The precinct was quiet that morning, too quiet. Phones rang, detectives shuffled paperwork, a coffee pot hissed in the corner — but the air felt different. Heavy. Watching.
Tyler moved through it like a man underwater, every step slow, every sound muted. His body ached, his head pulsed like a drumbeat. He kept thinking about the notebook sitting in his apartment. He should have burned it again, thrown it into the river, ripped it apart page by page until there was nothing left but dust. But what was the point? It would only come back. It always came back.
By noon, his concentration had fractured. He stared at case files without reading them. He gripped his pen so tightly that the plastic cracked down the middle. He didn't even notice until a shard dug into his palm and drew blood.
That's when the whisper slid back into his head.
"You're clumsy without me."
Tyler froze. The bullpen around him buzzed normally, but the voice was clear, close, intimate — as though someone leaned in, lips against his ear.
He pressed the pen against the paper, knuckles white. Not real, he told himself. Not real. It's just my brain.
"I'm more real than any of them," the voice said smoothly. "You think they see you? No. They see a shell. A failure. I'm the one doing the work. I'm the one cleaning the filth from this city while you cower behind pills and coffee."
Tyler's breath came ragged. He dropped the pen. His coworkers barely looked up. No one noticed.
He stumbled to the bathroom, slammed the stall door shut, sat on the toilet with his head in his hands.
"Shut up," he whispered.
"Why would I shut up?" The voice was almost playful now. "You need me. You always have. You've built me piece by piece every time you swallowed your rage, every time you smiled while someone spat in your face, every time you let the guilty walk free. I am the part of you that never forgot. The part you pretended didn't exist."
Tyler's chest constricted. He rocked forward, fists pressed against his skull. "You're not me."
"I am you," the voice hissed. "I've always been you. And now you can't stop me."
A sound broke through him then — not in his mind, but in the room. Laughter. Low, guttural, echoing.
He jerked his head up. The bathroom was empty.
Empty… except for the mirror above the sinks.
He could see himself through the crack in the stall door. Pale. Gaunt. His lips curled upward.
But Tyler hadn't moved them.
The reflection leaned forward, closer to the glass, smile splitting wider. And then, though the stall was closed, though he wasn't anywhere near the sink, he heard his own voice — his reflection's voice — speaking aloud.
"You won't last long, Tyler. You're weak. I'll burn through you until there's nothing left but me."
Tyler's stomach lurched. He shoved the stall open and staggered toward the mirror, fists clenched. His reflection stared back, grin sharp, alive, its eyes glittering with something he didn't recognize.
And then the grin vanished.
The reflection became ordinary again — tired, broken, bloodshot. Just Tyler.
He collapsed against the sink, trembling. Sweat soaked his shirt.
From behind his eyes, the voice whispered again, quieter now, almost tender.
"Don't fight me, Tyler. We could be unstoppable together."