Tyler's world began to disintegrate.
Days blurred together, indistinguishable. He woke exhausted, blackouts stretching longer. His desk piled with reports he didn't remember writing — all in the other handwriting.
At the precinct, he caught whispers trailing behind him like shadows. He's slipping.Something's wrong with him.He's not the same.
And then the killings changed.
The first victim was a thug Tyler had arrested a year ago — drained of blood, body filled with silicone. The second was a witness who had lied on the stand. The third… a colleague. One who'd sneered at him during a botched interview.
Each death cut closer. Each one too personal to dismiss as coincidence.
Jackson called him into his office after the third.
"These victims," his superior said, eyes heavy with suspicion, "they're not random anymore. They're connected to you. Every one of them."
Tyler's mouth went dry. "That's not possible."
"Isn't it?" Jackson leaned forward, voice low. "You're the only one with this knowledge. If you know something, you need to tell me. Now."
But Tyler had no words. His mind was a whirlpool. He left the office shaking, ears buzzing with the sound of his own pulse.
That night, he snapped. He tore the notebook to pieces and burned it in the sink, flames devouring every page. He smashed his cameras, unplugged every device, and drowned his apartment in whiskey until he collapsed on the couch.
When he woke, the air still smelled faintly of smoke. His head pounded with nausea.
And there it was.
The notebook.
Whole. Untouched. Sitting neatly on the table.
The first page bore a single line in bold, black ink:
You can't get rid of me. I am you.
Tyler screamed, raw and animal, voice tearing at his throat. The sound echoed off the walls until it filled the room.
And then silence.
Cold silence.
Tyler stood frozen, realizing something that made his skin crawl.
He didn't remember screaming.