A tremor scraped along Luna’s spine, a jagged shard of ice sliding deep beneath her skin. The words Malik had spat out twisted in her mind like shattered glass—erase the last link. The night outside bled neon rain against the smudged glass of her studio window, but all she could see was black.

Her breath hitched, sharp and ragged. She pressed a trembling hand to the cold pane, the wet chill seeping into her palm.

Erase me.

The whisper undulated through the room like a pulse, pressing so close it felt physical. Every shadow lengthened, every flicker of the failing streetlight outside casting skeletal fingers across the cluttered floor.

The phone’s shrill ring shattered the suffocating silence. Luna flinched, eyes wide, heart clawing upriver as she scrambled toward the cracked device on the table.

“Luna,” Malik’s voice hissed, a low snarl through the speaker. “You’re not safe. Not yet.”

She swallowed, trembling.

“I won’t let you—”

The line went dead.

Her hand hovered above the receiver, breath shallow and shaking. Fingers dug into the wooden table, nails scraping. Something thrummed beneath her ribs: dread, or maybe a warning.

Memories like fractured shards shifted behind her eyelids—a dim hallway. Faint footsteps echoing in the dark. A door slammed shut. A scream, muffled and wet like drowning.

Luna stumbled backward, every nerve a live wire.

The room spun as her knees buckled beneath her. She sank to the floor, heartbeat pounding a vicious tattoo in her ears.

Rain drummed harder now against the window, an urgent clamor that wrapped around her throat.

Then—click.

A sudden, jagged pain tore through her head, like someone carving a dagger from the inside out.

Images exploded behind her eyelids:

Neon slashed her vision—a pale face twisted in terror and rain.

Hands clenched so tight they bled.

A gunshot cracked through the night air, deafening.

She gasped, clutching her skull as the vision crashed against her mind.

When she opened her eyes, she was no longer in her studio. She was standing in an alley drenched in rain and darkness.

The acrid scent of smoke and blood burned her nostrils.

Her fingers shook as they brushed slick pavement, the wetness thicker than rain.

A lifeless body sprawled before her, face obscured by shadows.

Her breath hitched, every instinct screaming retreat, but frozen she stayed.

The alley was alive with sound: distant sirens, the dirge of dripping water.

A glint caught her eye—a ruined necklace near the corpse, glistening wet in neon light.

Then the horrifying truth anchored in her gut: She was here.

Here at the scene.

But what had she done?

Why was her mind a shattered puzzle?

Her chest convulsed, lungs choking on invisible weight.

She wanted to scream—wanted the nightmare to end—but memory refused to yield.

Was she victim or perpetrator?

The answer hovered at her fingertips, tantalizing and terrifying.

A whisper carried over the rain—a voice she couldn’t place, calling her name.

“Luna…”

She spun, heart hammering, but the alley was deserted. Only shadows stirred, mocking.

Her trembling hand reached into one pocket—and felt a folded piece of bloodied paper.

Fingers numb, she unfolded it.

Lines of jagged scrawl stared back at her.

Her own handwriting.

The words cut through her like a blade: “It wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t mean to—”

She dropped the paper, breath ragged, mind crashing in on itself.

The rain outside thundered against the city like a storm unlocking all her darkest fears.

She had been at the crime scene.

But what was her role?

And why was her memory locked behind a wall of shadow?

Her eyes darted to the door.

Behind it, the city pulsed with lies and danger.

And somewhere inside, the last fragment of her truth waited—hidden in the storm.

Her breath caught as the faint creak of the lock began to turn.