The camera's already rolling when Mara opens her eyes.
No blinking red light. No beep. Just a faint click, like film threading through an old projector. The air hums behind the lens—electric, expectant. She doesn't remember falling asleep. Only the cold sheets against her skin, the whisper of her name floating through darkness.
Her name?
The room tilts as she stands. Too smooth walls. No windows. Familiar in the way dreams are familiar—wrong but inevitable.
The lens follows her movement. Not Daniel's lens—this one doesn't tremble with gentle hands. It breathes. Waits.
She looks directly into it.
"I'm not the killer," she says.
No one asked her.
A voice behind the camera—a man's voice, quiet and clear as glass breaking—says:
"Again. Less certainty. You're not innocent. You're rehearsed."
Her throat closes. Heat crawls up her neck. She swallows, frowns, opens her mouth to speak—
The lights die.
The tape spins backwards with a mechanical whir.
And a new scene begins:
Daniel asleep in bed, face soft with dreams. Morning light slants across his shoulder. Her camera waits on the nightstand, lens cap missing.
A drawer. A journal. Blood, already dry.
𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬.
CUT TO BLACK.
---
𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘮.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘢.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘱 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦.