaustion creeping into Alice's bones.
They cocooned together on the sofa, warmth pooling between them. As sleep pulled her under, Dean tucked a blanket over her, watching the way the soft glow illuminated her features.
For the first time, she looked at peace—free from the weight of the world.
🔪💀🪓🖤💢👁️🗨️⛓💣
Nightfall.
Headquarters—Criminal Investigation Unit.
Alexis sat in his office, sifting through stacks of files, reports of missing persons and brutal killings stacking higher by the day. Pages detailing mutilations, carved markings—angel's wings etched into flesh and bones.
Across the table, his superior spoke.
"We're still not certain if we're dealing with a serial killer, but we need to tread carefully. One wrong move, and the media turns this into a circus. We'll be the laughing stock."
The meeting concluded.
A sudden ring cut through the silence.
Alexis picked up.
"Sir, we found another body—or what's left of one. No head, and we're still searching for the missing parts. But the torso..." The young officer hesitated. "Carvings again. Angel's wings, same pattern."
Alexis exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face.
Another victim. Another unanswered question.
The weight of his family's legacy pressed against his shoulders. His father—a retired general. His grandfather—a war hero and defense minister. His brothers in the Air Force and Marines. The Bautista name demanded excellence, and Alexis had upheld it all his life. At thirty-two, he was regarded as a brilliant investigator. A notable bachelor, desirable in every way—except for the one thing he couldn't let go of.
Alice.
The heiress to Eternal Repose Holdings—a corporation shrouded in whispers and controversy. His on-again, off-again ex. The only woman he had ever truly chased.
Despite the demands of his job, despite the reasons they fell apart—he still kept tabs on her. Pursued her. Wanted her.
His fingers tightened around his phone as he dialed her number.
A single beep.
"You can no longer reach this person. Please check the number and dial again"
Blocked.
A slow rage simmered beneath his skin. Frustration curled at the back of his mind, his thoughts tangled in her name.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
"Where are you now, Alice?" His voice was nothing more than a whisper. "I hope you're not in danger."
But beneath the worry, something darker lurked—something possessive, obsessive.
The line remained dead.
🔪💀🪓🖤💢👁️🗨️⛓💣
Alexis Darius Bautista III—the name etched into the brass plate above his desk—stood as a reminder of duty, of legacy. Yet the stale scent of paper and ink did little to drown out the unease pooling in his chest.
The bookmark slipped from the worn pages of the file, landing soundlessly onto the floor—a whisper of the past made tangible. Alexis froze. He knew it before even looking down. The crisp edges, the delicate paper Alice had folded with such care—it had been a gift, once.
The ink was still bold, unwavering, untouched by time's erosion. A bitter line, etched in Alice's meticulous hand: "Tormented by what she recalls, tortured by what she cannot—she is trapped between worlds."
Alexis exhaled sharply, as if releasing a ghost he had unknowingly kept. The words bled into the silence, carrying a weight that pressed down on his chest. How could something so small hold so much grief?
His focus remained on the case, yet the thought of Alice lurked at the edges of his mind, creeping in like a shadow he couldn't shake.
A knock at the door.
A young officer stepped inside, his expression tight, voice clipped.
"Sir, we found something."
Alexis leaned forward.
"Another body?"
"No—just evidence this time. A bloodied ax. Most likely the murder weapon."
A weighted silence passed between them.
"Send it to forensics immediately," Alexis ordered, a familiar heaviness settling in his chest.
The officer nodded but hesitated.
"There's something else. Whoever used it... they wiped it clean. No prints. No fibers. Nothing."
Alexis frowned.
"Nothing?"
"Not a single trace, sir. Almost as if it was meticulously erased—like they knew exactly what they were doing."
Alexis exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
This wasn't just murder.
It was calculated. Precise.
And the killer—whoever they were—was dangerously careful.
🔪💀🪓🖤💢👁️🗨️⛓💣
The pen glided across the paper in a swirl of uneven strokes, the letters tumbling into crude sketches—stars, waves, a girl with golden hair. The room smelled of old paper and fresh ink, a hotel suite draped in quiet solitude, save for the faint rustling of pages and the rhythmic strokes of a fine-toothed comb through silky strands.
Lewis hummed, staring out the window at the sky beyond. The bluest blue. Something richer, endless—a world beyond the glass, calling her.
She sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, bathed in the soft glow of a single bedside lamp, her fingers weaving through her curls, slow and patient. Her fingers worked carefully, methodically. It was important to be gentle. She hated knots.
She hated many things, actually—loud voices, sharp movements, the way cold rooms swallowed warmth. But above all, she hated the way the shadows stretched too long beneath doorways.
She was supposed to be alone.
But she wasn't.
Lewis knew the moment she felt it—an ache at the base of her skull, like invisible hands threading through her hair.
She stilled.
The door wasn't locked.
She should've locked it.
Her breath hitched, fingers curling tight around her pen.
The shadows moved, inching closer. A presence.
Not a ghost. Worse than that.
"You're making a mess again."
Lewis flinched. She didn't turn. She never did.
She pressed the tip of her pen against the paper harder, the ink blooming in dark pools. A mistake. But she didn't mind mistakes, not really. Mistakes meant she was real, meant she could try again.
The comb slipped from Lewis' fingers, clattering onto the pages in front of her.
She swallowed hard. "I—I'm drawing."
A chuckle, low and knowing.
"I can see that."
Lewis forced herself to breathe evenly.
The dark figure in the mirror. The gaze that lingered too long.
Lewis wanted to leave.
But she had nowhere to go.
So she let go.
The pool water was cold, but it didn't scare her. It was deep, stretching forever beneath her like a dream. She pushed herself down, deeper, deeper, eyes wide with wonder. The light refracted above her, twisting the world into something strange, unreal.
Alice floated.
Blinking. Breathing.
The chill settled into her bones as she stared up at the hotel's high ceilings, the water rippling around her.
Something felt wrong.
She sat up slowly, her drenched hair clinging to her skin.
The notebook—scribbled pages, restless sketches of faceless girls with golden hair—lay beside an open suitcase. She had booked this hotel suite for travel, a trip to the south to escape, to find some sense of normalcy.
But now, staring at the ink-smudged paper, at the uneven handwriting that wasn't hers, she felt anything but normal.
She didn't remember writing.
She didn't remember falling into the water, either.
🔪💀🪓🖤💢👁️🗨️⛓💣
The late morning sun poured through the towering glass windows, casting reflections against the infinity pool's rippling surface. The sky stretched wide above, a brilliant shade of bluish blue—endless, unbroken, like a canvas untouched by clouds.
Alice lay dangerously close to the edge, her damp hair spilling onto the polished tile, fingers tracing idle patterns against the warmth of the stone. The sunlight danced across her skin, illuminating the sheen of water still clinging to her limbs, but her gaze remained distant, unfocused.
She was supposed to be alone.
Yet, she wasn't.
From across the neighboring building, hidden in the shadowed balcony, Alexis watched. He shouldn't have been there. He shouldn't have found her—yet, he always did.
The sunlight turned the glass into a hazy mirror, but he saw her clearly—saw the way she drifted too close to the drop-off, how she barely seemed to register the world around her.
And when Alice waded into the water, mindlessly dipping beneath its surface, something in him snapped.
He left his vantage point. He rushed out, forgetting the careful distance he was supposed to keep, forgetting that this was just another game of cat and mouse, forgetting that he wasn't supposed to touch her yet.
By the time he reached her suite, his pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out reason.
The door unlocked with practiced ease.
She must have forgotten that his family owned this hotel.
She must have thought she could be away from him.
She was wrong.
"Alice!" Alexis' voice sliced through the silence, sharp and demanding.
She didn't flinch. Didn't even turn.
She just stared.
Blank. Detached.
I saw you," Alexis growled, breath uneven. "Across the building. You were—"
Drowning.
No, she was floating.
Yet, to him, it had looked the same.
"Alice." He stepped closer, waiting for a reaction, waiting for anything.
But she simply stood, moving with eerie calmness, stripping off the wet fabric clinging to her skin without hesitation, discarding it onto the polished floor.
Alexis' throat went dry.
She walked into the shower without a word, steam curling against the air, her movements as effortless as if he wasn't standing there, watching her.
As if he didn't exist.
It was infuriating.
He followed.
Water cascaded over Alice's bare shoulders, running in rivulets down her skin, her movements slow, methodical—almost detached.
Alexis stood behind her, watching, his breath shallow, controlled—yet something inside him burned.
She hadn't pushed him away.
She hadn't told him to leave.
She hadn't acknowledged him at all.
He stepped forward, the heat pressing against him as his fingers found the smooth column of her neck, tracing wet strands of hair away from her skin. Alice didn't flinch. Didn't react.
"You don't look well," he murmured, voice low, measured.
She let the water run over her face, eyes closing for just a fraction too long.
"I'm fine."
Liar.
His grip tightened ever so slightly, a warning, a demand for more than that simple, empty answer.
Alice turned then, finally meeting his gaze, the weight of something unreadable settling between them. She searched his face as if looking for something—something she couldn't name.
Something she wasn't sure she wanted to find.
Alexis exhaled slowly, dropping his forehead against hers, fingers trailing down to rest against the base of her throat.
"You think you can run from me," he whispered, his voice like a promise, like a threat.
Alice didn't respond.
She didn't have to.
She knew.
Alexis always found her.