The door opened with a long, tired creak, hinges crying out after years of stillness.
Dust drifted from the top edge, glowing faintly in the light from the afternoon sunlight.
"Who would even call this the usual place?" Julian muttered as he stepped inside, his voice low but echoing off the cracked walls. His boots pressed into the film of dust covering the floor, leaving a trail behind him.
Sara followed, the soft sound of her steps close but careful.
Julian's gaze dropped to the faint boot marks scattered across the floor. They weren't old. The edges were still sharp, clear enough to tell someone had been here recently.
"Looks like the play isn't over for this place," he said, his tone somewhere between wary and amused.
Sara's eyes traced along the same line of prints. Halfway through, they changed—broken by wide streaks, a long mark where the dust was disturbed, like something heavy had been dragged.
Her voice came quiet but firm. "We should hurry."
Julian gave a light nod, more instinct than thought.
They began to move. Their shadows stretched and pulled across the walls as they passed the flickering lights. The sound of dripping water echoed from somewhere deep inside the building—slow, rhythmic.
Each drop hit the ground with a hollow tick that carried far longer than it should have.
Julian's pace slowed when they reached the middle of the hallway. The air was damp here, cooler. He tilted his head slightly, eyes wandering between the open doorways on either side. The doors hung crooked, half-off their hinges, one of them tapping lightly against the wall with every small push of air.
Then his gaze dropped again—to the floor. The dragging mark continued straight ahead, cutting a path through the dirt. He crouched for a second, brushing his finger along it. The dust was thin here, like it had been moved recently.
He turned to look back, about to call out, but Sara was already several steps ahead. Her flashlight beam darted across the corridor, scanning the path like a thread of white cutting through shadow.
Julian sighed, shaking his head. "Why's she in such a hurry?"
He knew the answer before the thought even finished.
"Guess I don't need to ask," he muttered, his voice fading as he started after her.
The hallway narrowed. Water dripped from a broken pipe above, one drop landing on his shoulder as he passed. He brushed it off absently, eyes fixed on the faint light ahead—Sara's beam disappearing into another doorway.
When he reached it, he slowed, leaning slightly against the doorframe.
"Let's see what he had prepared for us," he said, half to himself.
He stepped inside.
The room was colder. The air felt thicker, heavy with the staleness of years. Dust coated the floor in uneven patches. A faint smell of iron hung beneath the dampness.
And there—at the center of the room—was the thing that didn't belong.
A coffin.
Black. Wooden. Standing out against everything else like a shadow that refused to blend in.
Julian's steps softened as he walked closer. The beam from Sara's flashlight followed him, gliding over his shoulder and down to the coffin's surface. The wood was smooth, polished unnaturally clean compared to the decay around it.
He stopped just beside it, his movements slower now, deliberate. His eyes drifted left, catching Sara standing across from him—phone in one hand, light steady, the other hand pressed lightly against her thigh.
Behind them, near the door, Simon stood. Silent. Watching.
Julian glanced back at him. "You didn't look what's inside?"
Simon's hand slipped into his pocket. A soft click of metal against fabric. "No," he said.
Then added, quieter, "Didn't feel like it."
Julian gave a faint smirk. "Then don't stop me if I do."
He turned back. His fingertips brushed the coffin's lid—smooth, cold. He let them rest there for a second, feeling the weight behind the silence.
Then, slowly, he pushed.
The wood groaned as it shifted, scraping faintly against the sides before falling back with a dull thud. The sound echoed through the room like something hollow breaking open.
Julian's lips curved, just slightly.
He looked down into the darkness inside.
Pitch black.
But even in the dark, there was a presence—an outline faint enough to catch his breath for half a second.
Sara stepped closer from the opposite side, raising her phone. The screen glowed against her face, her thumb brushing over the flashlight icon.
Click.
The light burst on, cutting clean through the dark.
The beam slid across the open coffin—slowly, carefully—until it stopped.
And what it revealed pulled the air out of the room.
A man—dressed in white shirt and pants—still, motionless. His lips parted slightly, as if caught between words that never came. The skin around his mouth was tight, drawn in. His cheeks had sunk deep into the hollows of his skull, pulling the face into something almost skeletal.
His eyes were open. Wide and empty. The pale glassy film over them reflected the weak light, turning them lifeless and grey. The rest of him looked drained—like something had pulled everything from inside, leaving only a shell behind. The skin clung to the bones, dry and thin, stretched until every rib, every joint, every angle showed clear beneath.
The clothes hung loosely on him, white turned yellowed from dust, wrinkled, sticking close to the contours of his dead frame. His arms lay flat beside his body, fingers curled slightly inward, nails dark. There was no sign of struggle. No visible wounds. No sign of decay either—just that strange, unnatural dryness.
Julian's gloved hand pressed against the side of the man's neck, just under the jaw. The skin felt rough, almost papery.
He held it there for a second. Then another.
Nothing.
Finally, in a low voice, he murmured,
"Not cold enough."
"Raul Vasquez…" Sara muttered under her breath.
The name rolled off her tongue like something half-familiar, half-distant. She stepped back a little, letting her breath steady. For a moment, relief softened her face. The tension in her shoulders loosened. At least now the name had a body. Something real.
Julian didn't move. His eyes stayed on the corpse longer than they should have.
He had seen death before—enough times to recognize its different shapes—but this one still crawled under his skin.
He closed his eyes for a brief second, trying to block the image out, but instead of darkness, another face flashed before him. Someone he'd rather not remember.
When he opened his eyes again, the sight hadn't changed.
The body inside the coffin looked drained of life—literally. The skin was paper-thin, clinging to bone. The lips hung slightly parted, eyes wide open and dry, staring at nothing. Every muscle, every hint of color, gone.
If not for the faint human outline, he would've thought it was a wax figure left too close to a flame.
Like a vampire's mirror image, he thought. Not one that feeds, but one that's been fed on.
Someone—or something—had sucked the man dry.
Julian exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp.
He straightened, running a hand down his face before finally turning away from the coffin.
"So this is where all the paint came from," he said quietly. "To make the bloody canvas."
Sara's eyes followed the same trail of thought. Her voice came out softer, almost as if speaking too loud might wake the dead thing.
"Looks like it."
Simon, who had been standing behind them, finally spoke. His voice cut clean through the air.
"Let's move out first."
Julian nodded, and together they stepped away from the coffin. Their footsteps echoed, mixing with the faint drip of water still leaking somewhere deeper in the clinic.
Dust rose with every step, swirling faintly in the beam of light slipping through the half-open door.
Julian hesitated once at the threshold.
He glanced back.
The coffin sat there in the center of the room, perfectly still. The light from Sara's phone dimmed, leaving the face inside half-hidden in shadow.
For a second, it almost looked like the corpse was watching them leave.
"I really thought Rechel was inside," Julian muttered as they reached the hallway.
Sara's voice came low, almost to herself. "I thought it was empty. But guess…" she trailed off, eyes narrowing. "She was saved for the next."
Julian gave a short breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Don't make your decision so early," he said. "Who knows? She might be the one behind this."
He quickened his pace, boots clicking lightly against the marble until he was beside Simon.
"You also think Rechel's gonna be next?" he asked, his tone half-serious, half-testing.
Simon didn't answer right away.
He stopped just short of the doorway, pulling his pocket watch from inside his coat. The metal glinted faintly in the dim light.
The hands had stopped.
He stared at it for a moment. It wasn't broken before—he was sure of that. The ticking had stopped the moment he opened that coffin.
He slid it back into his pocket, and stepped out into the open.
The sunlight hit him full across the face. It was bright and warm, the complete opposite of what they'd just left behind. The sudden contrast made the world feel sharper, too real.
Sara and Julian followed him out.
The door creaked shut behind them, muting the sound of the dripping water inside. The silence that followed was cleaner, but heavier.
Simon looked down the empty street ahead, the wind brushing the edge of his coat.
His tone was quiet, thoughtful—too calm for what he'd just seen.
"Someone," he said, "needs to tell the ghost story."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Julian and Sara exchanged a look, but neither spoke.
Behind them, the clinic stood silent—its windows black and its secrets sealed tight again.
Julian shoved his hands into his pockets and kicked at a stone, watching it skip twice before landing in the ditch. "Still, even if we think that way," he said, glancing at Sara, "we're just moving in circles."
Sara's eyes followed the road ahead, then flicked toward him. "Yeah. Like he's standing at the end of a stage, waving us closer. Everything we've found so far… already placed there. Like props."
Julian smirked faintly. "I'm telling you, I hate this kind of case," he said, half amused. "But that's the beauty of it, isn't it? When I find him. It'll be game over."
Sara brushed the dirt from her coat sleeve. "Keep that flame burning. We've still got a long way to go."
Simon had stopped by the car, the sun glazing his shoulders in pale gold. He spoke without turning around. "I'll inform the Vinchis about this. They deserve to know."
His reflection lingered faintly in the car window—expression blank, unreadable.
Sara's tone softened. "Yeah. I don't know if Martha will be able to take all of this."
Simon opened the door. "Call the clean-up crew. They'll take care of the rest," he said flatly. "And you two—get some rest. He'll show himself soon enough."
Julian, half-distracted by his phone, froze mid-scroll. "What?"
Simon didn't answer. The car engine turned over with a low growl, then slowly faded into the distance.
Julian blinked after him, adjusting his hair. "That's supposed to mean something?"
Sara moved to the passenger side, her boots crunching on gravel. "Maybe he knows something we don't."
Julian gave a dry laugh. "And he didn't think we deserve to know it too, huh?"
"Maybe," she said, leaning on the car door. "Or maybe he wants us to find something on our own."
Julian hummed. "Something on our own, huh…" He looked down, half talking to himself. "Boyfriend's dead. So the guy living with Rechel might not be Raul. Could be someone else entirely. But who? Someone we already know?"
Sara frowned faintly. "I'd rather not believe that."
"Yeah," Julian said. "But the way this whole thing's staged… feels like he's one of us. Or someone who knows exactly how we move. Every clue, every setup—it's like he's planned this for months."
Sara nodded, the words crawling under her skin. "I hate to admit it, but yeah. He knew about Rechel's connection to Martha. About the Vinchis. About everything. The body in that coffin wasn't even a week old. We missed him again. Just by inches."
She crossed her arms, shivering slightly though the air was still. "I don't like stalkers."
Julian chuckled, hands in his pockets. "Me neither. But if it's Rechel, I might let it slide."
Sara gave him a sideways glare. "You're saying the man living in her apartment doesn't exist?"
"Could be," Julian said. "When you think about it—everything ties back to her. She's like the sun, and everything else is just orbiting around her."
Sara leaned her head against the car window. "Yeah, but that nurse. She said she saw someone the day Rechel fainted. Someone who came to pick her up."
"That could be anyone. Doesn't mean he's the killer."
Sara smiled faintly. "You really want that man gone, huh?"
"Damn right."
Sara tapped her chin. "What if Rechel and Raul planned this together? Then she realized it was wrong and tried to confess. Raul didn't let her, things got out of hand, and then…"
"Accidentally, she killed him," Julian said, finishing for her.
Sara sighed. "Sounds absurdly wrong, right?"
"Yep." Julian smirked. "Raul was already caught in her web. She drained him like a vampire, then poured what was left into Varga's body—with a little bit of Hector's."
Sara frowned. "Why Hector's?"
"Framing," Julian said simply. "Without Hector, we'd still be chasing Raul in circles."
Sara leaned on the car roof, her voice dropping. "Still… from what we know of Rechel, she doesn't seem like the one pulling the strings. She's dancing to someone else's tune."
Julian looked at her, grin returning. "Like us?"
Sara shot him a look. "Don't get cute."
He laughed quietly.
Sara sighed. "I'm getting bored. Did you find anything yet?"
"Not yet. Keep talking."
"You think you can order me?"
Julian raised his hands. "No, no, I'm sorry, ma'am. But please—keep talking. I swear I'll find something."
"I don't feel like talking."
"C'mon, I know you've got more to say."
Sara smiled faintly. "What do you know about a woman's heart anyway?"
Julian leaned on the door, smirking. "Oh, I know plenty."
She laughed once under her breath. "You do, huh?"
"Wait—wait. I think I've got it," he said suddenly. His eyes brightened. "Maybe."
"Spill it, then."
He tapped his chin, pacing. "Think about it. What if Rechel was into Martha? Then after she found out about the fights with her family over Raul, she used that as her opening? Perfect setup for a love triangle, don't you think?"
Sara blinked, then snorted softly. "Yeah. Definitely sounds like it."
"But?" Julian pressed.
"But I wouldn't go that far," she said, brushing her hair behind her ear. "If I were in that place… I'd just let it die. Bury it quietly. Not turn it into some twisted fairy tale."
"So you're saying…?"
"I'm saying there's a pattern," she said. Her voice lowered, thoughtful. "Like a hidden message. It's pushing us to find it. I don't know if it's Rechel or someone else… but it's there."
Julian tilted his head. "A message, huh. Varga, Hector, Raul… No, wait—first Hector. Then Varga. Then Raul." His lips curved into a grin. "Damn. When you think about it, it does sound like a ghost story."
Sara looked up. "I'm listening."
"Hector dies in an accident," Julian said, his tone darkening slightly. "But his spirit doesn't rest. He haunts the city, killing whoever led to his death. Then Varga—connected somehow, we don't know yet. And Raul… he's the latest chapter. Only a ghost could pull strings like this."
Sara folded her arms, the wind brushing her coat. "Scary enough. But we can't catch something that doesn't exist."
Julian's grin widened. "Who said ghosts don't exist?"
Sara looked sideways at him. "You ever seen one?"
"Not yet," he said, his tone easy, almost playful. "But our ghost definitely exists. Just wait. I'll catch him."
Sara shook her head, a small smile escaping. "Just hope he appears right in front of you when he does."
Julian turned to the road, the sunset bleeding red over the horizon. "If he does," he said quietly, "I'll be ready."
The wind brushed past them, carrying the faint scent of rust and dust from the clinic behind. The shadows grew longer, stretching over the hood of the car as they got in.
The engine hummed to life.