The world learned of Victoria Lockridge's death through the glassy smiles of the evening news.
"Good evening. We interrupt our programming with breaking news from Crestwood County." The anchor's voice was a practiced, steady drum, but his hands, clasped tightly on the desk, betrayed a faint tremor.
Beside him, a co-anchor with severe dark hair leaned into the camera, her expression carved from granite. A banner blared in stark white against a crimson field: Body Found in Crestwood Luggage Case.
"Earlier this afternoon," the woman continued, "sheriff's deputies discovered the remains of twenty-five-year-old Victoria Lockridge. Her body was found inside a large suitcase abandoned near an access road outside Willow March Park."
The screen cut to shaky helicopter footage: a line of squad cars, their lights staining the dusk, and yellow tape fluttering between skeletal trees. A crime scene tent shuddered in the wind.
Back in the studio, the male anchor's throat worked as he swallowed. "Sources close to the investigation report… unusual markings burned into the victim's flesh. Described as ritualistic."
A blurred image filled the screen, its most graphic details obscured by digital bars. Yet the central shape was horrifyingly clear: a concentric, inverted spiral, sealed within a triangle. Three closed eyes wept blackened tears down its sides. Encircling it all was a grotesque, six-fingered handprint. And at its center—a void. A hollow blank.
"Law enforcement has not commented on the symbol's origin," the female anchor said, her words quickening. "But online, speculation is already wildfire. Some call it cult imagery. Others, a serial killer's calling card."
The camera pulled back, and the broadcast faded to a commercial break.
---
By midnight, the symbol returned.
"We have new, disturbing developments in the Lockridge investigation," a different anchor announced, her voice pitched high with urgency. "Hours after the discovery, Crestwood police received an anonymous data dump directly to their servers."
The screen flooded with grainy evidence: digital ledgers, shadowed photographs of young women, tangled crypto transactions.
"This information," the anchor pressed on, "alleges that Ms. Lockridge was operating an elaborate online front, posing as a recruiter for fabricated, high-end companies. Her targets, often college students, were allegedly groomed and coerced into sex work, with payments laundered through anonymous dark-web platforms."
The feed switched to nighttime raid footage—sirens, armored officers breaching the wrought-iron gates of a north ridge mansion.
"But the raid took a shocking turn. Inside, officers found multiple male suspects… already deceased. Each body was accompanied by the same symbol, painted in black graphite on the walls. Alongside it, a message: 'Eat rot with your rot, ascend into the new decay.'"
The sigil reappeared, now rendered in dripping, frantic strokes on plaster.
"Miraculously, a group of young women were found unharmed in the residence. They reported seeing no assailant. The killer, who struck with silent precision, is now being hunted under a name whispered online: Azaqor."
---
Days later, the story mutated on a different network—WELB 7 Live, its set a landscape of gleaming glass and blood-red lights.
The host leaned forward, his smile sharp. "Tonight we're joined by cultural commentator Herfst Veldman. Herfst, your information on the Lockridge case is being called explosive. What can you tell us?"
Herfst offered a theatrical smile. Petite, with a copper bob and lips the color of dried blood, she radiated contempt. "Explosive is the right word. The media paints Victoria Lockridge as a lone wolf, but they forget her father: Graham Lockridge, Crestwood's beloved philanthropist."
"Are you suggesting a wider conspiracy?"
"I'm stating a fact." Herfst slid a folder across the desk, tapping it with a manicured nail. "I have documents showing Graham took massive investments from a specific source—a consortium family hiding behind shell corporations, with major stakes in Orphagenynx Industries. That family?" She leaned in, the camera catching the glint in her eye. "The Halverns."
The studio air went cold and still.
"You're alleging the Halvern family is connected—" the host began, cautious.
"I'm not alleging. I'm telling you. Graham's empire was built on their dark money. And if you think Victoria operated outside their shadow, you're a fool."
The segment cut abruptly, replaced by disclaimers. But the seed was sown.
---
Nineteen days later, the same studio held a different energy.
"Good evening. I'm Aubrey Wynter with WELB 7 News." The young anchor's auburn hair was a beacon under the lights, her professional composure a thin veneer over tired eyes. "It is with deep regret that we report the passing of cultural influencer Herfst Veldman. Authorities have ruled her death an apparent suicide."
A radiant, smirking photo of Herfst filled the screen.
"Viewers will remember Veldman's recent, outspoken claims regarding the Lockridge family and the Halvern consortium," Aubrey continued, the words ash in her mouth. "Friends describe her as fearless, though many note the… suddenness of her death."
The broadcast dissolved into the next story.
---
Off-air, the newsroom exhaled in a murmur of hushed voices. Aubrey stepped away from the desk, her hands trembling. A producer clapped her shoulder.
"Great delivery, Aubrey. Really composed."
She nodded, mute, her stomach churning.
In the background, staff clustered in nervous knots.
"Strange, isn't it? She seemed fine."
"We all know it was the Halverns."
"Shh! Not here."
"She exposes them, and then—bam. Suicide."
"They have the reach. You know who owns a piece of this network?"
A sharp hiss cut through the whispers."Enough. This ends now."
An older man murmured,"What if this Azaqor planted the evidence? A vendetta against the Halverns?"
"The files were verified,"another retorted. "Every word was true."
"Then silence yourselves,"the woman snapped, her voice taut with fear. "We do not speak of this. Not here. Not ever."
The whispers died, leaving a thick, nervous quiet.
---
Alone at her desk, Aubrey shuffled papers, her hands refusing to be still. The tremor had moved inward, rattling her ribs, her heart.
Victoria Lockridge. She had known her at Ever Thorne College. They hadn't been friends, but they'd shared the same smoky rooms, the same whispered circles. And that sigil—the 'Negasign'—she'd seen it before. Doodled in a notebook margin by a hand she could no longer place.
Her head throbbed, confusion tangling with a cold, sharp fear.
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced down. A new message. No number, just a saved contact: Witnessing of the Hollow.
The avatar was the symbol itself—the spiral, the eyes, the handprint, the void.
The message unfurled:
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. No one called her Abby. Not since college. Not since a time when the world felt whole.
The phone grew heavy in her hand, its screen glowing like a single, unblinking eye. The newsroom hummed around her, but in that moment, Aubrey Wynter had never been more alone.
The Hollow was watching.
And it wanted to play.