They decided to go back to Adrian's apartment. Not because it was safe but because it was the only place where their fear sounded familiar.
They walked through the sleeping city in silence, the streetlights stretching over the wet asphalt like veins of liquid gold.
Adrian's steps were steady; Clara's were light, hesitant, yet she never let go of his hand. When he opened the door, the still air greeted them like a breath held too long.
The walls seemed to hum faintly, as if they still remembered every word ever spoken there. Clara paused near the table, looking at the mug, the pen, the scattered papers.
Every object was a fragment of him, of what he'd been before everything broke.
"It's strange," she whispered.
"What is?"
"It feels like time here stopped just to wait for us."
Adrian's eyes darkened.
"Or maybe… it never left."
They undressed quietly, the faint sound of fabric slipping to the floor filling the silence.
Then, without speaking, they slid beneath the sheets.
Clara curled against him, her ear resting on the rhythm of his heartbeat.
His fingers tangled gently in her hair, as if touching her was the only way to stay real.
They didn't speak. There was nothing to say.
Words might have broken whatever fragile balance still held them together.
Sleep came like surrender, locked in each other's arms, two halves of the same wound trying to heal as one.
The dark doesn't begin. It's already there.
Adrian opens his eyes, but he isn't in his bed.
The walls around him are damp, gray, pulsing like veins beneath skin. The air reeks of iron, disinfectant, and old rain.
A sound follows him: drip… drip… drip…
Drops falling from an invisible ceiling, marking time that doesn't belong to the living. Ahead, a corridor, long and doorless.
Every step leaves a red print on the floor.
Not water. Blood. His blood.
A voice, distant yet inside him: "Keep walking."
He can't stop. His body obeys a command that isn't his own. His heart beats against his ribs, too loud, too close.
At the end of the hall: a white door. He pushes it. It opens soundlessly.
Inside: light. Cold, surgical, merciless.
A metal table. Instruments neatly arranged, scalpels, forceps, needles, a thin saw, rolls of untouched gauze.
On the chair at the center sits a woman.
Her arms are strapped to the rests, her head bowed.
Her breath comes in short, broken gasps.
Adrian steps closer. The overhead light flickers, and for an instant her skin seems to crawl, alive, moving beneath the surface.
"Please…"
The voice is small, trembling. He wants to stop, but his body isn't his anymore.
His arm lifts, the blade glinting between his fingers. The steel reflects his own face, warped, terrified.
"It's not pain," another voice whispers through him. "It's purification."
A flash.
A name: Rinaldi. Then another: Luca.
He can't connect them. The scalpel falls.
A cut, clean, efficient. A cry strangled midway.
Blood bursts outward like a red halo, splattering the floor, the walls, his hands.
It's warm. Thick.
He feels every drop slide between his fingers, crawling under his nails, seeping into his veins.
The killer, himself, smiles. Slow. Satisfied.
"Look how she's still breathing."
The woman opens her eyes. They are white, clouded, yet they stare directly at him.
At Adrian.
"You let me die."
He staggers back, but his feet sink into the blood. Every step makes a wet sound, the noise of flesh against flesh.
The red rises, ankles, knees, chest, until it swallows him.
On the walls, handprints appear, smearing words in crimson:
MNEMOSYNE.
CLINIC.
DON'T TRUST HIM.
The door behind him bursts open.
Rinaldi stands there in his white coat, spotless, calm.
"See, Adrian?" he says softly. "You never really left."
"Adrian!"
Clara's voice tears through the darkness.
He jerks upright, gasping, his chest heaving like he's run for miles. Blood stains his upper lip, a nosebleed.
His eyes are wide, raw with panic.
"It was him!" he shouts. "Rinaldi! He was in my head!"
Clara switches on the lamp. Golden light spills across their faces, trembling.
"Hey, look at me. You're safe. You're with me."
He shakes his head.
"No. I saw him. And the killer. He's alive. Still killing. I can feel him, like he's inside me."
Clara pulls him into her arms, holding him tight, grounding him.
"Listen to me. You're here. You're not in the clinic anymore."
"What if it never ended?" he whispers hoarsely. "What if Rinaldi is still inside us?"
She takes his face between her hands.
"Don't say that. You're here, Adrian. And I'm with you."
He stares at her, eyes full of pain and disbelief.
"How can you not be afraid of me?"
"Because I know who you are. And I know you'd fight until your last breath not to become what you fear."
Adrian exhales shakily, pressing his forehead against hers. Their breaths merge, slow, fragile.
His hands move down her back, not from desire but from need, the primal need to feel she's alive, that he's not alone in the dark.
"Every time I close my eyes," he murmurs, "I'm afraid I'll wake up somewhere you don't exist."
Clara smiles softly, her fingers in his hair.
"Then don't close them. Stay awake with me. Just for tonight."
Outside, rain tapped gently on the glass.
Inside, the world went still. And for the first time in a long while, the darkness didn't scare them anymore.