Lila Holloway didn't remember falling asleep.
But she woke up in red.
The light in the room pulsed faintly, like a dying heartbeat—more suggestion than illumination. Red drapes. Red carpet. The sour scent of copper and roses. She blinked once, then again. Her wrists ached. Her ankles, too. Rope? She tried to move and felt the tight bite of restraints cutting into her skin. A whimper rose in her throat but never made it out.
She wasn't alone.
A figure sat across the room, a silhouette carved from shadow. They didn't speak. They didn't move. Just watched. Lila's breath hitched.
"Please," she whispered. Her voice cracked like old glass.
The figure tilted its head slowly, birdlike.
"I don't… I don't know why I'm here," she said.
Still silence.
She started to cry. Not the noisy kind—this was quieter, deeper. A child's sobbing, held in too long. Somewhere inside her, she knew this was the end. There'd be no rescue. No morning. Just this strange, scarlet purgatory.
The figure stood. Not tall. Not large. But somehow… heavy. As if the very air shifted to make room for them. They took a step forward.
She saw the mask then. Porcelain white. No features but the faint suggestion of a smile. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… there.
"What do you want?" she asked, more breath than voice.
The masked figure didn't answer. They knelt beside her and reached into their coat. Something cold touched her cheek—gloved fingers. Gentle, even soothing.
And then, the whisper.
"Thank you."
A flash of steel, then—
Darkness.
Morning came to the small town of Durnville wrapped in a strange hush. The sun peeked through a quilt of low clouds, casting long, cold shadows across the sidewalk. At the edge of Briarwood Park, a jogger stumbled to a stop, pulled her earbuds out, and screamed.
Within moments, yellow tape went up. Police cars lined the road. A cluster of curious residents gathered at a distance, murmuring, trading rumors.
Detective Rowan Dyer stood at the edge of the scene, squinting against the morning light. He lit a cigarette he'd promised to quit weeks ago and stared at the girl.
Lila Holloway.
Seventeen. Honor student. Quiet. No known enemies. Found posed beneath the old sycamore tree. Pale. Clean. A single cut across her throat. No blood anywhere. Someone had drained and washed her.
He exhaled smoke through his nose and said nothing.
"Sir?" A young officer, Cooper, stepped beside him, notebook in hand. "ME's on the way. But preliminary scene suggests she was killed somewhere else. No drag marks. Shoes are missing. Phone too."
Rowan nodded.
"Parents?" he asked.
"Mother's been called. Father's not in the picture."
He glanced at the crowd. He could already see her—Claire Holloway. Mid-thirties. Brown hair. Pale. Frozen. A woman becoming a ghost in real time.
Rowan flicked the ash off his cigarette. "Keep the press away. And find me everything we have on this girl. Friends. Enemies. School. Socials."
Cooper nodded and jogged off.
Rowan stepped forward and knelt beside the body. Her eyes were closed. Peaceful. Almost reverent. He'd seen this before. Years ago. A case that never closed.
He leaned closer.
Something was carved into the bark of the tree above her.
A symbol.
Not a letter. Not any alphabet he knew.
His skin prickled.
The killer hadn't just murdered Lila.
They wanted her found.