Ren Ashvale was not just a therapist.
He was a brand. A name. A face that appeared on social media feeds with soft background music and hard truths.
A licensed psychotherapist with a doctorate in Psychology and an online following that had grown over a million before he turned 30.
He had built a clinic from the ground up at 29, rejected venture capital, eschewed influencer agencies, and kept an unfiltered practice.
His patients adored him. His fans adored him. His critics called him deceitful. Ren did not care.
His job was not to be well liked. It was to make people feel listened to, if only in fifty minute increments.
He was excelling at it.
For behind the charisma, the set lighting, and the dry one-liners was a person who had once fought his way back from the brink.
But that side, nobody got to witness.
His clinic was above a flower shop in the center of Central 12th. The front office had the scent of flower and burned coffee, depending on the hour. He had three rooms therapy, break, admin and a hallway he'd committed to memory down to the squeak of his own footsteps on the floorboards.
The hallway was too quiet that morning.
It was his birthday.
He arrived at 7:15. The office was already open.
Callie.
She'd left a box of cupcakes on his desk with a note:
"Happy Birthday, Doctor Ashvale. Ignore the calories."
With it, a small balloon clipped down.
Ren smiled to himself and shook his head.
Callie was asleep in the breakroom. He didn't wake her.
She'd been up all night doing a short film project editing. He just left her alone, as usual.
At 8:30, he brewed a fresh pot of coffee. At 9:00, he reviewed his notes.
At 9:17, he heard footsteps outside the office door in the hallway.
Martha Wynn.
Early.
Again.
Ren opened the door before she could knock.
"Martha. Morning."
She moved in slowly, a little off-balance.
"Having trouble finding us today?" he said, blocking the doorway.
She shook her head. Her eyes weren't on him.
They were focused somewhere behind him slightly higher, as if she was tracking something over his shoulder.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I didn't sleep," she said.
"Come in. We'll sit."
She followed him to the therapy room. Her steps were even, but a little too careful like the ground might betray her.
Inside, Ren settled into his chair. Martha took the couch.
He studied her posture upright, hands folded tightly in her lap, shoulders tucked. Her expression was neutral. Alert. Eyes dilated.
"Still hearing the sounds?" he asked.
She nodded.
Ren picked up his notepad. "Tell me what happened."
"She started knocking," Martha said softly. "Not in the walls anymore. In my mirror."
Ren paused. "What do you mean?"
"She's behind me. But only when I'm not looking."
He jotted something down but kept going in a conversational manner. "Can you describe her again?"
Martha's mouth curved in a twist. "Thin. Wrong. Like a person drawn by somebody who's never seen one. Her head bends too far. Her eyes don't blink."
Ren didn't flinch. He'd heard worse.
"And this started when?"
"Three nights ago. But she's been watching longer than that."
He rocked back slightly. "Have you told anyone else about her?"
"No. No one would believe me. But you" she smiled feebly, "you always listen."
Ren shrugged. "That's the job, Martha."
"You believe me, don't you?"
I believe you're seeing her. And I believe that it's important. Not because it's real or not real but because it's real to you."
Martha blinked, then made a slight hum. "Clever words."
"Words are my weapon of choice," he said, permitting a slight smile to appear.
She did not return the smile.
Ren studied her more closely. She wasn't tense. She wasn't sweating.
There were no signs of immediate distress no pacing, no hand-rubbing, no hyperventilation.
But something was… off. Her gaze never settled. It flitted between the ceiling corners, the window, the edges of his desk.
"She said the world is thinning," Martha whispered suddenly. "She said we're all going to slip through the cracks."
Ren's brows lifted. "Did she say when?"
"No. But she said fire is the first sign. Fire opens the veil."
Ren nodded slowly. "Do you feel unsafe?"
She turned to him for the first time since she entered.
"No," she said. "I feel chosen."
That sent a shiver down his spine.
Ren changed position, crossing one leg over the other in a relaxed gesture.
"Has she asked you to do anything?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"She said I have to make a doorway."
Ren tapped the page with his pen. "A doorway to what?"
"She said pain is the key. And that I would know when the time came."
Ren frowned. "Alright. I have to take a break for a minute."
Martha's eyes scrunched up, confused.
I'm here," he said gently, "but I need to make a professional judgment call. I think you're getting into some areas that I may not be able to help you through safely by myself."
Martha's mouth opened.
"I'm going to refer you to a friend of my he is a professional in psychiatric consult," he continued.
"It doesn't mean I won't still see you. But I want to make sure you're adequately covered, okay?"
There was a long silence.
Then Martha laughed.
A low, gentle, horribly incorrect laugh. The kind that didn't move her shoulders or make it to her eyes.
The kind that was given when someone had told a joke and she was only pretending to hear it.
"I thought you were different," she said.
"I am," Ren said softly. "But I still have to keep you alive."
"I don't want to die."
"I'm not saying you do."
"I have to open something," she whispered. "So others can come through."
Ren laid the pen down slowly. "Others?"
"She showed me her face last night. But it wasn't hers. It was someone I knew. Someone who isn't supposed to be here anymore."
"Who?"
"My husband."
He froze.
"She wore his face, but the eyes were wrong. He never looked at me like that. Not even in the end."
Ren's voice was steady. "Martha, can I ask you a serious question?"
She nodded.
"Is there anything in your bag today that might hurt you or someone else?"
There was a pause again.
Her hand moved a fraction toward the large leather handbag on the floor near her feet.
Ren's voice dropped an octave. "Martha. Look at me."
She did.
"I need you to tell the truth. Right now."
She glared.
"I'm not angry. I'm not panicking. I just need to know what you've brought with you."
Her hand trembled.
"I didn't want to do it here," she said. "But she said the veil is thin today. She said this room was chosen."
Ren slowly stood up. "Martha, step away from the bag."
But she was already leaning forward.
He walked towards her. "Don't do this."
Her hand pulled something out of the purse.
A glass bottle.
Cloth on top. Liquid inside.
His blood ran cold.
"Martha," he said gently, "don't."
"She told me I had to burn it open," she said. "The gate."
"Don't do this here. Not to me. Not to yourself."
"She promised I'd see him again."
She reached for a lighter.
Ren moved.
"CALLIE! GET OUT!"
The bottle soared.
He brought down her arm, but the flame had already touched the cloth.
It burst into flames against the curtains.
Ren staggered from the door, coughing so hard his ribs hurt as if they'd shatter.
His lungs complained with each breath, but the smoke made breathing a lottery.
He blinked frantically. Everything was distorted heat haze, smoke, tears.
The fire rippled like a living thing. It didn't spread; it made headway, as if it were stalking.
"Callie!" he shouted once more, voice rasping. He pounded on the door once more, skin torn from his knuckles.
No response.
Only the muted, trembling noise of a child crying.
Ren whirled. Cabinets. A sink. A fire extinguisher.
He flung himself at it. His fingers brushed cold metal. He tore it free, yanked out the pin, turned—
And the hallway behind him blew up.
Not a detonation, but a pressure blast form gas. Fire tore through the corridor, devouring walls, ceiling, floor. Smoke slammed into the room like a fist. Ren was blown backward, hit the floor, rolled.
He couldn't see.
He couldn't breathe.
But he heard it. The roar of combustion. The low, grinding creak of weakening supports. A distant pop shattering glass. Somewhere, some metal buckled with a deep, resonant groan.
The extinguisher was still clutched in his hand. He stumbled to his feet, blinded, choking, reeling.
He pulled the trigger.
A burst of white foam exploded into the hall. He sprayed toward the wall of flame, hoping against hope it would take effect.
For a moment a single moment the fire dimed.
Then it came on again. More fiercely.
As if it had sampled him.
As if it wanted more.
He retreated. The extinguisher emptied. A weak hiss was all that was left.
His skin was already blistering. His arms were aflame red. His shirt was clinging to him, wet with sweat.
The edges of his sleeves were charring.
Ren turned towards the door again. "Callie!" His voice cracked, high-pitched with fear.
The doorknob was orange now.
He clenched his jaw and grabbed it anyway.
The pain was instant. Searing. Instinct made him pull back, but he forced himself to continue holding it.
He twisted. It wouldn't turn. Locked. Still locked.
He pulled his arm out, stumbled backward, then kicked. Again. Again.
The wood cracked, but not enough.
He dropped to his knees, forehead pressed against the underside of the door. "Callie, please…" His voice broke.
"Just unlock it. Just open it. You can do it."
Silence.
Then, barely audible: "It's hot."
"I know," he whispered. "I know. But you have to try."
His eyes burned With the smoke. He couldn't breathe for coughing. He had to scream. But there was no air for it. No space for it. Just heat, and filth, and the suffocating feeling slow in his chest.
He sat back.
There was nowhere to run. The hall didn't exist. The door didn't exist. The fire had filled everything.
Flames licked into the room from every direction. The ceiling above the breakroom door sagged. Plaster cracked.
He glanced at his hands.
His skin was blistering. Ugly, wet boils forming on his forearms. His palms bled from the door.
The pain did not come in waves. It all came at once. Complete. Merciless. As if it was not just his body on fire but his nerves, his mind, his self.
He fell forward onto his hands and knees.
The floor was too hot. Skin touched tile and sizzled.
He yanked up, but too late. The damage was done.
Somewhere, a part of him started to scream.
He didn't know if it was his voice. It might have been memory. Or instinct. Or reflex.
The smoke was thicker now. Black. Bitter.
He could no longer see the door.
He could barely think.
A shape moved across him. Not a person. The fire.
It didn't roar. It snarled.
A tendril of flame curled down from the ceiling and reached him on the back. His shirt ignited.
He screamed then. For real.
Fell to the side. Rolled, slapped at himself, felt skin slough off under his palm.
It didn't matter.
It didn't matter anymore.
"Callie," he whispered again.
No reply.
He curled in on himself. Every inch of him screamed. Muscle twitched without command. His eyes were wide, unblinking, and filled with melting light.
Martha's smile twisting. Her eyes bright with unnatural clarity.
The words she said before lighting the match.
"You saved me, Doctor. Now I'll save you."
The fire was her mercy.
The end was her cure.
The light devoured everything. The heat had no boundary now. His nerves were incinerated, yet the agony remained.
His consciousness began to unravel.
He wasn't thinking now. Just watching. Hearing. Existing.
The world narrowed to a single instant of fire, a single instant of dissolution.
He opened his mouth.
And the fire poured in.
It filled his lungs like liquid fire. It ripped through his throat and set every part of him ablaze from the inside out.
He did not die screaming.
He died silently.
Because by the time the scream had made it to his lips
He no longer had a mouth.