The world had lost its edges.
That was the only way Alex Monroe could explain it. The clear lines that separated dream from waking, memory from imagination, were blurring into one long smear. He hadn't slept properly in days. Coffee and bourbon did battle in his veins, keeping him wired, twitching, raw.
And always—always—the whispers.
Sometimes they came in Eli's voice. Sometimes in that deeper, hungrier tone. Sometimes just a chorus of murmurs that slithered at the edge of hearing. He would turn, certain someone stood behind him, but the room was empty, the shadows grinning where the light couldn't reach.
This morning was no different.
Alex sat in the precinct's locker room, staring into the cracked mirror above the sink. His reflection stared back, gaunter than he remembered, eyes bloodshot, the stubble on his jaw darker than usual. But there was something else. Something wrong.
His reflection wasn't moving right.
Alex lifted his hand slowly. The reflection was a half-second late.
His breath caught. He pressed his palm to the glass. The reflection smiled.
He stumbled back, slamming into a locker. When he blinked, the reflection was normal again—tired, hollow-eyed, nothing more.
The door swung open.
"Jesus, Monroe." Marcus Hale stood in the doorway, sneering. "You look like you wrestled with a bottle and lost."
Alex wiped his face quickly, gathering what composure he could. "What do you want, Hale?"
"Captain wants you in her office. And for what it's worth?" Hale smirked. "If I were you, I'd start thinking about early retirement. You're circling the drain, old man."
Alex brushed past him without answering.
---
Captain Evelyn Shaw didn't waste time on pleasantries. She sat behind her desk, a storm in her expression, fingers drumming on a thin folder.
"Sit," she said.
Alex obeyed, though his pulse was hammering again.
"I've been getting complaints," Shaw said. "Not just from Hale. From half the damn precinct. You've been erratic, distracted, snapping at people. And then there's the vandalism in your office."
Alex stiffened. "What vandalism?"
Shaw slid the folder across the desk. Inside were photographs of his desk, gouged with the words **WE SEE YOU**.
Alex's mouth went dry. "That wasn't me."
"Then who?" Shaw demanded. "We've checked the security footage. No one entered your office after hours. No one but you."
Alex's head throbbed. He remembered waking to those words carved into the wood, remembered the smell of scorched ash in the air. But how could he prove it wasn't his hand that did it?
"I'm not making this up," he said, voice hoarse. "There's something in Ravenwood. Something tied to the Turner fire. It's been happening for decades. Children missing in every blaze. The evidence is there, if you'd just—"
Shaw slammed her palm against the desk. "Enough, Monroe! You sound like a lunatic. Do you know how this looks? We can't afford another scandal in this department. If you can't pull yourself together, I'll have no choice but to put you on leave."
The room spun around him. He wanted to shout, to claw the truth into the walls if he had to. But Shaw's eyes—cold, pitying—cut through the fog. He swallowed hard, his throat burning.
"I'll handle it," he managed.
Shaw studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "For your sake, I hope that's true."
---
That night, Alex didn't go home. Couldn't. His apartment felt unsafe, the shadows too thick, the silence too loud. Instead, he found himself driving the deserted streets of Ravenwood, headlights carving narrow paths through the mist.
The town was asleep, windows dark, streets empty. But Alex felt eyes on him. Always eyes.
He pulled into the parking lot of the Turner ruins again, against all reason. The place drew him like a magnet, like gravity itself had shifted. He sat in the car for a long time, hands gripping the steering wheel, breath fogging the glass.
The whispers began softly.
*Alex… Alex…*
He slammed his fist against the dashboard. "Shut up!"
The whisper laughed.
Finally, he forced himself out of the car. The night air was damp, heavy, pressing against his skin. He walked toward the ruins, flashlight in hand, though his grip shook so badly the beam jittered across the rubble.
The basement door yawned like a mouth. He descended.
The air was colder than before, a chill that sank into his bones. The symbols on the walls seemed sharper now, carved deeper, their edges fresh as if etched moments ago. And in the center—where once the word *AWAKEN* had burned—there was a new phrase:
**HIS MIND IS FRACTURING.**
Alex's knees weakened. He staggered back, breath ragged.
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Eli again, pale and trembling, pointing at the wall.
"No," Alex whispered. "No more games."
He shone the flashlight directly at the boy. For a heartbeat, Eli's face was just that of a child—scared, fragile. Then it twisted, bones cracking, flesh sloughing away until only a charred skull grinned back at him.
The beam flickered. Died.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Something moved in the black. Something *big*.
The air trembled with a low growl.
Alex's heart thundered. He fumbled for matches—his last desperate light. The tiny flame flared, trembling in his hand. And in that fragile glow, he saw it.
A figure. Tall. Gaunt. Its limbs too long, bent at wrong angles. Its faceless head tilted, listening.
The match burned down. Scorched his fingers. He dropped it.
Darkness again.
The growl became words.
*Break, Detective. Break.*
---
Alex woke sprawled across the basement floor, throat raw, skin clammy with sweat. His flashlight was on, steady, though he had no memory of turning it back on. The wall was bare again—no words, no symbols.
Had any of it been real?
He stumbled out of the ruins, gasping for air, the night pressing against him. He drove without knowing where he was going, hands trembling, vision blurring.
When he finally stopped, he was at Ravenwood Cemetery.
The gates groaned as he pushed through. His flashlight beam cut across rows of gravestones, weathered and leaning. The fog thickened, curling like fingers around him.
He stopped at the Turner family plot. Four stones. Four names.
But Eli's stone was different. Smaller. Newer. The inscription read:
**Eli Turner, 1983–1993. Beloved Son. Lost, but not gone.**
The words sent a shiver down his spine. *Lost, but not gone.*
He crouched, brushing damp moss from the stone. His fingers lingered on the letters, cold and wet.
A sound broke the silence. Soft. Behind him.
A child's laugh.
Alex spun, flashlight jerking wildly. The beam cut across graves, trees, fog. Nothing.
Then—movement. A shadow darted between stones. Too fast.
He ran after it, lungs burning, flashlight bouncing. The laugh echoed, slipping away, drawing him deeper into the cemetery. His boot caught on uneven earth—he fell, flashlight tumbling. The beam rolled, casting twisted shadows.
When he looked up, he froze.
Dozens of children stood among the gravestones. Silent. Watching. Their faces pale, hollow, some scarred by fire, some skeletal. Their eyes were empty pits.
At their center—Eli.
"Why me?" Alex whispered again, voice breaking.
This time, Eli answered. His voice was soft, but it carried.
*Because you're already one of us.*
The children began to close in.
---
Alex woke screaming in his car, drenched in sweat, the cemetery gates looming in his headlights. His hands clutched the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were bloodless.
Had he dreamt it? Hallucinated it? Or had he crossed some line that couldn't be uncrossed?
His phone buzzed. Another unknown number.
He answered, voice shaking. "Who is this?"
The line hissed, then whispered:
*We're not in your head, Detective. You're in ours.*
The call ended.
Alex sat trembling in the driver's seat, his reflection in the rearview mirror watching him with a smile he wasn't making.