Photos of him and Elle, captured during her time in the hospital, were plastered across the room. Each image was marked with dark crimson smears, and in the center, bold letters spelled out: "The Devil is Back."
Amadeo staggered backward, his breath catching in his throat. The red marks on the wall glistened faintly in the moonlight. His trembling hand reached out to touch the substance, only to recoil as he realized it was blood. Human blood.
He hurriedly reached out for his phone and he couldn't speak properly but somehow he managed to inform the police. Amadeo's foot struck something beneath the coffee table. Kneeling, he reached for the object and froze. It was a card, one he hadn't seen before. His hands trembled as he flipped it over, revealing the image of Elle. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow. mind was elsewhere as he flipped the card over in his hands.
The image sent a chill down his spine—it was Elle. Her face was pale in the photo, her eyes vacant. Beneath the picture were the words: Save her if you can.
The timestamp on the watch in the photo burned into his mind—it was from just hours ago, after he had left the hospital. His thoughts spun wildly, but one thing was certain: Elle was in danger.
The sound of sirens brought him back to reality as the police arrived, their voices a muffled cacophony in the background. Amadeo barely registered their questions. He couldn't wait. Clutching the card tightly, he bolted out of the apartment, leaving the officers behind.
His only thought echoed in his mind, louder with each passing second consumed by the single overpowering fear: Elle.
The city was quiet, the kind of unsettling quiet that wrapped around you like a suffocating veil. Amadeo gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles whitening as his car raced toward the hospital. His mind buzzed with frantic thoughts, all of them spiraling back to Elle. What happened to her? Was she safe? He couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that had settled in his chest since he left the police behind.
But something else gnawed at the edges of his mind—a presence. The headlights in his rearview mirror had been shadowing him for the past ten minutes, never coming too close, never falling too far behind. He could feel it, that primal sense of being watched. His fingers flexed nervously on the wheel, but he refused to let the fear take hold. Elle is what matters now.
When he arrived at the hospital, he barely took the time to park properly. The car door slammed shut, and he hurried inside, his heart pounding against his ribs. The elevator was taking too long, and with a frustrated sigh, he bolted for the stairs, his feet pounding against the metal steps.
Halfway up, he collided with someone—a nurse carrying a tray of utensils. The tray clattered to the ground, the sound echoing sharply in the stairwell. "I'm sorry—" the nurse began, but Amadeo didn't stop to listen. He muttered an apology over his shoulder and kept going, his focus razor-sharp. He didn't notice the brief, sharp prick on the back of his hand during the collision, or the nurse's lingering gaze as he disappeared up the stairs.
When Amadeo pushed open the door to Elle's room, his breath caught. The bed was empty. The IV stand was toppled over, the tubes and wires hanging limply. The air felt heavy, as though it carried the remnants of a struggle.
"Elle!" he called out, his voice rising in panic. He scanned the room, his eyes darting to every shadow, every corner. His heart thundered as he turned back toward the door, ready to yell for help or sprint to search the rest of the hospital.
But as he spun around, his legs faltered. A wave of dizziness hit him like a tidal surge. He reached for the wall to steady himself, but his vision blurred, the world tilting alarmingly. His hand, the same one that had brushed against the nurse, tingled and burned faintly. His eyelids grew heavy, and the last thing he saw before darkness took him was the cold, sterile light of the hospital room.