The photo haunted him.
Elias couldn't stop staring at it.
There he was—curled in bed, his cheek pressed to the pillow, bare arm thrown over the blanket. Vulnerable. Asleep. Exposed.
And someone had been there. In his room.
Watching.
His thumb hovered over the screen. He tried calling the number.
Nothing. Disconnected.
He paced the length of his dorm room three times, heart battering his ribs like it wanted to escape. The blinds were shut. The lock was still secure. No signs of forced entry. But someone had been there—and gotten out without a trace.
His mind flew to Damien.
No. That was paranoid. Irrational. He was just being—
Another buzz.
Another photo.
His breath hitched.
This one was older. Grainy. A photo of his brother, standing at the edge of an abandoned train station. Meet me where the trains don't run. The phrase from Veronica Dale's note echoed in his ears like a ghost.
The same platform Elias passed every day on the way to the station. Closed down since the fire five years ago.
He grabbed his keys.
---
The station looked like a corpse.
Charred walls. Steel rails twisted like bones. No lights. No life. Just ash and shadows.
Elias stepped through the crumbling archway, the beam of his phone flashlight barely cutting the darkness. It smelled like burnt metal and wet stone. Every step echoed, too loud, too exposed.
A soft click behind him.
He spun around.
"Damien?" he called out.
No answer.
He moved forward, breath sharp in his throat, boots crunching on glass. Then—he saw it.
A body.
No. A mannequin?
No.
A person. Naked. Pale. Slumped against a pillar.
Dead.
Elias stumbled forward and gasped.
It was a young man—mid-twenties—eyes open in terror. A plastic bag still tied around his face. On his chest, in smeared black marker, someone had written:
> "Confess."
Elias staggered back. Vomited into the corner.
Footsteps.
He wiped his mouth and looked up—too late.
A hand grabbed him from behind. Yanked him back into the wall. Cold concrete slammed into his spine.
"Elias."
Damien's voice.
He released him just as quickly, eyes sharp, chest rising fast.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Elias couldn't speak. He pointed toward the body, gasping. "Dead—he's dead—he's—"
Damien's eyes darkened. He looked at the corpse. Didn't flinch.
"I told you not to follow things alone."
"You sent me those photos—"
"No. Someone else did. And they wanted you to find this."
Elias's stomach twisted. "Is this a message?"
Damien walked to the body. Pulled on gloves. Checked the hands. "Ligature marks. No defensive wounds. They drugged him first."
"Why the word 'Confess'?"
Damien didn't answer.
Instead, he picked something up from beneath the body. A slip of red paper. He held it up.
It had Elias's name on it.
Elias Vale
You're next.
---
The police arrived fast. But Damien never called them.
Elias noticed that too late.
By the time backup came, the body had been moved. Posed differently. The red slip—gone.
No mention of it in Damien's report.
Elias confronted him in the car.
"You hid it."
Damien didn't deny it.
"I'm protecting you."
"From what?"
Damien turned to him. His voice was quiet, but sharp enough to cut bone.
"There's a difference between the truth and what people are ready to hear. You want to dig? Fine. But you'll choke on what you find."
"You knew my brother. You were involved. And now someone's coming after me."
Damien's jaw ticked.
He didn't speak for a long moment.
Then he said, "Get in the back."
"What?"
"Now."
Elias climbed into the backseat, heart racing.
Damien pulled out a thick folder from beneath the seat. Handed it over.
Inside were crime scene photos. Dozens. Different victims. But all killed the same way—plastic bag, word on chest, expression frozen in horror.
"Serial killer?"
"No," Damien said. "Not exactly."
Elias looked at him. "Then what?"
Damien's eyes met his in the mirror.
"These were people who kept secrets. Every single one of them. Secrets someone wanted exposed."
"And my brother?"
Damien nodded once. "He knew something. He tried to warn you. But he wasn't fast enough."
Elias swallowed. "You think this is about me now?"
"I know it is."
He leaned forward, voice low.
"You're not just a witness anymore. You're bait."
---
That night, Elias couldn't sleep. Again.
He sat on the floor of his room, back against the wall, staring at the silver ring Damien always wore. The image burned in his memory.
His brother's words. "Don't trust—"
Cut off. Like a door slammed before the final truth.
His phone buzzed.
Blocked number.
New photo.
He hesitated—then opened it.
A mirror selfie.
His own bathroom.
Taken minutes ago.
And written across the mirror in red lipstick:
> "Truth is a wound. Ready to bleed?"
Elias stood so fast the phone slipped from his fingers.
He turned toward the bathroom.
The light was off.
The door creaked open.
And written on the glass—
—was his name.
The message on the mirror begins to melt.
It's not lipstick.
It's blood.