"Vincent Moretti! Stop right there—you have nowhere left to run!"
The detective's voice thundered across the cliffside, his gun aimed steadily at the man before him. Behind him, a line of officers advanced, weapons raised, eyes sharp with caution.
Vincent Moretti only laughed, his lips curling into a dark, mocking smirk. "I'll wait for you to catch me… if you can."
Before the detectives could react, Vincent sprinted toward the cliff's edge. "Don't do it!" one officer shouted.
But it was too late. With one last glance back, he leapt into the raging sea below.
The detectives rushed forward, peering over the jagged rocks and crashing waves. But there was nothing—no body, no trace.
"Call for a rescue boat!" a detective barked. "We need to search the waters!"
For days the sea was combed. Boats circled, divers plunged into the depths, and the search dragged on from hours into weeks. Yet Vincent Moretti had vanished without a single sign of life or death.
Meanwhile, in a darkened apartment in New York City…
The curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the light. The air was heavy, suffocating. In the corner of the room sat a young woman, knees pulled tightly to her chest, her thin frame trembling.
Olivia Whitmore's lips moved in a frantic whisper. He's dead. He has to be dead. He can't find me.
But the deep dark shadows beneath her eyes betrayed the truth—she hadn't slept in days. Her mind was haunted, her body on edge.
Suddenly—
Click.
The front door creaked open.
Her blood ran cold. Heart racing, Olivia pushed herself up from the floor and staggered to the bedroom door. She slammed it shut, twisted the lock with shaking hands, and sank back down, her back pressed against the wood. Covering her ears, she whispered frantically, He's dead. He's dead. He can't be here.
Bang! Bang!
The door rattled under the force of a knock.
"Olivia…"
Her breath hitched. She shook her head violently, then quickly scrambled up from the floor. She turned toward the door and backed away step by step until her legs struck the bed. She fell hard, terror surging through her veins.
It's not real. He's gone. He's dead…
Suddenly, a voice called from outside the door.
"Olivia, it's me—Aurora. Open up."
At the sound, Olivia's trembling eased slightly. She hesitated, then crept toward the door. Slowly, she turned the lock and cracked it open, her head peeking out cautiously.
Her friend Aurora stood there, dressed sharply in a white blouse and wide-legged suit trousers. Relief flickered across Olivia's face, and she finally opened the door fully.
Aurora stepped inside and immediately wrinkled her nose. "Why is it so dark—and what's that smell? How long have you been locked up in here?" She strode toward the window, ready to pull the curtains wide.
But before she could, Olivia darted forward, clutching her arm in a panic. "Don't open it!" she cried. "He'll come in—he'll come and kill me, just like he killed those two officers. He'll come for me, Aurora!"
Her grip was so tight that Aurora winced. "Olivia, stop—it hurts! Let go!"
The words finally broke through Olivia's frenzy, and she loosened her hands, her chest heaving.
Aurora caught her breath and looked at her best friend with troubled eyes. "You can't go on like this. Look at yourself—your eyes are sunken, your face pale. You look like a madwoman."
Olivia shook her head frantically, but Aurora held her shoulders firmly. Listen to me. Vincent Moretti is dead. No one is coming for you. The police announced it—you saw it on the news. You're sick, Olivia. You need help. You need to see a psychiatrist.
Aurora's words hung heavy in the dimly lit room, but Olivia's haunted eyes only grew darker, as if no amount of reassurance could tear away the fear that consumed her.
Olivia staggered back, her voice trembling. "No… he's not dead. He said he would come for me. He'll kill me! I never should have reported him to the police. Now I'm going to die—I'm going to die!"
Her steps grew frantic as she paced the room, hands pulling at her hair.
Aurora's patience snapped. She seized Olivia's arm and slapped her across the face—sharp enough to jolt her back. "Olivia, wake up! Get yourself together! Vincent Moretti is dead and gone for good.
You're not going to die. You're going to get help. I'll book an appointment with a therapist, but for now—don't forget you've got that interview next week. Your dream reporter job, remember?"
Olivia blinked through her daze, her breathing ragged. Slowly, she nodded. "You're right… please help me book the appointment. Vincent Moretti is dead. He can never come back for me. I… I did the right thing. He killed people. He deserved punishment. If I can't get through this, how can I ever become a reporter?"
Her words wavered between conviction and doubt, as if she were trying to convince herself more than Aurora.
Aurora squeezed her shoulder, firm and encouraging. "That's the spirit girl. You can do this. I'll come check on you again tomorrow, and I don't want to see you in this state again—understand?"
A faint smile tugged at Olivia's lips. "I understand. Thank you."
With that, Aurora left, the door clicking shut behind her. Silence fell over the darkened apartment once again.
Olivia drifted toward the mirror. The reflection that stared back made her stomach twist. Her skin was pale from weeks of hiding inside, her eyes swollen with heavy dark circles beneath them. Her lips were raw, bruised from nervous biting.
Blonde hair hung in tangled knots around her face, and her pajamas stank faintly of sweat and neglect. She couldn't even remember the last time she had changed her clothes. The woman in the mirror barely looked alive.
Olivia Whitmore gripped the edge of the mirror, her reflection trembling with her. "Get yourself together," she whispered. "You can do this. You're going to get your dream job, become a top reporter, and live an amazing life. Nothing is going to stop you. Vincent Moretti is gone. He's dead."
She repeated the words over and over, clinging to them like a lifeline.
And so, time moved on. Slowly, painfully—three years passed.
Now seated in a quiet office, Olivia faced a woman in a neatly pressed coat. Her therapist, Mrs. Blake, sat with a book in her lap, pen poised between her fingers. "Tell me, Olivia," she asked gently, "are you still having nightmares about him?"
Olivia sat upright, dressed in a crisp white blouse tucked into tailored blue suit trousers. Her blonde hair was tied neatly into a ponytail, her sharp blue eyes—fox-like in shape—meeting the therapist's gaze. Soft pink lips curved into a faint smile, untouched even by lipstick.
"Mrs. Blake, I don't think I need to keep coming here," Olivia said calmly. "It's been three years. I'm fine now. That man is dead and gone."
Rising to her feet, she reached for her suit jacket and slipped it on. "My lunch break is almost over, so I really should get going." She picked up her coat and bag, offering a polite nod.
"Miss Olivia, one more question." Mrs. Blake adjusted her glasses, her voice calm yet probing. "You say you've completely moved on, but then why do you keep avoiding his name?
In the three years I've treated you, you've never once spoken about the day of the incident. That man murdered two police officers right before your eyes. Are you certain you've truly moved past it?"
Olivia's smile faltered, her fingers tightening around her bag. For a brief moment, the mask slipped, and the shadows of memory darkened her expression. But just as quickly, she forced a polite smile back onto her lips.
"You don't have to worry about me, Mrs. Blake. I'm perfectly fine," she said evenly, though her heartbeat drummed against her chest. "Some things… don't need to be repeated forever. People need to move on with their lives instead of being chained to the past."
With that, Olivia slipped into her suit jacket, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor as she headed for the door. Without waiting for a reply, she pushed it open and walked out, leaving the therapist's question hanging in the air like an unspoken truth.