The world first heard of Victoria Lockridge's death through the glassy smiles of evening anchors.
"Good evening. We interrupt tonight's programming with breaking news out of Crestwood County."
The man's voice carried a rehearsed steadiness, though his hands betrayed a faint tremor where they clasped above the desk. Beside him, a woman with dark hair leaned forward, her expression grave. The banner beneath them blared in white against crimson: Body Found in Crestwood Luggage Case.
"Earlier this afternoon, sheriff's deputies discovered the remains of twenty-five-year-old Victoria Lockridge," the woman continued. "Her body was recovered from a large suitcase left abandoned near an access road outside Willowmarch Park. Authorities have confirmed the remains through preliminary identification, though the details of her injuries are still under investigation."
The screen cut to shaky helicopter footage. A line of squad cars marked the roadside. Yellow tape stretched like garish ribbon across trees already stripped of their leaves. A crime scene tent flapped in the wind.
Back at the desk, the male anchor swallowed hard before going on. "Sources say forensic teams found unusual markings burned into the victim's flesh. These markings appear ritualistic in nature."
A still image appeared-blurred at the edges, details obscured by censorship bars. But the shape was unmistakable: a concentric inverted spiral carved into skin, encased within a triangle whose eyes-three of them, closed-leaked blackened teardrops. Encircling it was a six-fingered handprint, grotesque in its disproportions. At its heart: nothing. A hollow blank.
"Law enforcement has yet to comment on the symbol," the female anchor said, her voice quickening. "But social media is already alive with speculation. Some describe it as cult imagery, others as a serial killer's calling card. At this hour, investigators have not confirmed any link to other crimes."
The camera angle widened, fading as the program shifted.
By midnight, the same symbol appeared again-this time through another breaking bulletin. The anchor's voice was urgent, pitched higher than before.
"We have new developments tonight in the Lockridge investigation. Just hours after the discovery of Victoria Lockridge's remains, Crestwood police received an anonymous data transfer sent directly to their secure servers. That information, which investigators are now analyzing, appears to detail Ms. Lockridge's involvement in illicit activities."
The screen filled with grainy screenshots-digital ledgers, blurred photographs of young women, a tangle of crypto transactions.
"Authorities believe Lockridge was operating an online front, posing as a recruiter for high-end jobs with fabricated companies. Victims, often college students, were allegedly groomed and coerced into sex work. Payments were laundered through anonymous digital cash transfers on dark-web platforms."
The feed shifted again. Nighttime footage of a raid: sirens flaring, armored officers breaching the wrought-iron gates of a mansion on the county's north ridge.
"But the raid took a shocking turn," the anchor pressed on. "When officers entered the residence linked to Lockridge, they found multiple male suspects already dead. Each bore the same symbol painted in black graphite along the walls-the spiral, the three eyes, the six-fingered handprint. Words scrawled beside the bodies read: Eat rot with your rot, ascend into the new decay."
The image of the sigil reappeared, this time dripping across plaster walls in hurried strokes.
"Miraculously," the anchor added, "a group of young women were rescued from captivity in the residence. None reported seeing their captor. They claim the assailant struck swiftly, leaving only carnage and symbols behind. Police say they are investigating the possibility of a serial offender now known online by a chilling name: Azaqor."
Days later, the story mutated again. A different studio. Bright red lights and gleaming glass panels. The channel was WELB 7 Live, its logo a stylized bird with talons outstretched.
The male host leaned across his desk. "Tonight we're joined by cultural commentator and influencer Herfst Veldman. Herfst, you've made waves before, but your information about the Lockridge case has been described as explosive. What can you tell us?"
Herfst smiled-sharp, theatrical. She was petite, her hair cut into a fashionable copper bob, lips painted the color of dried blood.
"Explosive is the right word," she said, voice syrupy but edged with contempt. "Everyone's talking about Victoria Lockridge as if she was just a random criminal. But you all forget-she was the daughter of Graham Lockridge. Entrepreneur, philanthropist, Crestwood's darling businessman."
The host raised his brows. "And you're saying there's more here?"
"Oh, much more," Herfst purred. She slid a folder across the table, tapping manicured nails against its corner. "I've received documents-don't ask from whom-showing that Graham Lockridge took heavy investment money from a very particular source. A consortium family that hides behind shell corporations but owns significant stakes in Orphagenynx Industries. That family?"
She leaned in. "The Halverns."
The studio went still. The name seemed to vibrate in the air.
"You're alleging," the host began carefully, "that the Halvern family is connected-"
"I'm not alleging," Herfst snapped. "I'm telling you. Graham Lockridge wouldn't have his empire without their dark money. And if you think Victoria's crimes happened without their shadow above her, you're blind."
The segment cut there, the network flooded with disclaimers and legal notices. But the seed had been planted.
Nineteen days later. Same studio, but no Herfst.
"Good evening. I'm Aubrey Wynter with WELB 7 News," said a clear young voice. Her auburn hair gleamed under the lights, her twenty-three years barely concealed beneath a professional veneer. Tonight her eyes were rimmed with fatigue.
"It is with deep regret that we report the passing of cultural influencer Herfst Veldman. Authorities have ruled the cause of death an apparent suicide. Veldman was found in her downtown Crestwood apartment earlier this morning. She was thirty-two."
A photo of Herfst appeared on the screen-radiant, smirking, alive.
Aubrey continued. "Viewers will remember Veldman's outspoken remarks about the Lockridge family and her claims regarding the Halvern consortium. Tonight, tributes are pouring in across social media. Friends describe her as fearless, though many note the suddenness of her death, which comes just weeks after her televised statements."
The camera pulled back, the broadcast dissolving into its next story.
Behind the scenes, the newsroom exhaled in hushed whispers. Aubrey stepped away from the desk, throat tight, hands still trembling from the weight of the segment. She had barely removed her earpiece when a fellow producer clapped her shoulder.
"Great delivery, Aubrey. Really composed."
She nodded mutely, grateful, though her stomach churned.
In the background, staff gathered in little knots. Their voices were low, pitched almost conspiratorial.
"Strange, isn't it? She looked fine last week."
"Come on, guys. We all know it was the Halverns."
"Shh! Don't say that here."
"But it makes sense. She exposes them, then-bam, suicide."
"They have the means. Everyone knows it."
"And you should know our higher-ups are cozy with them. WELB's partly their property. You want to risk your job?"
A sharp hiss cut the air. "Enough. Keep it down."
An older man spoke softly. "This Azaqor killer-maybe he planted the evidence on Victoria. Maybe this is all some vendetta against the Halverns."
"Nonsense," another retorted. "The files were verified. Every word true."
"Then silence yourselves," the woman snapped, voice taut. "We don't speak of this. Not here. Not ever."
Their whispers ebbed, leaving a nervous hush.
Aubrey sat alone at her desk, shuffling through scripts. Her hands shook. She forced them still, but the tremor spread inward, to her ribs, her heart.
Victoria Lockridge. She had known her once. Years ago, at Ever Thorne College. Club meetings, late-night chatter. They hadn't been close, but Victoria had been there-in the same smoky rooms, the same whispered circles. And that sigil-the Negasign, as online forums now called it. Aubrey had seen it before. Not on skin, but scrawled across a notebook margin, doodled in ink by a hand she couldn't remember.
Her head ached. Confusion tangled with fear.
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced down. A new message. No number, just a saved name. Witnessing of the Hollow.
The avatar was the symbol itself-the spiral, the three eyes, the handprint, the void.
The message unfurled across her screen:
Hi Abby. It's been ages, hasn't it? I've missed our games. I think it's time we played again.
Aubrey's breath caught. Her real name wasn't Abby. It was Aubrey. Only one person had ever called her that-long ago, when the world still felt unbroken.
The phone slipped slightly in her grip. She stared at the words until the screen dimmed.
The ne
wsroom hummed faintly around her, but she felt utterly alone.
The Hollow was watching. And it wanted to play.