The first whisper came while he was at his desk.
Tyler sat hunched over a stack of case files, head pounding, when the voice curled inside his mind like smoke.
You shouldn't have seen that.
He froze. His pen trembled in his hand. He glanced up. Around him, the precinct buzzed — phones ringing, detectives laughing, printers humming. No one had spoken.
He told himself it was exhaustion. Stress. Hallucination.
But the whisper returned when he stood before the crime board that evening, the faces of the dead staring back from the wall of pinned photographs.
They deserved it. You know they did.
His throat closed. "No," he muttered under his breath, so softly that he wasn't sure he'd said it out loud.
Liar, the voice hissed, clearer now, confident. You felt it. The relief. The order. The cleansing.
His hands shook. He slammed the folder shut and excused himself, stumbling into the bathroom. Cold water splashed against his skin. He stared into the mirror, forcing himself to breathe.
But his reflection didn't breathe with him.
His reflection smiled.
And Tyler hadn't moved a muscle.
He stumbled back from the sink, bile rising in his throat, heart thrashing in his chest.
The voice laughed softly. You've buried me too long. But I'm stronger now. Strong enough to take what I want.
Tyler clutched the porcelain, knuckles white, whispering, "You're not real."
The mirror rippled. Not literally — but in his mind, he swore the glass swam like liquid. His reflection leaned forward, lips peeling back into something cruel.
I am more real than you.