The quiet of Detective James Carter's home office was broken only by the soft hum of a desk lamp and the occasional creak of the old wooden floor.
His leave was just days away—a rare respite he'd planned to spend with Rossie, who always brought a light into his otherwise shadowy world.
However, the weight of Chief Inspector Daniels' assignment pressed heavily on him. The recreation center meeting lingered in his mind like a stubborn stain - the unsettling $10,000 bribe, the ominous confidential file, and the uncomfortable connection to Angela Pierce's mother.
He couldn't shake the feeling that something more sinister was at play.
He sat at his desk, the file open before him, its pages casting elongated shadows in the dim light. The flickering lamp seemed to echo his own unease. Flipping through the documents, he felt a tightening in his chest as he scanned the bank records showing large, unexplained transfers from Mrs. Pierce's accounts to offshore entities.
Alongside those records were photos of her meeting with shadowy figures - people he suspected were Mia and Tom—near the national stadium.
A police report detailed the Parador heist, noting witnesses who described "unnatural speed," an echo of the traits attributed to the occultic group he had been investigating.
A handwritten note tucked inside caught his eye:
"The Pierce legacy is the key. Watch the shadows."
The phrase sent chills down his spine, hinting at a conspiracy far deeper than mere financial misconduct.
As he reached for his now lukewarm coffee, the room seemed to grow colder, the lightbulb above flickering in rhythm with his rising anxiety.
Suddenly, a faint scratching sound came from the window, breaking his concentration. Turning to investigate, he was startled to see a crow perched on the sill, its eyes glinting unnaturally in the weak light. Those eyes mirrored the unsettling bird invasion at Haul Academy earlier that day, leaving him with a sense of foreboding.
With a mix of curiosity and wariness, he observed the bird as it began to tap against the glass, leaving a smear that formed the words
"We see you"—the same cryptic message that had appeared at the school. Disturbed, he felt the file's pages rustle, despite the still air, as if something was alive within them.
A low hum, reminiscent of a distant chant, filled the room, suggesting a much darker entity's presence.
Cautiously, James stood up, his heart racing. The implication of the $10,000 bribe now felt like a well-laid trap.
This case was becoming more than just a job for him; it was personal—tied intricately to Rossie's safety, and it thrust him deeper into the shadows of the occultic threat. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the crow flew off into the night, but the palpable sense of unease lingered, the shadows around him seeming to shift and watch.
He grabbed his phone, his thoughts racing.
Should he call Rossie to warn her, or dig deeper into the file to uncover the truth?
The tension of an unseen enemy closing in gripped him tightly, forcing him to make a decision.
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Haul Academy's dorms were shrouded in an oppressive silence, broken only by the faint creak of old wooden beams.
Michael Thompson lay restless in his bed, the untitled book on his nightstand pulsing with a faint, unnatural glow. Its eerie light cast shifting shadows across the room, dancing like specters on the walls.
Exhausted from days of resisting the strange pull of the "Eyes of Mistura," a power he barely understood, Michael's eyelids grew heavy, and he slipped into a dream that felt too vivid, too real.
The air thickened with a violet haze, and there she was—Mistura, her presence both mesmerizing and terrifying.
Her violet eyes burned with otherworldly intensity, her dark hair flowing like a tempest caught in time. She stood atop a jagged cliff in a desolate landscape, her silhouette framed against a sky bruised with storm clouds. Her voice, a seductive yet menacing whisper, slithered into Michael's mind:
"You cannot run away from what you are, Michael. You are gradually becoming it."
Her laughter, cold and triumphant, reverberated as she raised a hand, conjuring a vision of a school—a twisted, nightmarish version of Haul Academy.
In an instant, Michael stood in the schoolyard, his heart pounding. His reflection in a shattered window revealed his own eyes glowing violet, mirroring Mistura's.
A surge of power coursed through him, foreign and intoxicating. Without his command, his gaze swept over the students and teachers gathered in the yard. Their faces contorted in agony, eyes glazing over as they fell under his influence.
One by one, they sank to their knees, their wills shattered, chanting his name in a hollow, unified drone. The air grew heavy with their submission, and Michael's stomach churned with dread—he was doing this, yet he wasn't.
The scene shifted to chaos. Classrooms stood empty, desks overturned, papers scattered like fallen leaves. Hallways teemed with enthralled figures, their movements mechanical, their voices echoing his name. The school morphed into a dark dominion, its walls pulsing with violet energy, a grotesque monument to his unintended power.
Mistura's laughter swelled, a sinister chorus that drowned out his thoughts.
"See? You are me now," she taunted, her voice coiling around his heart like a vice. The more he resisted, the stronger her influence grew, her presence a shadow merging with his own.
A jolt of terror ripped through him, and Michael awoke with a gasp, his chest heaving, sweat soaking his sheets. The dorm room was still, the book's glow now a dim flicker, but Mistura's words echoed in his mind, chilling him to the bone.
He clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp, as the weight of the dream settled heavily. The vision of himself as a destroyer, wielding her power to enslave others, gnawed at his resolve.
Was this his future? Could he escape her curse, or was he doomed to become the very monster he feared?
The book sat silently, its secrets a heavy burden he wasn't sure he could bear.