They say the first case always leaves a mark.
Ours came not from a stranger… but from family.
Her name was Vixen—and she was Max's younger sister.
She arrived just past sunrise, shoulders slumped under the weight of something invisible.
Her voice trembled with exhaustion, and the bruised hollows under her eyes told us the rest.
"You look like you haven't slept in days," I said.
"I haven't," she whispered. "Taking care of Fox… it's not just exhausting—it's something else. It's like… the room watches me."
Annie handed her a slice of rose cake. "Eat. Even fear needs strength to survive."
Vixen nodded, but her hands shook as she took the plate. Her frame was too thin. Her eyes, unfocused.
Something had drained her from the inside out.
And whatever it was… it wasn't just her husband.
⸻
When we arrived at the hospital, Annie and Am didn't waste time.
They walked straight into Room 306, where Fox lay motionless on the bed.
The air around him was… wrong.
Thick. Cold. Hungry.
They didn't speak. Just sniffed the space around him—like wolves testing the wind for rot.
Then Am gave a small nod. Annie tilted her head in return.
They turned to me.
"Out. Now."
We regrouped in the hospital cafeteria, the one with flickering lights and chipped white walls.
No one else was there—just old metal chairs and a hum that didn't come from any machine I could name.
"This isn't just a haunting," Annie finally said, her voice low. "This is a possession anchored by memory."
"And guilt," Am added. "Soaked into the sheets. Into her."
Vixen sat across from us, her eyes fixed on nothing.
She hadn't touched the cake.
This would take more than salt.
More than fire.
This would take us.
The cafeteria was too quiet—
So quiet that the ticking clock on the wall began to feel alive, tapping out the rhythm of a slow, deliberate death.
Vixen said nothing.
She just stared into the empty air as if something there might speak first.
Her fingers still clutched the rose cake Annie had given her, untouched.
Annie reached into her coat and pulled out a thin envelope.
Inside was a sheet of pale parchment inked in black—an ancient Arabic dialect that shimmered faintly under the fluorescent light.
"The Thirteenth Clause"
He who holds the heart of a witch must not gift that heart to another.
If the vow is broken—the soul shall not sleep, and the heart shall be bound forever.
Am's voice broke the silence. "He went to Syria… two years ago, didn't he?"
"…Yes," Vixen answered, barely a whisper. "He told me once. Said he got stranded in a ruined village in the desert…
There was a woman.
Her name was Lilia.
But he said it was just a story. A dream…"
"It wasn't a dream," Annie said softly. "Lilia is a witch—
From the Forbidden Desert of the Thirteenth Line.
A land that doesn't exist on any map you know.
And your husband… has already given her something."
"What?" Vixen's voice cracked.
Annie met her gaze.
"His heart."
⸻
Vixen lowered her eyes.
A tear fell onto the old wooden table—quiet, sharp, honest.
"He didn't mean to. He was just trying to survive out there.
He said… she was the only one who helped him.
But ever since he came back… everything changed.
He calls her name every morning at 6:06.
He sleepwalks. Vanishes from the room.
He's no longer… Fox."
Am reached into his satchel and retrieved a polished stone—black as void, cold to the touch.
"Obsidian," he muttered. "This stone was whole when I arrived. But now…"
He turned it in the light.
A thin crack shimmered across the surface.
"It fractures every time she draws near.
Tonight… it may shatter."
⸻
"Can you save him?"
Her voice was barely more than breath.
Annie didn't answer immediately.
She turned toward the cafeteria window.
Moonlight spilled across the glass, casting reflections over the polished surface.
And there it was—the second silhouette.
Behind Vixen's pale figure stood another…
A woman with hair down to her waist, pitch-black eyes, and a smile that did not belong in this world.
Annie rose to her feet instantly.
"We'll stay here tonight," she said.
"And at three a.m., no matter what she says—no matter who she looks like—do not open that door.
Don't believe her.
Don't let her in.
Not even if she calls herself… you."