The studio lights were merciless. Their heat pressed down on Aubrey Wynter's skin like the judgment of a hundred unseen eyes. She blinked hard, her lashes quivering as the teleprompter scrolled forward with sterile indifference, its glowing words demanding her voice.
"…in local markets today, the Board of Energy has—"
Her voice caught, snagged in her throat. For the briefest, most traitorous instant, Aubrey could not see the words at all. The screen blurred into a gray haze, numbers and letters dancing as though mocking her, as though daring her to falter. Her heart raced, hot blood rising into her ears until she could hear nothing but the rush of her pulse.
And then her body betrayed her. Her hands trembled against the desk. Her jaw locked.
The script. She had lost the script.
"…the Board of…" She stumbled again, the word fractured, split open in mid-air. A low gasp rippled somewhere from the darkened crew pit, swallowed quickly but sharp enough to pierce her already fraying focus.
Panic flared. Images—unwanted, violent—sliced into her mind's eye. Her mother's face. Not as it had been in life, smiling in soft-lit memories, but as she had last seen it: projected in that grainy CCTV footage the killer had forced her to watch. Her mother's mouth sealed shut with tape, her eyes wide in frozen terror.
The studio around her dissolved for an instant. She was there again, inside that footage, bound by its cruelty, staring at the moment that had shattered her world.
No. Not here. Not now.
Her nails dug into the script sheet beneath the desk, grounding herself, clawing at the paper until she heard the faint, anchoring sound of tearing fibers.
"…has approved a tentative new deal," she continued, breathless but steadying. Her eyes refocused, words forming again on the prompter. "Analysts say this could… this could stabilize winter pricing."
By some miracle of raw muscle memory, she reached the end of the segment. Her practiced smile slid into place like a porcelain mask, teeth glimmering with an ease that no longer reached her eyes.
But beneath the desk, her legs trembled violently.
The moment the red light above the camera dimmed, silence fell. The studio crew broke into scattered chatter, moving between sets, papers shuffling, headsets crackling. Aubrey exhaled sharply, chest caving, fingers digging into her lap.
She had survived another broadcast. Barely.
But the whispers had already started.
---
It was in the hallway outside Studio Two, near the vending machine where interns gathered for caffeine fixes, that Aubrey first heard them.
"She's slipping," one voice murmured, hushed but cruelly deliberate.
"Can you blame her?" another chimed, soft with mock sympathy. "I mean, after… you know. Her mother. Right in front of her."
The words tightened in Aubrey's chest like barbed wire. She quickened her pace, heels striking the polished floor, but the voices followed her like hounds.
"She shouldn't even be back on-air this soon."
"Did you see her mess up that line? Totally unprofessional."
And then—cutting deeper than the rest—came Janet's voice.
Unlike the others, Janet didn't bother whispering. She projected, smooth and deliberate, her tone dipped in venom wrapped with silk. "Maybe the killer just couldn't stand her. That fake smile. That perfect little delivery. Maybe he saw right through her screen. Smelled the plastic. Decided to… snuff it out."
A sharp ripple of laughter followed, a cruel chorus echoing through the corridor.
Aubrey froze.
The words detonated inside her skull, sharp and raw. Her hands clenched, nails biting crescents into her palms. Heat flared under her skin, rising from her chest to her face until her breath came ragged, shallow.
Slowly, she turned.
Janet leaned casually against the wall, arms folded, a sly smirk curving her painted lips. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her blouse pristine. The picture of composure—except for her eyes, which glittered with hungry calculation.
Aubrey's voice was low, trembling but fierce. "Say that again."
The laughter in the hallway stilled. Heads turned. Interns shifted uncomfortably. Janet's smirk deepened, as if savoring the trap she had baited.
"I said," Janet replied smoothly, "maybe the killer was tired of the act. Maybe the rest of us are too."
The world narrowed. Aubrey saw nothing but Janet's face. Her hand moved before her mind could stop it—fingers latching into Janet's hair, yanking her forward with a force fueled by weeks of repressed agony. Janet shrieked, clawing back, her manicured nails catching Aubrey's scalp.
Gasps erupted. Papers scattered. Someone shouted for security, but no one moved fast enough.
The two women grappled, teeth bared, hair ripping at the roots. Aubrey's breath came ragged, a scream caught behind her teeth, her grief and rage spilling in physical violence. Janet cursed, nails digging across Aubrey's cheek, leaving raw stinging lines.
Then—
"Enough!"
The voice cracked like thunder.
Clara.
The newsroom's director, fifty-something and iron-backed, stormed into the fray. Her hands, firm and practiced, seized both women by the arms and wrenched them apart with startling strength.
"You will not disgrace this newsroom with a street brawl," Clara barked, her voice cutting through the tense silence. Her eyes, sharp and dark, flicked between them. "Janet. Walk. Now. And if I hear another word about this, you'll be anchoring obituaries in the graveyard slot until retirement."
Janet sputtered but obeyed, storming off with her hair disheveled, pride bleeding out in silence.
The crew scattered, murmuring, dispersing like smoke in the wake of Clara's command. Only Aubrey remained, chest heaving, hair tangled, eyes bright with unshed tears.
Clara's gaze softened—barely—but her tone remained firm. "You. My office. Now."
---
Clara's office was lined with framed accolades, a testament to decades of hard-earned respect. The blinds were half-drawn, the city's neon skyline bleeding faintly through. The scent of coffee lingered, mingling with the faint tang of printer ink.
Aubrey sat stiffly in the chair opposite Clara's desk, her hands twisted in her lap. Her scalp burned where Janet's nails had torn, but it was nothing compared to the burn in her chest.
For a long moment, Clara said nothing. She simply studied Aubrey, her eyes steady, unreadable. Then she leaned forward, folding her hands atop the desk.
"You're drowning," Clara said quietly.
The words pierced deeper than any reprimand could. Aubrey flinched, her throat tightening.
"I—" she began, but her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, forcing steadiness. "I can handle it."
Clara's brows lifted, faint amusement laced with pity. "No, you can't. And that's not a weakness. It's the truth."
Aubrey's eyes burned, tears threatening. "This job… it's all I have left. If I lose this—if I walk away—then what's left of me?"
"You are," Clara said firmly. "What's left is you. Not the anchor. Not the mask you put on for that camera. You."
The words hung in the air, heavy and raw. Aubrey clenched her fists tighter.
Clara's voice softened. "Aubrey, I've been doing this long enough to recognize talent when I see it. You were born for this desk. For that camera. That's why I fought for you when others doubted you. But right now, you're not the anchor. You're a grieving daughter trying to pretend she's fine."
Tears spilled before Aubrey could stop them, silent streaks down her cheeks.
Clara leaned back, sighing. "Take time. Step away. Heal. Therapy. Whatever it takes. The newsroom will still be here when you're ready. I promise."
Aubrey's chest constricted, a rush of gratitude flooding through the cracks in her grief. Clara had always believed in her, always defended her talent, even when others whispered she was too young, too polished, too fragile.
She managed a whisper. "Thank you."
Clara's stern expression softened into something maternal, fleeting but real. "Go home, Aubrey. And don't come back until you can look at that camera without shaking."
---
The crime scene smelled of polish and ruin.
Malhotra Horology had once gleamed with exclusivity—glass cases of rare watches, marble floors shining like liquid stone. Now its grandeur was fractured, smeared with tape, marked by evidence placards, flashbulbs popping under the harsh fluorescence.
Caleb stood just inside the perimeter, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. His jaw was tight, his eyes scanning every detail.
Nia approached, her tablet in hand. "Victim's confirmed. Karan Mehra. Owner." She swiped, showing him the image. The photo seared into view: Karan's body, mouth bound with tape, eyes sealed, hands pierced together with nails.
Caleb's gut twisted. Another one.
Owen Kessler crouched near the taped outline of the body, gloved hands sweeping carefully across the marble. He was meticulous, every movement precise, his gaze sharp as a scalpel.
"There's something here," Owen muttered. His gloved fingers brushed, then paused. Slowly, he lifted a panel of flooring that had been displaced.
Gasps echoed. Beneath, the surface was scarred in graphite and blood.
The triangle came first—its edges jagged, trembling strokes carved deep. Three eyes stared outward, each lidless, each bleeding ink.
At its center, the spiral sank inward, twisted tight into suffocating void.
Encasing it, the six-fingered handprint smeared wide, frantic, as though pressed with desperate force.
And below it, the riddle:
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.
The detectives murmured, cameras flashed.
Nia frowned deeply, her brow furrowed. "What the hell does that even mean?"
Caleb said nothing, his face pale, his jaw locked. His chest tightened as though the riddle itself had claws digging into him.
Owen looked up, his lips curving—not into a smile, but something sharper, laced with contempt. His eyes flicked to Caleb, reading him too e
asily, and the expression lingered just long enough to feel deliberate.
A hint. A foreshadowing.
Caleb turned away, his breath shallow.
The chain was tightening.