The Apartment - 3:45 AM
The rain drummed softly against the shattered window, filling the apartment with the scent of damp concrete. The night's reckless energy—the thrill of stolen speed and victories—had rotted into an eerie stillness.
Outside, the city still slept.
Inside, monsters answered their doors.
The two cops approached the apartment complex, their radios crackling with static. Officer Chang, a veteran with a tired face, took a sip of stale coffee before shoving the cup into his patrol car's holder.
His partner, Officer Reeves, frowned as he scanned the upper floors. "Do we really have to do this. It's literally pouring outside and besides the calls from a few hours ago"
Chang sighed. "Yeah, probably just some kids partying. But we still gotta check it out."
They walked toward the building, their boots splashing against rain-soaked pavement. The hallways were quiet. This early it would of been more odd to see signs of the usual tenants, or the usual bustling behind closed doors.
And then, as they knocked on the first door, it opened almost immediately.
A man with slicked-back hair and dark sunglasses stood there. His voice was too calm.
"Is there a problem, officers?"
Chang frowned. "Bit late for sunglasses, don't you think?"
A small chuckle. "Yeah so, the lights killing my hangover."
Other doors creaked open along the hallway. More tenants—all of them wearing sunglasses.
Reeves shifted uncomfortably. "We got a call about a disturbance here. Someone reported Screaming."
"Didn't hear anything."
Chang's gut told him something was off, but legally? No probable cause. He exchanged a look with Reeves.
The younger officer sighed, muttering under his breath, "Whole city's full of weirdos, did they all party together or something?"
They were about to turn away—until Chang stopped, noticing something.
A trail of Blood. Drying. Leading to a door at the end of the hall.
Martinez knocked. "Police open up!"
Silence.
He knocked again.
A soft creak echoed from inside.
Chang motioned for his gun, but before they could draw, the door swung open.
A girl stood there, her arm hastily bandaged, blood staining the gauze. She looked shaken, but not scared.
"Is… everything okay in here?" Chang asked, voice steady. His eyes flicked past her, catching sight of a broken doorframe and a room that didn't look right.
Natalie sniffled—too soft, too unnatural. "I dont know. Please help I don't know what's going on."
Chang's grip on his flashlight tightened. "Mind if we take a look inside?"
A pause.
Then—she stepped aside.
The officers stepped in.
Rain seeped through a shattered window in the back room, the wind whispering through the broken glass. The apartment smelled of metal—of something almost like rust, but sharper.
Reeves scanned the space, his jaw tightening. He nudged chang. "Sir. Look."
His eyes followed the motion.
Isaac's bedroom door was broken inward.
Chang's instincts screamed at him.
"Miss, who else is here?"
Natalie didn't answer.
Then, from the shadows of the room, Isaac stepped forward.
His shirt was soaked in blood. His eyes—those red, burning eyes—locked onto them with inhuman hunger.
"Nice catch sis, carlos is going to love these two."
Reeves barely had time to shout before Isaac lunged.
The impact slammed the officer into the wall, his body cam catching the blur of movement, the flash of teeth—
Then the scream.
Chang drew his gun, but Natalie was already behind him.
He fired—point-blank into Isaac's chest.
The red light in his eyes flickered.
Another shot.
Isaac staggered back.
A third.
Isaac collapsed to his knees, his breathing ragged—then, he began to dissolved ever so slowly into shadows. The body hit the floor, turning to black dust and crumbling off like ash. Before finally, vanishing as if he had never existed.
Chang stared, his hands trembling.
"What the fu—"
Teeth sank into his ankle.
Reeves—his eyes red, his mouth dripping blood—had already turned.
Chang screamed.
The body cam flickered—And the feed cut out.
Sophie ran.
Her bare feet slapped against the wet pavement, rain drenching her as she stumbled through the streets. The oversized T-shirt she'd stolen from Isaac's closet clinging to her skin.
Sophie's mind wandered as the memory clawed its way back— the frantic pounding on the locked door, the splintering wood, Isaac's laughter echoing through the thin walls. Natalie's voice, sickly sweet, coaxing her to 'just open up.' The way the hinges groaned, seconds from giving way.
She'd had no choice.
The window—her only way out—had been slick with rain, the glass already fractured from some past storm. She'd barely squeezed through before the door exploded inward—Carlos's snarl ripping through the air. A flash of red eyes, a flicker of shifting shadows—then the rush of cold wind as she plunged onto the fire escape. The jagged glass tore into her palms, warm blood mixing with the rain as she scrambled down, heart hammering. Above her, Carlos hesitated—his gaze snapping toward something inside the apartment. Something else had caught his attention."
She didn't look back.
That had been several hours ago and now she didn't know where she was going. She didn't care. She just had to tell someone. Anyone.
Headlights washed over her, tires screeching to a stop.
Two cops stepped out, weapons raised. "Whoa! Hey—what's going on?"
Sophie collapsed against the car. "They're MONSTERS!" she sobbed. "In the apartment—they killed them!"
The officers exchanged looks.
One of them, Officer Davis, exhaled sharply. "Alright, miss, slow down. Tell me your name first
"Sophie. Sophie Miller," she choked out. "I was brought here by another victim, then he turned too. You have to do something!"
Davis frowned, turning away to pull out his radio. "Dispatch, checking ID for a Sophie Miller—"
The radio crackled.
"Confirmed. Missing person. Transferring her back to Whittier PD."
Davis looked back at his partner, then back at Sophie as they talked.
"Alright, kid. Lets get you out of here."
Sophie's eyes went blank.
"No—NO! You don't understand! Please just listen too me!"
Davis sighed. "Calm down, miss. You'll be safe soon."
She wanted to scream. To fight. To make them listen. But she already knew how this would go. They never listened.
Back inside the Apartment, Natalie stood over the fallen officer.
Her fingers twitched.
She licked the blood from her lips.
Isaac was gone, but she still had two more to join Carlos.
But why was Reeves taking so long? He should be up by now.
She knelt down, tilting her head at the officer's twitching form.
His body convulsed.
His pupils burned red.
Natalie grinned.
"Welcome back."
Some ways away, eri had finally found her destination.
Cold rain dripped through the skeletal remains of what used to be a restaurant, pooling in the cracks of charred tile. The scent of soot, rusted metal, and old grease still clung to the ruined walls, the fire having erased all but fragments of what once stood here.
Mimi's Café.
Or what was left of it at least.
The neon sign had melted into warped plastic, half its letters unreadable. The roof had caved in at the center, leaving blackened beams jutting toward the sky like broken ribs.
Across the street, the 24-hour vr arcade still pulsed with artificial light, its glow flickering against the wet pavement. A few guests drifted in and out, oblivious to the ghosts across the street.
Mephisto stopped just outside the ruined doorway, trailing behind Eri and Marisol. His presence loomed, a heavy shadow against the rain.
His expression darkened. His hands rubbing his chest as if someone had shot him.
Eri caught it.
For the first time since they arrived—the smirks, the amusement, the casual cruelty—none of it was there.
Just something cold.
A sense of disbelief in his eyes.
It sent a tremor down her spine.
Eri paused in the doorway. "What is it?"
Mephisto's lips twitched. Then—gone. The look disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced with his usual lazy grin.
"Nothing," he murmured, but his hand still rested against his chest. "Let's keep moving. Wouldn't want our little savior catching cold."
Marisol shivered, from the cool morning air.
Inside the Restaurant
The kitchen was gutted.
Eri stared with a look of grand nostalgia. She could still make out the remnants of a countertop, half-burnt booths, and what was once a pastry display case, now just shards of melted glass and rusted metal.
Mephesto led her to the least-damaged corner—a booth with half its frame still intact. The cushions were singed, but at least it was something.
She layed Marisol down upon the cushions.
Her body lay there asleep, too exhausted to process anything beyond the lids of her eyes.
The shadow cat, which had been perched on Eri's shoulder the entire time, jumped down, stretching its inky limbs before curling around marisol.
She stiffened.
It pressed against her, its form flickering like living ink, shielding her from the cold air and damp surroundings.
For a moment, she stirred. Before returning to her slumber. lost in dreams, it was more than comforting … it was warm.
Mephisto exhaled, rubbing his neck. "I'll take first watch. You should relax. Maybe even get some sleep."
Eri scoffed. "Otherworlders don't need sleep."
Mephisto's grin twisted, amused. "Sure. And yet, I doubt that'll be a problem for you."
Eri glanced at Marisol, whose breathing had already begun to slow. A quiet, exhausted rhythm.
Without a word, she sat beside her.
Marisol shifted, unconsciously moving toward the warmth. Her head found a place against Eri's legs, curling into the space as if it had always been meant to be there.
Eri didn't move.
Didn't push her away.
Instead, she sighed, brushing a strand of wet hair from the girl's face.
Mephisto watched them both.
Then, with a knowing smirk, turned toward the entrance, staring into the night.
As Marisol slept her dreams quickly twisted into nightmares.
It wasn't the still, empty kind that cradled sleep. No, this darkness moved, shifting like ink in water, thick and suffocating. Marisol felt it pressing against her skin, seeping into her bones, whispering in voices that sounded too much like her own.
She stood in the ruins of something half-forgotten. A house? No, it had the shape of one, but its walls twisted, curling like burnt paper. The furniture was overturned, broken, covered in mud.
The air smelled of rotting wood, damp earth… and blood.
And then, she saw her.
A girl—.
Dark circles ringed her hollow eyes. Her clothes were stained with grime and dried blood, her hair tangled and wild. Bare feet, toes caked in dirt. A stuffed bunny—her old companion eri—hung limply from her hand, its once-white fur darkened with something that looked like old ink.
Marisol took a step forward, heart hammering. "Who…?"
The other her snapped her head up.
A grin split her face, wide and wrong.
"Oh. It's you."
Her voice was light. Too light. Too detached. As if she'd been expecting this.
Marisol swallowed hard, fists tightening. "Why do you look like me."
"That's because I am you." The girl tilted her head, studying Marisol with something close to amusement. "Or maybe you're me? Hard to tell. I think I had a name once. A real one. But Eri will always be Eri."
Eri?
Why are we talking about her old stuffed bunny?
Marisol's gaze dropped to the stuffed rabbit. Its stitched-up eyes glowed, shadows leaking from its seams.
The other Marisol hugged it close. "You look confused."
Marisol forced her breathing to steady. "Where am I?"
The girl laughed. It wasn't a good sound.
"You're home," Bunny whispered.
And then the screaming began.
A door slammed open behind her. A voice—her mother's voice—twisted with terror.
Marisol whirled just in time to see the scene unfold in front of her, as if the past were peeling open, raw and exposed.
The kitchen.
A woman lay on the floor—her mother?—eyes wide in shock, her breath cut off in wet gasps.
A knife was buried deep in her chest.
And standing over her, the other Marisol, breathing hard, hands covered in red.
Marisol stumbled back, bile rising in her throat. "No. That's not—"
"It was an accident," eri said, too quickly, too eagerly. "She found them. The bodies. Her step-siblings. She was going to call someone. We couldn't let that happen."
Her mother gurgled, trying to speak.
The other marisol tilted her head. "It wasn't my fault," she whispered. "Eri told me what to do."
"This isn't real," Marisol whispered. "This isn't me. This never happened."
The stuffed rabbit twitched.
Shadows slithered from it, curling around marisol's fingers, coiling around the knife. The Doom Tree's whispers filled the air, low and sickly sweet.
Run, marisol. Before they find out. Before they make you leave me.
Marisol's pulse pounded in her ears. "You—you're lying. That's not me."
The other Marisol's s grin widened. "Are you sure?"
The world lurched.
The kitchen collapsed, melting into ash and embers.
Now, Marisol stood in the ruins of a burned-down restaurant.
Mimi's Café.
The other her sat curled in the corner, huddled in the wreckage, clutching the rabbit like a lifeline.
"I did what I had to," she murmured, voice trembling. "It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault."
The words scratched at Marisol's brain, a mantra she didn't recognize but felt deep inside.
She lifted her head, her wide, fevered eyes locking onto Marisol's.
"Why don't you hear the call?" Her voice cracked. "How did you escape? Why—why cant you hear the doom trees voices?"
The world shuddered.
The shadows reached for her.
And then—
The bunny moved.
It lifted its head.
And spoke.
"You were supposed to come back to me."
A jagged whisper. Wrong. Hungry.
Marisol froze.
The other her gripped the stuffed animal too tightly, fingers twitching against its fur.
"It won't let me go," she whispered.
The shadows lunged.
Marisol screamed.
She didn't wake up.
The dream didn't end.
Instead, it deepened.
Marisol felt herself falling, the ground swallowed by shadows, the world spiraling into something else, something older.
And the other her's voice—Marisol's voice—echoed after her.
"You were supposed to come back to me."
A whisper. Not from the other Marisol.
Not from the stuffed bunny.
Something deeper. Something older.
Marisol's breath hitched.
And then—arms wrapped around her.
Warm. Familiar.
A presence like velvet dusk and silver whispers.
A voice—smooth, unshaken. Soothing in a way that felt practiced.
"Hush now."
The nightmare shuddered around them.
The shadows hesitated.
Marisol knew this voice.
She turned—or maybe the dream turned for her—and there, standing among the dying echoes of the ruined café, was Eri.
Older. Taller. A presence that was both gentle and unyielding, draped in twilight and memory. Her eyes held something distant, something knowing, as if she had seen this unfold a thousand times before.
She brushed a hand through Marisol's hair, fingers cool like the first touch of night.
"That's enough of that," Eri murmured.
The dream softened.
The scorched wood knitted itself back together. The blood faded, leaving only the scent of warm sugar and something faintly floral. The other Marisol dissolved, her whispers stretching into the dark like echoes lost in a canyon.
Marisol swayed, suddenly exhausted.
Her body felt light, her thoughts slipping through her grasp like mist.
Eri held her close.
"Sleep, little one," she whispered against her forehead. "Sweet dreams."
Marisol tried to speak—to ask if this was real, if this was really Eri.
But before the words could form, the last of the nightmare melted away.
And she drifted into something warmer. Softer.
Safer.
Detective Evelyn Holt sat at the evidence table, arms crossed, her gaze sharp as she studied Aiden. The precinct's fluorescent lighting buzzed above them, casting a pale glow over the photographs, case files, and forensic reports spread out like the remnants of a shattered puzzle. The air was thick with the weight of unanswered questions.
Aiden ran a hand over his face, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. It was pushing well into the early morning hours with no real sleep, and his body was beginning to feel it—his mind too sluggish, his thoughts looping, replaying the same details over and over.
And still, it wasn't enough.
"We need to go over it again," Aiden said, breaking the heavy silence.
Holt let out a slow, deliberate sigh. The kind meant to test his patience. "Aiden, we've been over it. Multiple times already."
"We are not stopping until we find actual proof."
"Aiden—"
"I'm not letting this slide. I know we missed something," he insisted, shaking off the exhaustion creeping into his voice.
Across the table, Aaron Gutierrez—one of the younger forensic analysts—rubbed his eyes, barely keeping up. "Man, I need at least another coffee before we start this again."
Shariff Sharma, on the other hand, looked annoyingly awake. He leaned forward, rifling through the case files, eyes sharp and focused despite the long hours.
"Actually, I wouldn't mind another pass through the scene," Shariff admitted, flipping a page and barely glancing up. "There's something odd about some of these inconsistencies. Maybe we're looking at this wrong."
Holt shot him an unimpressed look. "You're encouraging him?"
Shariff smirked. "Hey, if Aiden thinks we missed something, I say we check. Worst case? We waste time. Best case? We find something everyone else overlooked."
Aiden pointedly ignored Holt's glare. "Exactly."
"Or," Holt drawled, rubbing her temples, "we're running in circles because you won't accept the most likely scenario."
Aiden frowned, shifting in his seat. Something in Holt's tone set him off.
"What are you getting at?"
But Holt had had enough.
"Why are you so insistent it wasn't Marisol?" she asked, voice edged with something between exhaustion and suspicion. "You met her last night, Aiden. One night. And you're willing to bet everything on her innocence? Meanwhile, your best friend's family is dead, and instead of grieving them, you're here playing detective for a girl you barely know."
Aiden's fingers stilled over the photo. He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, before lifting his gaze to Holt.
"You don't get it," he said. "Blood doesn't make family, Holt. Garrison made the effort. He raised her. He loves her. That makes her family. And I refuse to stand here and pretend otherwise just to make the pieces fit."
Holt let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. "You know? What, because of a gut feeling? Because you want to believe she's innocent?" She leaned forward. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're compensating for something."
Aiden stilled. Just for a second.
Not enough for anyone else to notice. But Holt did.
Aiden clenched his jaw. His instinct was to shut it down, to push her words away, but… she wasn't entirely wrong, was she? There was something deeper than logic driving him, pulling him toward this case with the same force that had pulled him toward the Core.
But he wasn't about to let Holt shake him.
Before he could respond, a voice cut through the tension.
"I'm with you, Aiden," said Aaron. He adjusted his gloves as he flipped through the report in front of him. "I mean, I'm just a tech, but I don't buy it either. Something about this whole thing doesn't add up."
Shariff, nodded in agreement. "Yeah. I don't like making calls before all the pieces are laid out. I think you're getting a little carried away holt."
Holt sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Christ. Fine. Maybe I was out of line." She looked at Aiden. "But drinks on you after all of this is over."
Aiden gave a nod of gratitude before refocusing on the evidence.
They moved through the case files together, laying out what they knew, piecing together the final moments of the crime scene. Blood patterns. Positions of the bodies. The timeline of events. Holt took notes in shorthand, Aaron worked through their digital archives, and Shariff—despite his usual composure—fidgeted slightly when the conversation drifted toward his personal life.
"So, Shariff," Aaron said as he loaded new scans of the scene, "how's your wife holding up?"
Shariff exhaled, glancing down at the table. "We're getting by." He gave a small, tired smile. "With the pregnancy, it's been rough. The treatments aren't easy, and working about the unborn babies with the treatments … well, let's just say I'm sleeping less than usual."
Aaron offered a sympathetic nod. "Man, that's a lot on your plate."
"Yeah. But she's strong." Shariff's voice softened. "She always has been."
Aiden listened quietly, his fingers absently running over a crime scene photo. But something—something—kept nagging at him.
His eyes drifted over the images again, a sense of unease crawling up his spine.
The shadows in the photos.
They weren't right.
Aiden had seen things like this before. In the Otherworld, before the shadows moved, before they transformed—they had looked just like this.
His stomach knotted.
"Hey," he said suddenly, interrupting the conversation. "These shadows."
Aaron raised a brow. "What about them?"
Aiden hesitated. He couldn't exactly say, They look like the things that tried to kill me in the Otherworld. Instead, he kept it vague. "They don't look natural. Look at the way they bend around the edges of the room. Doesn't that seem off to you?"
Shariff squinted, then shrugged. "Could be digital artifacts. Camera glitches. We've seen weirder things happen in crime scene photos."
"Yeah," Aaron agreed. "It's probably just some lighting anomaly or distortion. Not uncommon with how these photos process."
Aiden stared at the images, unease digging its claws deeper.
No. It wasn't a glitch.
He knew what he was looking at.
Something was there.
Something was watching.
He had to get in that house.
"I need to take another look," Aiden said abruptly, pushing away from the table. "In person."
Holt frowned. "Aiden, there's no need. We've got everything we need right here."
"Obviously not," he shot back. "Because something about this crime scene isn't right."
Holt's jaw tightened. "You're asking me to break protocol."
"Yeah," Aiden said flatly. "I am."
She narrowed her eyes.
Then sighed.
"Fine. Do what you have to do. Just don't get caught."
Aiden nodded, already pulling out his phone before stepping out of the room.
He needed to call Garrison.
Because it was his house. His daughter.
And Aiden didn't give a damn about skirting the rules if it meant getting to the truth.
As he stepped away to make the call, a voice crackled over the precinct radio.
"Dispatch, we have a confirmed missing person—Sophie Miller—returned to Whittier PD. Over."
Aiden stretched, forcing his exhaustion down.
His grip on the phone tightened.
Praying that he was wrong about this one.