The studio lights were too bright tonight. They always were, but now they cut into Aubrey Wynter's eyes like white scalpels, burning her retinas and crawling under her skin. She sat upright at the desk, fingers folded neatly over the notes she rarely looked at anymore. The teleprompter scrolled its calm, measured words across the screen ahead of her, dictating a world she was supposed to narrate with poise.
But her body betrayed her.
Her hands trembled against the glass of the desk, the faint rattle masked by the hum of cameras. Her jaw quivered, as though her teeth wanted to chatter loose. Her chest carried that restless drumbeat again, the one that had haunted her since the night the police arrived at her apartment door.
She blinked hard, trying to align herself with the rhythm of the news. But then, halfway down a sentence—
"…officials say the relief funds will be redirected toward infrastructural recovery—"
The word caught in her throat. It broke in two, misshaped, tumbling into the air like broken glass.
"In… instra–structural reco—"
She stammered, blinked, forced a smile that collapsed around the edges. Panic surged. But the screen kept rolling, merciless. She swallowed, reined herself in, and rode the next words like a wave back toward safety.
Her voice steadied. The mask reset.
Yet inside, Aubrey felt something crumbling. Each syllable she read was a fight with her body, her nerves screaming beneath her skin, begging her to stop pretending.
When the broadcast ended, the red light on the camera winked dead. The studio's applause machine—the tiny ripple of producers nodding at "a good job"—rang hollow. Aubrey gathered her notes, but her ears picked up something sharper than the scrape of paper.
Whispers.
"…so tragic, what happened to her mom…"
"…can you imagine, the killer making her watch it? I'd never come back here…"
Aubrey's spine stiffened. Her eyes darted sideways.
Near the back, by the cluster of screens and makeup mirrors, two younger anchors bent close together. Their tones dripped with curiosity, not sympathy. One of them—a tall brunette with a smirk sharp enough to cut glass—spoke louder than she needed to.
"Maybe the killer didn't like how she always smiled through the screen. Maybe he smelled the fakeness, huh? Finally had enough of her perfect little mask."
The other snickered. A couple of sound technicians laughed nervously.
Aubrey froze, her nails digging crescent moons into her palm. Her breath came shallow, the laughter folding into her ears like razors.
The brunette leaned back, her voice carrying over the low hum of cleanup. "If you ask me, she was never right for the anchor chair. I could do it better. With authenticity."
Aubrey turned. Her voice cracked the air like a whip.
"Say that again."
The laughter cut off, hanging jagged in silence.
The brunette's eyes widened, but only for a second. Then the smirk returned. "I said maybe you were never fit for it, Aubrey."
Aubrey's body moved before her mind caught up. She crossed the floor in three long strides, her hand closing in the brunette's hair, jerking it back. A cry ripped through the studio, gasps trailing it. The brunette—Janet, her name flaring into Aubrey's memory now—clawed back, nails grazing Aubrey's wrist, her own hands seizing Aubrey's hair in turn.
They locked together in a fury of tangled hair, shoving, stumbling against the desk as startled coworkers scrambled back. The sound was raw: snarls, grunts, the crack of heels slipping against the polished floor.
Then—
"Aubrey! Janet! ENOUGH!"
The voice was steel, cutting through the chaos. Clara Mendez, station director, stormed across the studio. Fifty-something, with silver-streaked hair pulled into a knot and eyes that burned with authority. She wedged herself between the women, prying them apart with surprising force.
Aubrey staggered back, breathing hard, hair in disarray. Janet hissed but quickly folded her arms, playing the innocent.
Clara's glare cut through the room. "Everyone else—out. Now. That means you too, Janet."
Producers, assistants, and sound techs scattered, their murmurs fading as the studio emptied. Janet shot one last poisonous glance at Aubrey before stalking out.
When the room had settled into tense quiet, Clara turned to Aubrey. Her voice softened, but it carried a weight Aubrey couldn't ignore.
"Come with me."
---
Clara's Office
The door closed with a soft thud behind them. Clara gestured to the chair across from her desk. "Sit."
Aubrey sank into the seat, her chest still heaving. Her scalp burned where Janet had pulled her hair. But worse than the sting was the shame pooling in her stomach.
Clara sat down opposite, folding her hands together. For a long moment, she said nothing. The silence stretched, filled only by the faint hum of city traffic outside the glass.
Finally, Clara spoke. "You are one of the most talented anchors this station has ever had. I fought for you, Aubrey. I saw the way you connect with people. That can't be taught."
Aubrey's throat tightened.
"But right now…" Clara leaned in, her eyes softer now, motherly. "You're breaking. And no news story, no ratings spike, no polished smile is worth your sanity."
Tears pricked Aubrey's eyes before she could stop them. Her voice was hoarse. "I'm trying. I thought if I just kept working—kept smiling—it would… drown it out."
Clara shook her head. "Grief doesn't drown. It waits. And if you don't face it, it drags you under."
The words sank into Aubrey's bones. She lowered her gaze, her fingers twisting the hem of her blazer.
Clara's hand reached across the desk, resting gently over Aubrey's. "Take some time off. As much as you need. And please—talk to someone. Therapy, counseling, whatever helps. You don't have to carry this alone."
Aubrey blinked, tears slipping free. Gratitude rushed in, overwhelming, bittersweet. Clara had always believed in her, even when Aubrey doubted herself. She had given her the chair, the chance, the platform. And now, instead of scolding her, she was offering grace.
"Thank you," Aubrey whispered, her voice breaking.
Clara smiled faintly. "Just promise me you'll heal. Not for the cameras. For yourself."
Aubrey nodded, gripping Clara's hand tightly before pulling away.
---
Crime Scene
Crestwood's night air was cold, sharp, and laced with the chemical tang of bleach and rain. Floodlights carved the exclusive boutique into stark relief. MALHOTRA HOROLOGY—the name glimmered faintly on the shattered glass door. Inside, yellow tape fluttered in the draft.
Detective Caleb Vance ducked beneath the tape, Nia at his side. The scene was pristine chaos: shards of glass swept into piles, dark stains marked in chalk, the outline of a body traced on the marble floor. But the body was gone.
Kneeling by the outline was Owen Kessler, forensic analyst, his latex gloves smudged with graphite dust. He peered closely at the floor, muttering to himself.
Nia stepped closer, clipboard in hand. "Victim's been identified. Karan Mehra. Owner of Malhotra Horology. Exclusive watch dealer, big with the city's elite."
She handed Caleb a folder. Inside: crime scene photos. Karan Mehra's corpse. His mouth sealed with tape, nails driven into his palms, eyes forced wide open.
Caleb's stomach knotted. "Jesus…"
"How's this connected to Azaqor?" he muttered.
Before Nia could answer, Owen's voice broke through. "You'll want to see this."
He pressed a gloved hand against the marble, then carefully pried up a thin panel beneath the chalked outline. Dust fell away, revealing markings beneath.
The room fell silent.
The symbol seemed alive. A triangle, its edges uneven, clawed as though carved in desperation. Three eyes glared from within, teardrops falling in strokes that bled into the stone. At its center, an inverted spiral dragged the gaze downward, suffocating, devouring.
Around it, a warped handprint smeared wide—six fingers, too long, curling as though they wanted to crush the shape they enclosed. The smear was both graphite and blood.
And scrawled across it, jagged words:
One head barks for justice, the other two feast on gold.
The master of this hound thinks his hands are clean.
But the third head, it bites the hand that feeds it.
You will find the truth where the beast's chain is anchored.
Flashbulbs from crime scene cameras lit the symbol in staccato bursts. Detectives murmured, unsettled.
Nia frowned, her brow furrowing deep in thought. Caleb stood stiffly, his face shadowed with dread. His hand clenched at his side.
Owen glanced up at him. For the briefest second, his lips curved in a smirk of contempt—sharp, knowing, amused at Caleb's reaction. Then it was gone, replaced with his usual mask of professio
nal detachment.
But Aubrey wasn't here to see it.
And if she had been, maybe she'd have felt the same chill that ran through Caleb's bones.