Detective Marlow Reed leaned against the window frame, eyes scanning the crime scene with a meticulous precision that unnerved Elara. He had seen a lot in his career, but there was something about her case something about the layers of perception and deception — that unsettled him even now.
"You're hiding something, Elara," he said softly, his gaze not leaving hers. "I can see it. Something in your mind that you aren't telling me."
Elara's stomach twisted. Was it Raven? Mira? Or the fragile, terrified part of herself that was still trying to cling to reality?
"You don't understand," she whispered. "I don't even know what's real anymore."
Reed's eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. "Then we figure it out together. But you have to be honest. With me. With yourself."
The detective's words hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable. And for the first time, Elara realized: she couldn't hide from anyone anymore. Not from Reed. Not from herself. Not from the fragments that moved like shadows beneath her skin.
As night fell, the city outside transformed into a labyrinth of flickering lights and elongated shadows. Elara walked the streets, haunted by visions of blood, red fog, and the woman in the crimson coat. And behind her, always behind her, Mira observed silently, smiling, knowing, patient.
Raven surged to the surface at the first sign of danger, moving her body with precision Elara could barely control. She left traces, subtle but undeniable footprints, fingerprints, evidence of careful manipulation. Someone would find them. Someone would know. But who?
And then the whisper came again: You are not safe. Not from them. Not from yourself.
Elara swallowed hard, feeling the weight of every fragment pressing against her sanity.