The cracked reflection burned into Isabelle's mind long after she fled the lower chambers of the lighthouse.
Vivienne's face—smiling, distorted by the broken mirror—seemed stitched into the very air, refusing to leave her alone. Every turn of the crumbling stairwell, every whisper of wind through the battered stone, seemed to echo with that wrongness.
By the time Isabelle stumbled out into the open night, her legs were trembling.
The stars had vanished behind heavy clouds. Thunder grumbled low on the horizon. The whole world smelled of rain and rot.
She didn't dare stay near the lighthouse.
Something still moved within it—she could feel it, stalking, patient, waiting for her to slip.
She needed answers.
Real answers.
And she knew exactly where she would find them.
Estelle's flat was tucked between two abandoned shops on the Rue des Martyrs. The windows were dark, the whole building sagging like it was exhausted. Isabelle hammered on the door with the side of her fist until Estelle finally answered.
Her friend's face was pale, drawn tight with tension. Her hair clung to her temples as if she'd been sweating, or crying.
"Isabelle—"
Isabelle shoved past her without waiting for permission.
"You lied to me," she said, voice shaking.
Estelle closed the door quietly behind her. "I never—"
"Don't," Isabelle snapped. "Don't you dare."
She spun to face her, heart hammering.
"In the cellar," Isabelle said, every word like a blade. "Your name was circled on the victim list. You—you're connected to this. Somehow. And you're going to tell me everything. Right now."
Estelle's hands fluttered up defensively, trembling.
"Please," she said. "Let me explain."
Isabelle folded her arms, body rigid.
Estelle crossed to the worn couch and sat heavily, like all the strength had drained out of her. She wiped a hand across her mouth, as if trying to find the right words buried somewhere inside her.
"I didn't want to remember," she said finally. "I didn't want you to know. I wanted... I wanted it to stay buried."
Isabelle waited, forcing herself to stay silent.
Estelle's voice cracked. "When I was seventeen, I was—taken."
The word seemed to break her a little more.
"I was a patient," she continued hoarsely. "At the Verdant Clinic. It was a private institution. Very exclusive. Very quiet. Supposedly for... mental health treatment. But it was more than that. They were experimenting. On girls like me."
Isabelle's stomach twisted.
Verdant Clinic. She remembered Luc Lefevre mentioning it in passing, years ago, back when all of this had seemed like abstract nightmares instead of a cage slowly closing around them.
"And the masquerade club?" Isabelle asked.
Estelle nodded, eyes shining with old ghosts. "It was run by the same people. Or at least, funded by them. They moved us between facilities. Clients were promised unique experiences. To dance with the broken. To possess them, even if only for a night."
She shuddered visibly.
"They made us wear the masks. So no one would recognize the faces underneath. So no one would realize they were parading around victims like... like trophies."
The room seemed to shrink around them, the shadows pressing tighter.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Isabelle whispered. "After everything—Vivienne, the letters, the cellar—you knew."
"I was afraid!" Estelle burst out. "Afraid if I dug too deep, if I pulled too hard, they'd come for me again. For you. For everyone I cared about."
"You already put us in danger by staying silent," Isabelle said, the anger draining out of her, leaving behind only cold, brittle exhaustion.
"I know," Estelle whispered. "I know."
A heavy silence settled between them.
Isabelle crossed to the battered coffee table where a stack of old folders sat haphazardly. Some bore the Verdant Clinic's faded insignia—a green serpent wound around a staff.
She opened the top file with shaking hands.
Photographs. Medical charts. Notes scribbled in neat, inhumanly detached handwriting.
And among them—
Victim lists.
Pages and pages of them.
Each one catalogued meticulously: name, age, date of admittance, date of "discharge"—a grim euphemism.
Some names had red lines through them.
Gone.
Some had black asterisks.
Deceased.
But a handful...
A handful were marked with a different symbol.
A silver star.
Survivors.
Isabelle flipped through faster, heart pounding.
And there—on the third page—she found it.
Estelle Moreau
Status: Survivor.
Isabelle staggered back a step, the paper fluttering from her fingers.
Estelle didn't even try to deny it.
"I survived," she said in a hollow voice. "But it wasn't because they let me go. It was because I learned how to disappear. I faked a breakdown. Faked compliance. They stopped watching me so closely. One night, I escaped."
Her mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"But you never really escape, do you?" she whispered. "Not from them. Not from the games they started."
Outside, thunder cracked the sky wide open.
Isabelle pressed a trembling hand to her forehead, trying to think, trying to make sense of it all.
The lighthouse. The pendant with her name. The hidden web of victims. The broken mirror and Vivienne's smile.
"Someone's still running this," she said aloud.
Estelle nodded. "Someone who still has access to the old files. The resources. The connections."
"And they want us to know they're watching."
A low, rattling sound broke through the thick silence.
Both women froze.
The mail slot in the door creaked.
A thin envelope slipped through, landing with a soft thud on the carpet.
Isabelle exchanged a look with Estelle—one part dread, one part grim resignation.
Slowly, she crossed the room and picked it up.
There was no return address.
Only a single word, scrawled in elegant black ink:
Witness.
She tore the envelope open.
Inside was a photograph.
A grainy black-and-white image of the lighthouse—taken from the cliffs at night.
In the window of the topmost room, a figure stood.
A woman.
Wearing a mask.
And holding something small and silver in her hand.
A pendant.
Isabelle's pendant.
To be continued...