Ezra didn't turn around.
Every muscle in his body screamed at him to move—to bolt for the door, to light the candle, to do anything but stand here, frozen in the dark.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
The whisper still lingered, curling against his ear like damp breath. The reflection in the mirror was unchanged—his own rigid posture, his wide, unblinking stare. And just behind him, the shape.
Not quite a shadow. Not quite a person.
A figure wrapped in something darker than the room itself, its edges indistinct, as if it were not meant to be perceived.
The weight of its presence pressed against him, heavy and unmoving.
It was waiting.
Ezra's breath came slow, controlled. His mind raced, parsing every instinct, every scrap of knowledge he had gathered since Crowne's letter first arrived.
To acknowledge is to invite.
That's what The Hidden Laws had said.
Which meant—
It wasn't moving because I haven't acknowledged it yet.
His fingers twitched. He could still feel the book beneath them, its pages strangely warm against his skin.
The candle sat inches away. If he could just—
The figure moved.
Not a step. Not a shift.
A pulse, a ripple through the dark, like something behind glass pressing forward.
Ezra's throat tightened.
Then—a knock.
Loud. Sharp. From his front door.
The moment the sound struck, the mirror returned to normal.
The figure was gone. The candle's flame flickered back to life, as though it had never been extinguished. The air felt thinner, the space around him normal again—if only on the surface.
Ezra stumbled back, his pulse hammering in his ears. His hands were shaking, but he forced them still.
Then—the knock came again.
More urgent this time.
Ezra turned sharply toward the door, his instincts screaming. No one should be here.
He reached for his knife, fingers curling around the handle as he stepped forward. His throat was dry.
Another knock.
Then—
A voice.
Muffled. Tense.
"Lockwood. Open the door."
Ezra froze.
That voice—he knew it.
He moved quickly, unbolting the door and pulling it open.
The dim hallway beyond was empty, save for one figure.
A man wrapped in a long coat, the hood pulled over his face. Rain dripped from the fabric, soaking into the floorboards. The scent of damp wool and something faintly metallic—iron? Blood?—hung in the air.
Ezra's grip on his knife tightened. 'Who the hell are you?'
The figure took a slow step forward, stopping just beneath the flickering gaslight.
Then he pulled back the hood.
Ezra's breath caught.
It was Dr. Alistair Crowne.
Very much alive.
And he was smiling.