Frank stood frozen at the top of the stairs, staring down at Margaret like he was looking at a ghost.
Margaret didn't move.
The photograph in her hand trembled, but her voice didn't.
> "You said you don't remember how many there are."
Frank's face tightened. His eyes darted to the speaker on the wall, then to the hidden door behind her.
> "I told you not to go down there," he said through gritted teeth.
> "And I told you to tell me the truth."
For a moment, the silence was thick.
Then Frank whispered:
> "I'm trying."
Margaret stepped toward him slowly.
> "Who is he?"
> "I don't know his name. He doesn't talk to me. He talks through me."
> "He says I met him first."
Frank blinked. His jaw clenched.
> "Then that means… he's back."
---
Frank walked down the stairs slowly, like he was descending into a nightmare. His hands trembled as he reached for the speaker panel.
> "When I was diagnosed, the therapist said I had three 'alters.'"
He held up his fingers, like counting phantoms.
> "One's harmless. A kid named Levi. He just draws. Cries sometimes.
The second… he's cold. He calls himself Blake. He covers up the damage.
But the third…"
His voice trailed off.
> "He has no name. He doesn't want one."
Margaret's eyes narrowed.
> "He said he loved me first."
Frank looked at her, his face pale.
> "Then you're in danger."
---
FLASHBACK — THREE YEARS EARLIER
March 2017.
Margaret had just finished an interview at a publishing house. She was waiting at a café, alone, sipping lukewarm coffee when a man sat down across from her.
She didn't notice him at first.
But he noticed her.
> "You look like someone who doesn't sleep much," he had said.
Margaret blinked, startled.
> "Excuse me?"
He smiled—a slow, tilted grin. The kind that knew too much.
> "You write about people who suffer. But you never write about yourself."
She didn't know why she hadn't walked away then.
Maybe it was curiosity.
Maybe… it was the way he looked at her. Like he already knew her.
---
Back in the present, Margaret's hand gripped the photo tighter.
Frank's voice pulled her back.
> "He must have surfaced back then. He's the one who forms attachments. Dangerous ones."
> "So what do we do?"
Frank's eyes were haunted.
> "We don't wake him up."
Margaret shook her head.
> "It's too late for that."
---
That night, Margaret tried to sleep.
She kept the bedroom door locked.
She held the key from Elaine beneath her pillow like it was sacred.
At 3:11 a.m., her eyes snapped open.
She wasn't alone.
---
Across the room stood Frank.
Still. Silent.
Watching her.
His hands were clenched. His face… blank.
She whispered, "Frank?"
He didn't answer.
He took a step forward.
Another.
His lips parted.
> "You always ask the wrong questions."
She sat up, heart pounding. "Frank, please. Not now."
But he wasn't listening.
> "You shouldn't have remembered me."
---
Then his eyes rolled back.
He collapsed.
Hard.
Margaret screamed and rushed to his side.
His body convulsed.
Like something inside was fighting to take control.
And then—stillness.
His chest rose and fell slowly.
And when his eyes opened…
It wasn't Frank looking at her anymore.
Margaret stared into Frank's eyes.
But it wasn't Frank staring back.
There was something detached in his gaze—something dark and unbothered.
He sat up slowly, as if testing his limbs. His movements were careful, deliberate.
When he looked at her again, he tilted his head and smiled faintly.
> "You changed your hair."
Margaret's breath caught in her throat.
> "Who… are you?"
The man blinked.
Then he chuckled softly, tapping two fingers to his temple.
> "The one he's afraid of."
---
She backed away slowly, gripping the bedpost. "You were the one who sent the messages."
He stood up, walked over to the mirror, and stared at his reflection.
> "I sent you truth. What you do with it is on you."
Margaret felt her knees weaken. "Why are you doing this?"
His eyes met hers through the reflection.
> "Because you forgot me. And I don't like being forgotten."
---
He turned fully, and for a terrifying second, she thought he might hurt her. But he only stepped close—too close—and gently brushed a strand of hair from her face.
> "Do you know how long I've waited for you to remember?"
> "You said we met before," she whispered.
> "We did. And you said you loved the way I made you feel. Free. Wild. Alive."
Her heart thudded. "I don't remember that."
His smile widened.
> "That's because Frank doesn't want you to."
> "Why?"
> "Because I showed you who he really was. And you were starting to see that you didn't love him… you loved me."
---
Margaret stared at him, breathless.
> "If that's true, then why hide? Why stalk me? Why leave videos, notes, codes?"
His expression turned sharp.
> "Because you needed to be tested. You needed to prove you still had the spark."
He stepped away, toward the door.
> "Frank will be back soon. He never stays away for long. But I'm going to leave you a choice."
He turned slightly.
> "Downstairs, behind the mirror… there's a file cabinet.
Inside it—my memories. The ones he tried to erase."
> "What's in them?"
> "Answers."
He opened the door, paused, and said softly:
> "But be careful what you dig up, Margaret. You might find out you're not the victim in this story."
---
The door shut.
And he was gone.
---
Later that morning, Margaret didn't speak to Frank.
When he woke up, his memory was blank.
No recollection of the night before.
He looked confused when he saw the bruises on his wrist.
Even more so when he saw the scratches on the wall behind the mirror—ones he swore weren't there before.
Margaret smiled and kissed his cheek.
> "I'll handle the guest room today. You rest."
Frank nodded slowly. "Thanks, babe. You're amazing."
Margaret waited for him to fall asleep.
Then she grabbed the key.
And went back behind the mirror.
---
The file cabinet was old. Locked.
But this time, she didn't hesitate.
She used the brass key Elaine had given her.
Inside were five manila folders.
Each one labeled with a name.
Levi
Blake
Unknown
Deleted
Margaret
Her fingers froze over the last one.
Why was her name in there?
---
She opened it.
Photos.
Dozens of them.
Her. At school. At work. In bookstores. In cafes.
All taken from a distance.
Years before she ever met Frank.
Taped to one photo was a small sticky note:
> "She's perfect. Don't let the others have her."
---
Margaret dropped the folder.
Her breath came in short, shallow bursts.
It wasn't just obsession.
It wasn't just DID.
This was planned.
Calculated.
And she had been chosen.
Not by Frank.
By him.
Margaret sat on the cold concrete floor, surrounded by the files.
But it was the one labeled "Deleted" that drew her shaking hand.
The paper was old. Yellowed at the edges. Some pages were burned, torn, or smudged with water—or something darker.
At the top of the first page, in red ink:
> "THIS ONE CANNOT BE CONTROLLED."
---
The folder contained a journal.
Not typed. Handwritten.
Sloppy, aggressive pen strokes.
Page one read like a confession.
> "They tried to erase me. But I'm not made of memory.
I'm made of scars.
I'm made of the things they hide when the lights go off.
I'm made of Margaret."
Her throat tightened.
What did that mean?
She flipped the page.
---
There were descriptions. Of rooms. Of pain. Of her.
A single entry stood out:
> "March 2017. She smiled when I told her we'd never forget each other. But she did.
So I stayed behind. Watched. Waited.
And when the real Frank came back… I let him think he loved her first."
Margaret's eyes filled with horror.
He had taken over Frank's body before they officially met.
Which meant…
> "She chose me. Not him. And that's why she can't leave."
She stumbled back.
Her hands shook.
Was everything—every kiss, every date, the proposal—built on a lie?
Had she been falling in love with someone else?
Someone who only existed in the cracks of Frank's broken mind?
---
Then came the drawing.
Folded in half. Torn at the corners.
It was a sketch of her—lying unconscious in a hospital bed.
Below it:
> "She survived. But forgot. I didn't."
Margaret's pulse pounded in her ears.
A hospital?
She flipped to the next page.
A newspaper clipping taped inside.
"Woman in Coma After Accidental Fall—No Witnesses"
Date: March 30, 2017.
Her name was listed in the article.
Margaret Lane. Age 22.
But she had no memory of ever being in a coma.
She gripped the edges of the file.
> "What the hell is this?"
---
Footsteps echoed above.
She quickly stuffed the folders back into the drawer and slid the cabinet shut.
Back behind the mirror, she emerged just as Frank entered the hallway.
> "You okay?" he asked. "You've been quiet today."
> "Just tired," she said.
But her voice cracked.
Frank tilted his head, concerned.
> "Want to talk about it?"
Margaret stared at him.
For a moment, his eyes were soft.
But now… she knew better.
Now, she saw layers behind that kindness.
And one of them had already said:
> "I'm made of scars. I'm made of Margaret."
---
That night, she couldn't sleep.
So she picked up her journal. Not to write.
To read.
Because something about the March 2017 coma didn't make sense.
She flipped to that month in her own handwriting.
Every entry was normal.
Until March 28.
A line was crossed out.
And beneath it, written in faint pencil:
> "He said he'd never let me go. Even if I forgot.
So I had to run.
He caught me.
If this is the end… I hope Frank comes back."
---
Margaret sat there trembling.
She had known.
She had written a warning to herself.
Buried beneath fake memories and healing lies.
She had tried to run once.
And failed.
Margaret stood at the window, watching the street.
Midnight.
Rain began to fall, soft and steady, tapping against the glass like a warning.
Frank was asleep.
Or… something was.
She didn't trust it anymore.
Not the calm.
Not the quiet.
Not even the way he said her name.
---
She slipped on her coat, clutching the hospital article, the photograph, and the note from March 28. Everything she'd found—the pieces of her erased life—were now shoved into her bag.
She had to go.
Before he woke up.
Before they did.
---
Downstairs, the lights flickered.
Then dimmed.
She froze.
Every instinct in her body screamed to run.
But the front door creaked open… on its own.
---
Margaret backed away.
A voice whispered behind her.
> "You can't leave now."
She turned.
Frank stood in the hallway.
But not the Frank she knew.
His posture was different.
Straighter. Still.
His eyes locked on her with cold calculation.
> "You found the files."
She didn't answer.
He took a step forward.
> "You opened the cabinet.
You read the truth."
Her hand reached into her coat. Fingers brushed the brass key.
> "I know what you are," she said, voice shaking. "And I know what you did to me."
His smile was slow. Too slow.
> "Good. That means you're ready."
> "Ready for what?"
> "To come back."
---
Suddenly, the lights surged. A sharp crack echoed from upstairs.
Margaret didn't wait.
She turned and ran.
Straight out the door.
Into the rain.
Onto the street.
---
Her feet hit pavement like gunshots.
Her heart raced.
She didn't look back.
Not until she reached the corner.
And then—
A flash of movement.
Frank—no, the other—stood in the doorway.
Soaked.
Still.
Watching.
Not chasing.
Just… waiting.
---
Margaret fled to the only place she could think of:
Kenneth's apartment.
The one man who had warned her, long before the wedding.
She banged on his door like her life depended on it.
And maybe it did.
Kenneth opened it, half-asleep.
His eyes widened.
> "Margaret? What the hell—"
She burst into tears.
Collapsed into his arms.
> "You were right. You were right about everything."
---
An hour later, they sat on the couch.
Margaret showed him the files. The articles. The journal entries.
Kenneth was silent for a long time.
Then he whispered:
> "I told you he wasn't safe."
> "It's not just him," she said. "There's someone else inside. Someone who thinks I belong to him."
Kenneth's jaw clenched.
> "You do."
Margaret turned sharply.
> "What?"
He looked away.
> "You don't remember. But before Frank… before all this... you and I—"
Margaret shook her head.
> "No. No, don't do that."
> "I'm not lying," he said, voice low. "You were in a coma for two weeks. I was there. Every day. And when you woke up… you didn't remember me. But Frank was already there. He took you home. I never saw you again."
Her vision blurred.
> "Why didn't you tell me?"
> "Because by the time I found you again… you were already married. And he looked just like the man you used to love."
---
Margaret collapsed back into the cushions, overwhelmed.
Everything—her relationship, her memories, her identity—was built on shifting sand.
But one thing had become clear.
> She didn't choose Frank.
> She didn't even choose him.
> She had been chosen.
And now she had to decide:
Run forever…
Or go back and end it.
---
Outside Kenneth's apartment, a black car sat parked in the rain.
Its engine off.
Its lights dim.
Inside the car, Frank sat motionless.
Or was it Frank?
His lips moved, whispering to no one.
> "She remembers now."
Then he smiled.
"Good."