Melissa sat on the edge of her bed, her hands trembling as she stared at the blank screen of her phone. The house around her felt alien—like someone else's home. Her mother's scent, once so familiar, seemed to have evaporated with the afternoon sun. Her breathing was uneven, shallow, punctuated by the rising panic in her chest.
She scrolled to Liam's contact—her boyfriend—and pressed call.
It rang twice.
"Hey babe," Liam's voice came through, warm and steady.
But Melissa couldn't speak. The moment she heard his voice, the dam inside her broke. A heavy sob escaped her lips, and then another. She pressed the phone closer to her ear, trying to get the words out.
"Liam—" she choked, "I—It's my mom, she—" Her breath hitched, voice breaking into fragments. "She's gone, and the house—it's like she was never here, I swear I just talked to her—there was a note, a number—" Her words tumbled over each other, tangled with tears and rising panic.
"Melissa," Liam said quickly, alarm flooding his voice. "Babe, I can't understand you—what's going on? Are you okay?"
She tried to answer, but the sobs only grew heavier. Her fingers clutched the edge of the mattress as she fought to breathe.
"I'm coming," Liam said without hesitation. "Just stay put, alright? I'll be there in ten minutes. Don't move. Just breathe for me, Mel."
He hung up before she could respond.
Melissa lowered the phone, clutching it to her chest as fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. For the first time since the nightmare began, she wasn't alone.
When Liam arrived, the door creaked open before he could knock. Melissa stood there, her face pale, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. She didn't say a word—just stepped aside to let him in. He entered slowly, his eyes scanning the living room.
Something felt... off.
The place was tidy, almost too tidy. Like it had been staged. His gaze fell on the wall where he vaguely remembered seeing pictures before. Framed family moments—Melissa and her mum, smiling, sometimes laughing. But now... blank. Just generic artwork hung there now. Cold. Soulless.
He glanced at Melissa, who was watching him expectantly, desperately.
"She was right here, Liam," she said, her voice tight. "There were photos. There was a note from the kidnappers, and now—now it's like she never existed."
Liam frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. "I—I don't know, Mel," he said softly. "It's strange. I mean... I feel like there's something missing. Like there should be something here, but..." He trailed off, scanning the room again, his brows furrowed in confusion. "It's like there's a void I can't quite place. A space in my mind that's just... blank."
Melissa stared at him, tears returning to her eyes.
"You don't believe me," she whispered.
"No," he said quickly, stepping toward her. "No, that's not it. I believe you. I just—I don't understand. It's like my brain can't grab onto the memory. It's... slippery."
He reached out and pulled her into a long, tight hug. She leaned into him, body shaking against his chest.
"I'm here, okay?" he murmured into her hair. "We're going to figure this out. No matter what. I promise."
She nodded, even though the doubt in his voice echoed louder than his words.
-------------------------------------------
The room was quiet. A single old fan spun lazily above, squeaking as it turned, then pausing halfway before completing its shaky rotation. The air inside felt thick, heavy.
A man sat behind a metal desk, shoulders slightly hunched, as if the weight of the day had settled there. His hat—a wide-brimmed thing with a worn edge—was tilted low, not out of mystery but habit, like he was used to keeping the world at arm's length. A thin scar curved beneath his left eye, old and faded now, the kind people stop asking about after a while. In one hand, he turned a knife slowly—not with menace, but like someone absentmindedly rolling a pen. In the other, a bullet spun lazily between his fingers, a little nervous tic he didn't even notice anymore. The room was quiet except for the soft clink of metal and the low whirr of the ceiling fan above.
Just across the room, on another table, a body lay still—strapped down, opened up in a way that wasn't natural. The cuts were clean and precise. Blood had dried in lines down the table's edge, and the smell was still in the air, faint but sharp.
The metal door creaked open, and a man shuffled in. He was thin—alarmingly so—and his back hunched in a way that made him look older than he probably was. He didn't walk so much as scurry, his movements twitchy, eyes scanning the corners of the room like he expected something to jump out at him.
He stopped by the other table, not looking at the man behind the desk at first. "They've sent the order," he said in a voice that was both raspy and too high-pitched. "The Creed says the gainers we can't control… they're to be removed."
The man behind the desk didn't react right away. The knife stilled in his hand. He stopped spinning the bullet. Then slowly, he leaned forward, placing both items carefully on the table. His eyes locked on the smaller man, calm but sharp. Deadly sharp.
"Then we don't wait," he said, voice low and certain. "We start cleaning house."