The night air hung thick with mist—the kind that clung to your skin and made the world feel thinner, like it might tear open at any moment.
Isabelle sat rigid on the narrow bench outside the precinct, her hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of stale coffee she hadn't touched. Every nerve in her body thrummed with the weight of what she'd seen inside the masquerade club: the rituals, the silent, masked performers, and the whispered name from a face she hadn't seen in months—Vivienne.
The clock tower across the street struck midnight in slow, dragging chimes. Isabelle flinched.
Footsteps echoed from the precinct's entrance—measured, deliberate. She looked up. Luc Lefevre emerged from the mist, his trench coat soaked at the hem. His face was taut with fatigue, worry etched into the lines around his mouth.
"You said you saw her," he said, without preamble, dropping onto the bench beside her.
"I did," Isabelle whispered. "Vivienne. She was there. She... she whispered my name. Then vanished behind a mirror."
Luc sat in silence, absorbing the words. Then, a slow exhale, almost a growl.
"She's alive," he murmured. "At least she was—hours ago."
Isabelle nodded, but the motion felt hollow. Nothing about this felt alive. Or safe.
Luc rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. "Whoever's behind this isn't just playing games. They're executing a plan. Long-term. Strategic. Ten steps ahead."
He glanced at her, eyes sharp beneath the dim streetlight.
"They want you to chase them. To see what they want you to see. And miss everything else."
The words landed like stone in her gut. She hugged herself tighter.
"I keep thinking I'm close," she said, voice barely audible. "But every lead turns to smoke."
Luc leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "They're building something," he said. "A narrative. A... story."
"A story?" she echoed.
He nodded, grim. "Everything's too choreographed. They're weaving scenes, planting clues. Everyone caught in it—you, me, Vivienne—we're just characters being moved into place."
Isabelle shivered. She thought of the rituals, the feathered masks, the eerie silence of the performers. The invitation. The list she wasn't supposed to find.
It all fit too well.
"So what do we do?" she asked, voice cracking.
Luc stared across the street at rows of shuttered shops. "We don't run blind. We don't move unless we know why we're moving."
"And Vivienne?"
His jaw tightened. "We find her. But we don't walk into their traps."
The bench creaked as Isabelle shifted. "And if it's already too late?"
Luc didn't answer.
The mist thickened, swallowing the streetlight in a dull haze.
A few blocks away, Luc's temporary apartment loomed small and cluttered. He insisted Isabelle stay the night—it was too dangerous to be alone. She agreed, dread pooling deep in her gut.
Inside, chaos. Maps, photos, papers pinned across every wall. Red string traced names and places like a web spun by obsession.
Isabelle stood in the center of it, heart thudding hollow against her ribs. The rhythm of fear.
Luc disappeared into the kitchen. "Coffee," he called. "Real this time."
She wandered. A bulletin board drew her in—flyers of missing women, all masked in their last known appearances. And in the center: Vivienne, smiling, her hand caught mid-wave.
Isabelle reached out, fingers brushing the photo's edge.
"Don't worry," she whispered. "I'm coming."
Outside, tires hissed on wet asphalt.
Then—her phone buzzed violently in her pocket.
Unknown number.
Her heart stuttered. She hesitated, then answered.
Static.
Then—a ragged voice, sharp and brittle, sliced through.
"You should have left her buried."
The line went dead.
Isabelle stood frozen, the phone shaking in her hand.
Luc reappeared in the doorway, mugs in hand. He saw her face and set them down hard.
"What happened?"
She opened her mouth, but before words came, a ping sounded from his laptop.
They turned together.
A news alert blinked on-screen: blood-red text on stark white.
Breaking: New Victim Missing — Private Investigator Luc Lefevre Named in Disappearance
Isabelle's mouth went dry.
Luc crossed the room in two strides. He clicked the link. A grainy surveillance video played—an alley near the masquerade club, timestamped less than an hour ago.
A woman stumbled into view, frantic. Moments later, a man followed—broad-shouldered, coat flapping.
Luc.
Or someone wearing his face.
The woman screamed. The video cut to black.
Below it, a headline: Authorities seek Lefevre for questioning.
Luc stared at the screen, jaw clenched.
"They're framing you," Isabelle said hoarsely.
"Of course they are." His voice was cold steel now. "They're trying to isolate us."
"But—"
"Listen." His eyes locked onto hers. "Don't trust what you see. Only trust what you know. And right now, we know one thing—they're escalating."
A siren wailed in the distance.
Luc grabbed his coat.
"We have to move."
"Where?"
"Somewhere they can't follow."
She nodded, fear pounding in her chest.
Another message blinked onto Luc's screen—a photo.
An alley. A body sprawled. A shattered porcelain mask beside her head.
Isabelle recognized the coat, the blonde hair.
The woman who vanished tonight.
Luc's face went ashen.
He zoomed in.
Four chalk-smeared words, scrawled across the pavement:
Next, the hunter falls.
To be continued...