The human brain can only handle so much truth before it starts rewriting itself.
That's what Aria told me once, back when we still trusted each other enough to share cigarettes on the station rooftop. She said the mind lies to protect itself. The trick, in her words, was learning which lies kept you alive.
I used to think she was talking about the suspects we interrogated.
Now, I'm starting to think she was talking about herself.
When I got to the precinct the next morning, Depsy was already a mess. Papers scattered. Chairs overturned. The coffee machine was dead—again—and someone had drawn a smiley face on the evidence board in red marker.
"Morning chaos, same as ever," I muttered, setting my coat on the chair.
Detective Risa Hanamura, our resident tech analyst, was crouched over the broken coffee maker like a surgeon over a patient. She glanced up, her short silver hair falling into her eyes.
"Morning, Ren. You look like hell."
"I didn't sleep."
"Again? You need a hobby."
"I have one. It's called worrying."
She smirked. "Productive as always."
Her fingers flew over her tablet. The holo-display projected a rotating sigil—the spiral Aria found yesterday.
"I've been running resonance scans on this symbol," she said. "The ink has demonic residue, yeah—but here's the weird part. It's tempered. Like someone stabilized it to avoid triggering psychic feedback."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning whoever drew this knew what they were doing. They weren't just doodling—they were performing a controlled ritual. Low-level resonance therapy, maybe… or something that looks like it."
I stared at the sigil, the lines twisting in slow motion.
Aria's handwriting.
"You found anything else?"
Risa nodded. "Yeah. The ink's compound matches a batch produced by the Veil Institute for Cognitive Research."
"That's a demon-run clinic, right?"
"Mm-hm. Licensed under the Peace Accord. Guess who their senior consultant was?"
I didn't answer. I didn't have to.
Aria Vale.
She didn't show up that morning. Her desk was empty, her ashtray clean. That, more than anything, worried me. Aria never left a desk tidy.
By noon, Captain Hoshino had called me into his office. He was a grizzled man who looked like he'd smoked his way through three wars and lost all three.
He didn't waste time. "Vale's missing."
"I know."
He studied me, eyes sharp behind his glasses. "You two were close. Any idea where she might've gone?"
"Not yet. But she's not running."
"You sure about that?"
I didn't answer.
Hoshino sighed, rubbing his temples. "Listen, Ren. I've been around long enough to know when someone's losing their grip. You've been chasing ghosts since the Hollow Smile case started. And now your partner's implicated in the ritual that killed three civilians."
"I said she's not running."
"Then find her before Internal Affairs does." He leaned back, his voice dropping. "Because if they get to her first, they won't bring her back in one piece."
By dusk, I was standing in front of the Veil Institute.
It was quiet—too quiet. The kind of sterile, polished silence that made my skin crawl. Inside, the air smelled of lavender and antiseptic. A receptionist demon smiled at me with glassy eyes.
"Welcome to the Veil Institute," she said. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Detective Ishikawa. Depsy Division." I flashed my badge. "I need to speak to your director."
"Dr. Mavren is in a session."
"Not anymore, he isn't."
The receptionist's smile twitched, but she pressed a button, and the glass doors behind her slid open with a hiss.
Dr. Mavren was a tall, gaunt demon with skin like cracked porcelain and a voice so calm it made my teeth hurt. He gestured for me to sit across from him in his office—a minimalist space filled with black-and-white paintings of spirals.
"You're investigating Ms. Vale, yes?" he said, folding his hands.
"She used to work here."
"Indeed. One of our most promising cognitive mediators. Until she left."
"Why did she leave?"
He smiled faintly. "Guilt. It happens to demons too, you know. She became… unstable. Obsessive about the boundary between empathy and control. Claimed the human psyche was infectious."
"And the Hollow Smile victims?" I asked.
He tilted his head. "I've heard of them. Tragic. But irrelevant to this institution."
I leaned forward. "Their deaths involved a sigil traced with your ink."
For the first time, something flickered behind his eyes.
"That ink was restricted," he said slowly. "Only senior mediators had access. You think she used it?"
"I think someone's using her."
Mavren's calm façade cracked for just a second. He exhaled, long and low. "Detective, if what you're suggesting is true, then you're dealing with more than a rogue therapist. You're dealing with a mind capable of shaping resonance itself. Do you understand what that means?"
"I'm starting to."
He stood, crossing to the window. "Then I suggest you prepare yourself. Because when demons dream, the world remembers."
I left the institute with more questions than answers. The city had turned violet with evening, neon signs flickering through mist. I walked aimlessly for a while, replaying Mavren's words, Aria's expression, that trembling in her hands.
Something inside me buzzed. A faint pressure behind my eyes—the telltale sign of a resonance surge. I gritted my teeth.
Not now.
I leaned against a lamppost, breathing through it, focusing on the rhythm Aria had taught me months ago.
"Anchor yourself in the present. Three things you can see. Two you can feel. One you can trust."
My voice was quiet. Mechanical. Like reciting a prayer I no longer believed in.
A shadow passed across the street. A woman—tall, slender, hooded. Moving like she knew I was watching.
"Aria," I called.
She didn't turn.
I followed.
The alley behind the Institute smelled of rain and ozone. She stood there, facing a wall of glowing sigils pulsing faintly against the bricks.
"Aria!" I shouted again.
She finally turned. Her eyes glowed softly—not crimson, but a dull, weary gold.
"Ren," she whispered. "You shouldn't be here."
"You disappeared. Half the Bureau thinks you're responsible for the killings."
"Maybe I am."
"That's not funny."
"I'm not joking." She looked down, trembling. "Those sigils—they're mine. But I don't remember drawing them. Not then. Not ever."
"Then who did?"
She hesitated. Then: "Someone inside my mind. A copy. A fragment left over from before the Accord. They called it the Echo."
"The Echo?"
"It's what happens when demons are bound by the treaty. Pieces of us—our older, purer selves—get sealed away in the subconscious. But sometimes they wake up." She touched her temple. "And when they do, they start writing."
I took a step closer. "Then we find it. Together."
She shook her head. "You can't. The Echo lives in the space between thought and memory. And lately…" She looked at me with that tired, broken smile. "I think it's not just mine anymore."
Before I could respond, the air around us rippled—pressure tightening like a heartbeat underwater. The sigils flared, and for a moment, I saw something inside them: a face. My face.
Then everything went black.
When I woke, the alley was empty. The sigils were gone.
My phone buzzed with a new message. A distorted voice recording.
> "Detective Ishikawa… do you hear it now?"
In the reflection of my phone screen, my eyes glowed again—this time, brighter.