Aubrey's hands shook as she stacked the last set of files on her cluttered desk. Her coffee cup rattled against the steel edge, and she barely caught herself before it toppled. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the office chatter felt distant, like underwater noise.
"Hey… you okay?" asked one of her coworkers, a tall woman with sharp brown eyes, leaning over the cubicle partition. Aubrey forced a nod, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I'm fine," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Behind her, a petite man wearing a wrinkled hoodie leaned against the coffee machine. He jutted his chin in her direction and gestured with a flick of both hands, palms up, fingers snapping slightly. His gestures were exaggerated: a wave here, a circular swirl of his wrist there, like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. "Yo… Aubs, you needa chill, yeah? Take a minute. Bathroom, water, breathe… you know," he said, speaking in a rapid, clipped slang that danced off every syllable. He tilted his body back, shoulder roll exaggerated, fingers snapping again as if punctuating his sentence.
Aubrey's stomach knotted, and she nodded silently, gathering her bag. The office felt smaller, tighter, oppressive, as she slipped through the door and down the corridor toward the restroom.
Inside, she locked herself in a stall, staring at the pale, fluorescent reflection in the mirror. Turning on the tap, she splashed cold water onto her face, letting it run down her cheeks, hoping the sharp chill would wash away the tremors. Her reflection wavered in the ripples.
And then—
Her reflection wasn't her own.
A bloodied young woman's face stared back at her, mouth open in a silent scream. Eyes wide, wild with terror. Aubrey staggered back, almost tripping over the sink. Her own heart jumped into her throat. She exhaled shakily, lips quivering.
A gentle hand touched her shoulder. "Aubrey? Are you okay?"
She spun around. Another woman, probably another coworker, looked at her with concern etched across her face. Aubrey's voice trembled.
"It—it's not me," she whispered. She pointed toward the mirror.
The reflection was normal again. Hers. The other woman's. Nothing else.
"You really need a break," the woman said softly, resting her hand on Aubrey's shoulder before stepping back. "Maybe take lunch early or… step outside for a few minutes."
Aubrey nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat. She didn't answer. Instead, she left the building and walked toward the parking lot. Her Polestar 2 gleamed under the overcast sky, sleek and modern, humming faintly with residual charge. She slid into the driver's seat, taking a deep breath.
Then her phone buzzed.
She picked it up, frowning. A new video message. The camera angle was familiar: her home. Front door. Backyard. A typical middle-class house bathed in fading evening light.
And then a shadow moved—a hooded figure, the logo of Negasign emblazoned on his shirt: a concentric inverted spiral inside a three-eyed, closed triangle, each eye dripping a dark, ink-like teardrop. A five-pronged handprint, six fingers, surrounded it. At its center, a black void.
The figure crept across her yard with unnerving stealth, pausing at the windows. Aubrey's breath caught. Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide, lips trembling.
"Please… no… no…" she whispered, voice breaking, staring at the screen.
The hooded intruder glanced at a security camera, and Aubrey felt it in her bones: he was watching her through the lens. Her chest heaved.
The feed shifted. Inside, an older woman slept peacefully in a bedroom chair. Marlene Wynter—her mother. Completely unaware of the danger within her own home. Aubrey's fingers shook as she tried to call her mother. Phone calls blocked. Text messages intercepted. The Negasign logo blinked on her screen, then morphed into a devilish grin.
A message arrived: "Your calls have been intercepted." —Witnessing of Hollow.
Aubrey's knuckles whitened around the phone. Whimpering, she tried to steady herself, fighting panic. Another buzz. She swiped. The call connected.
A deep, artificial, crispy voice filled the car. "My precious Abby… how are you?"
Aubrey yelled into the receiver. "Why are you doing this?!"
The voice chuckled, metallic, chilling. "My, my, Aubrey… I just want to play with you. Just like the good old days."
"Come to me," Aubrey barked. "Leave my mother out of it!"
The voice twisted, dripping with sarcastic malice. "Why call me he? I might be a she." The tone shifted, now feminine, lilting, almost playful. Aubrey grit her teeth, frustration mingling with fear.
"I don't want your mind games," she snapped.
"Oh, my Aubrey… you were always the one I liked," the voice said, now alternating between male and female, crispy, metallic, almost inhuman, "because you never beat around the bush. Straight to the point."
Aubrey's hands trembled on the wheel.
"Abby… solve this riddle for me. It's been in my thoughts… perhaps you can enlighten me."
The voice softened into a questioning tone. "Do you want to… be invited to solve it?"
"Fine," Aubrey said, voice tight. "If I solve it, my mom will be okay?"
The voice giggled, now a doubting little girl's tone. "Maybe… maybe not. Who can say?"
Aubrey's composure snapped. "You're abusive!"
The voice laughed, switching between little-girl mischief and deep male resonance, then settled into the familiar, tense, crispy cadence. "Fine… here's the riddle:
What is bought with silver, but costs a soul?
What seems to make one person whole,
While ensuring another's story is never told?
To save the hand that took the fee,
You must speak this truth to me.
"You have thirty minutes."
The screen shifted. Her mother was now tied to a chair, hooded figure dancing in front of the camera, making grotesque gestures, taunting Aubrey. Her pulse raced.
Aubrey gripped the wheel, hands slick with sweat. "An education! It's an education! My mother sold everything to give me an education!"
"No," the voice cut coldly.
She thought frantically. "A sacrifice! It's her sacrifice for me!"
"No," the voice snapped, deadlier.
She accelerated, merging onto the highway, tires humming. Ahead, flashing red and blue. A cop car signaling her to pull over. "Damn it!" she muttered, glancing at the clock: 19 minutes.
The cop followed. Another appeared. Cornering her Polestar, she swerved, trying to keep moving, heart hammering.
"Guilt! It's guilt! She's trapped by her own guilt!" she screamed, steering through the chaos.
The cops intensified the pursuit. Her car darted between lanes, narrowly missing vehicles. Her mind raced, replaying her mother's guilty glances, fleeting remarks about cheating to climb, moments she had long buried.
Minutes dwindled. The hooded figure on the screen laughed, twirling, taunting.
Finally, cornered, police cars blocking all exits, horns blaring. Aubrey's chest tightened, breaths sharp.
"It's a lie! The answer is… a lie!" Her voice cracked as realization struck, recalling Marlene's faint, guilty smile from long ago.
The voice's sarcastic drawl returned. "Aubrey… you never disappoint. Brightest mind in Ever Thorne… but too bad your past hasn't taught you… I'm not a person to trust."
Her phone buzzed. A photograph: her mother's throat slashed, lifeless. Aubrey's scream pierced the night, mingling with sobs.
Police pounded on her window, yanking her out. Hands cuffed her, but the vision on the screen—the hooded figure, the carnage—stamped itself into her mind. Her world had fractured irreversibly.
Aubrey's chest heaved, tears streaking her face as the sirens wailed.
And
in the back of her mind, the voice lingered, chilling and artificial: "The game has only just begun, my dear Abby."