The studio lights weren't just bright tonight; they were surgical. They cut into Aubrey Wynter's eyes, peeling back the layers of her composure until every nerve ending was exposed and screaming. She sat behind the anchor desk, her posture a textbook picture of calm, but beneath the polished surface, a war was being fought. Her hands, folded over her untouched notes, trembled with a faint, persistent rattle against the glass. The teleprompter's script rolled on, a river of calm, measured words she was supposed to navigate, but her body was a vessel taking on water.
A familiar, restless drumbeat thudded against her ribs—the same one that had taken up residence the night the police lights had painted her living room walls blue. She focused on the green glow of the prompter, clinging to the rhythm of the broadcast.
Then, in the middle of a sentence about infrastructure and relief funds, her voice betrayed her.
"—officials confirm the funds will be redirected toward in… instra–structural reco—"
The word shattered in her mouth. It stumbled out, misshapen, sharp. A cold fist of panic seized her throat. The prompter didn't pause; it scrolled on, merciless. She forced a smile, felt it crack at the corners, swallowed the metallic taste of fear, and hauled her voice back from the brink. She finished the segment, the mask perfectly reset by the final note of the outro.
But inside, something had snapped.
The red camera light died. The artificial, post-broadcast hum of approval from the control room felt like a mockery. As she gathered her papers, the normal sounds of the studio—the rustle of scripts, the clicking of equipment—were drowned out by something else.
Whispers. They slithered through the air, sharp and clear.
"…so tragic about her mother, but God, can you imagine? Forced to watch…"
"…don't know how she even comes in here. I'd be a ghost."
Aubrey's spine went rigid. Her eyes, dry and aching from the lights, snapped toward the source.
By the makeup mirrors, two of the newer, younger anchors—a brunette named Janet with a perpetually arched brow and her freckled counterpart—were huddled. Their conversation wasn't hushed pity; it was lurid curiosity.
Janet's voice, deliberately loud, cut through the room. "Maybe the killer saw right through the screen. Smelled the performance. Got sick of the perfect, smiling mask every night and decided to rip it off himself."
A nervous titter from a sound tech followed.
The words didn't just hurt Aubrey; they unlocked a cage. Every suppressed tremor, every night of screaming silence, every ounce of grief she'd tried to bury under work and lipstick erupted into a white-hot fury. She turned slowly. The air in the studio seemed to still.
"Say that again."
Her voice was low, but it carried like a gunshot in the sudden quiet.
Janet blinked, feigning surprise for a nanosecond before the smirk returned, emboldened. "I said maybe you were never really fit for the chair, Aubrey. Everyone knows it."
Aubrey didn't think. Her body moved on a primal wire. Three strides closed the distance. Her hand fisted in Janet's sleek hair, yanking her back with a force that shocked even her. A sharp cry ripped from Janet's throat, followed by a chorus of gasps. Then hands were everywhere—nails scraping at Aubrey's wrist, tangling in her own blond waves, shoving, stumbling. They became a chaotic, snarling knot of blazers and flying hair, crashing against the edge of the news desk. The sound was raw, animalistic.
"AUBREY! JANET! ENOUGH!"
The command was a steel door slamming down. Clara Mendez, the station director, was suddenly between them, her silver-streaked hair taut in its bun, her eyes blazing. She pried them apart with a strength that belied her frame.
Aubrey staggered back, her breath heaving, scalp burning, the taste of copper in her mouth. Janet, already rearranging her face into wounded indignation, was swiftly escorted out by a producer under Clara's withering glare.
"Everyone else—out. Now," Clara ordered, and the studio emptied in a rustle of awkward silence.
When the heavy door clicked shut, leaving only the hum of dormant electronics, Clara turned to Aubrey. The anger in her eyes had banked, replaced by a deep, weary concern.
"My office," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument.
---
Clara's Office
The office was a sanctuary of quiet order, a stark contrast to the chaos of the studio. The door shut with a soft, final thud. City lights twinkled distantly through the floor-to-ceiling window, indifferent.
"Sit, Aubrey."
Aubrey sank into the leather chair, feeling every muscle protest. The physical sting from the fight was nothing compared to the hot wave of shame now crashing over her. She'd become a spectacle, the very thing she'd spent a career avoiding.
Clara took her seat, steepling her fingers. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
"You have a gift," Clara began, her voice softer now. "A real one. It's not just the voice or the face; it's the connection. I fought to put you in that chair because when you're truly present, you make people feel seen. That is rare."
Aubrey's throat constricted. Praise felt like a knife twist.
"But you are not present," Clara continued, leaning forward. "You are breaking apart on live television, and now, in my studio. You cannot outrun this, Aubrey. You cannot broadcast through it. Grief isn't a segment you can edit. If you don't face it, it will destroy you, and it will take your career, your dignity, everything with it."
Tears, hot and unbidden, spilled down Aubrey's cheeks. The professional dam broke, and the raw, scared girl beneath surfaced. "I thought… if I just kept going. If I just did the job, smiled through it… the noise in my head would stop."
"It doesn't work that way," Clara said, her own eyes glistening. "Take a leave of absence. As long as you need. And for God's sake, talk to someone. A professional. You don't have to carry this alone."
The kindness was a salve and a shock. Aubrey had expected suspension, termination, fury. Not this maternal grace. She gripped the edge of the desk, nodding, unable to form words around the sob in her throat.
"Thank you," she finally whispered, the words ragged.
Clara offered a small, sad smile. "Heal. Not for the cameras. For you."
Aubrey stood on unsteady legs, the weight of the reprieve already mixing with a darker, restless energy. She gave Clara's hand a final, grateful squeeze before turning to leave.
---
As she moved from the quiet office into the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway, the shift was jarning. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing away the compassion. Here, in the empty corridor, the other feelings rushed in to fill the vacuum.
Her hands, which had just been clasped in gratitude, slowly curled in on themselves. Fingernails—manicured, polished for the camera—dug into her own palms with a pressure that turned her knuckles white. The faint tremor from earlier was gone, replaced by a tense, vibrating stillness. She leaned back against the cool surface of Clara's office door, her shoulders slumping as if the bones had suddenly dissolved. The poised anchor posture was gone; in its place was the weary slump of someone who had just used the last of their strength.
Why?
The question was a drumbeat in her skull, syncing with the pounding in her chest.
Why didn't she save her?
The face of the woman from that moment in the past when she had rescued her and Marlene , their supposed "protector"—flashed in her mind. The woman who had promised a scared little girl, "I'll always look out for you and your mom."
Where were you? The thought was a silent scream. You were supposed to protect her. You promised. While that psychopath made her watch… where was her guardian angel? Where was the legendary Sergeant Thorne then?
A fresh, more vicious pain lanced through her, sharper than any shame from the fight. It was the agony of a betrayed child. Her brow furrowed, not in anger now, but in a profound, helpless sadness that etched lines between her eyes. The tears that had been of gratitude a moment ago now burned with a bitter, orphaned rage.
She pushed herself off the door, the movement heavy. With her fists still clenched, her jaw so tight a muscle flickered, she walked down the long hallway. The click of her heels echoed like a countdown in the empty space. She wasn't just leaving the studio for the night; she was walking away from the last semblance of control she thought she had.
---
Crime Scene: Malhotra Horology
Across the city, in the rain-slicked heart of the elite Crestwood district, another scene of chaos was under a different kind of light.
Floodlights bleached the night, turning the boutique's splintered façade into a stage. MALHOTRA HOROLOGY glimmered in fractured gold script across the shattered door. Inside, the air was cold and carried the astringent scent of bleach underneath the coppery hint of blood.
Detective Caleb Saye ducked under the yellow tape, his partner, Nia Halloway, a steady presence beside him. The scene was a study in violated order. Glass shards had been meticulously swept into gleaming piles. A dark, Rorschach-like stain on the Italian marble was outlined in neat, white chalk. But the centerpiece—the body—was absent.
"Victim is Karan Mehra," Nia said, her voice low and factual, consulting her tablet. "Owner. Sold six-figure watches to the city's untouchables. A ghost with a very exclusive client list."
She handed Caleb a folder. The crime scene photos inside were not just violent; they were theatrical, cruel. Karan Mehra, posed. Duct tape sealing a silent scream. Nails—actual iron nails—driven through his palms. And his eyes… forced wide open, frozen in a terminal shock.
Caleb's gut tightened. "This is a message. But from who? How does this tie to Azaqor?"
Before Nia could theorize, a voice called from near the chalk outline. Owen Kessler, the forensic analyst, was kneeling, his attention locked on the floor. "Detectives. You need to see this."
They approached. Owen ran a gloved finger along a nearly invisible seam in the marble. With careful pressure, he lifted a thin, cleverly disguised floor panel from within the chalk outline. Dust motes danced in the light, settling to reveal what was carved beneath.
The hum of the generators outside seemed to fade.
The symbol wasn't just drawn; it was violated into the stone. A jagged triangle, its lines uneven, desperate, as if carved by a claw. Inside, three crude, teardrop-shaped eyes wept downward. At its center, an inverted spiral seemed to suck the light into its vortex. But the most chilling element was the handprint smeared around and over it—too large, the fingers too long and distorted, sporting six distinct points of pressure where fingers had dug in. The medium was a mix of graphite and something darker, something that had seeped from the victim.
And scrawled across it, in a frantic, slashing script, was a riddle:
One head barks for justice, the other two feast on gold.
The master of this hound thinks his hands are clean.
But the third head, it bites the hand that feeds it.
You will find the truth where the beast's chain is anchored.
Flash from a crime scene photographer's camera illuminated the tableau in a stark, white burst, making the symbol seem to pulse. A uniformed officer nearby made a quick, warding sign over his chest.
Nia crouched, her analytical mind already picking the verse apart. "Three heads… a hound. Cerberus? A three-headed dog. Justice, greed… and a betrayer."
Caleb, however, didn't move. He stood frozen, his face as pale as the marble under the lights. His hands, usually restless, were clenched into fists at his sides, the knuckles standing out like bare bone. The symbol, the verse—it wasn't just another clue. It was a key turning in a lock he'd buried deep.
Owen Kessler glanced up from his position on the floor. His gaze landed on Caleb's stricken face. For a fleeting instant—so fast it could have been a trick of the shuddering lights—a smirk touched the corners of his mouth. It wasn't collegial or sympathetic. It was a flash of cold recognition, of contemptuous amusement, as if he'd been waiting for Caleb to see this and was satisfied by the horror he saw. Then, he looked back down at the carving, his face a mask of professional detachment once more.
Aubrey wasn't there to witness that silent exchange. She was miles away, walking into the lonely night, her own chain of grief anchoring her to a past she couldn't escape.
But if she had been, she would have recognized the look on Caleb Saye face. It was the same one she saw in her own mirror every morning: the look of someone being hunted by a ghost they thought was gone.