The night was far too still for comfort.
The kind of stillness that made every breath sound like a trespass.
A lone figure walked down the narrow street, shoes scraping faintly against the cracked pavement. The air was damp and cold, heavy with the faint scent of rain that never fell. Neon signs flickered from dying bulbs — distant, broken lights that failed to illuminate the creeping dark.
Something darted across the edge of sight.
The figure froze.
It was quick — a blur — the wind seemed to split around it. Then silence again. A heartbeat. Two.
Another movement. This time behind.
The figure turned — but the street was empty. Completely. The silence screamed louder than any sound could.
And then came the honk of a car horn. Sharp, startling.
The figure spun toward the sound — and saw nothing. No car. No headlights. Only the empty road stretching endlessly into black.
A voice followed — calm, distant, and wrong. It seemed to whisper from everywhere at once.
"Where have you been? I've been waiting. We'll meet soon. Hope you're prepared."
The figure stumbled back, eyes wide, breath shivering. They turned and ran — sprinting toward the first glimmer of light they could find. A hotel stood at the corner, its windows yellowed, its sign flickering like a dying firefly.
They burst through the glass doors.
The staff behind the desk startled. "Madam, what's wrong?"
A trembling voice answered, "I—I need a room. Please. If anyone asks for me… don't let them in. No matter who."
Money was exchanged with shaking hands. The key card slipped, clattered on the desk. The figure grabbed it, muttered thanks, and rushed upstairs.
The room was small — beige walls, dim light, a mirror that seemed too large for the space. They locked the door. Twice. Then leaned against it, lungs screaming for air, trying to breathe the fear out.
But something was off.
There were footsteps.
Behind them. Inside the room.
They turned slowly, heart crawling up their throat — and froze.
A woman stood there.
Red hair flowing like blood under moonlight, streaked with threads of white that shimmered like veins of ice. She was tall — taller than any woman should be — and so breathtakingly beautiful that beauty itself seemed insufficient to describe her. Her form shimmered faintly, as if she wasn't fully bound to this world.
Her eyes were unseen — shadows where eyes should be — yet her gaze could be felt.
She raised a hand and touched the trembling figure's face.
Warm. Gentle. Comforting.
The kind of touch that felt like being remembered by something ancient.
Then she spoke — her voice neither kind nor cruel, neither human nor divine.
"We will meet again, my child."
The air bent. Her figure scattered like smoke.
Gone.
The silence returned, heavy and aching. The figure's knees buckled, collapsing onto the floor. Tears gathered but never fell. The room seemed to breathe — walls closing in, the shadows shifting too deliberately.
Then — a knock.
They gasped, hurried to the door. Pressed an eye to the peephole.
A hotel staff member stood outside, looking perfectly normal. Relief washed through their chest. They opened the door.
The staff smiled politely, holding a small, horizontally bound notepad — one of those register books used for check-ins.
"Sorry to disturb you," she said softly, "but there seem to be inconsistencies in your identification."
The figure blinked, confused.
Then the staff's expression… changed.
The head tilted up, too far back.
The smile stretched wide, too wide, revealing nothing but a void — black and endless.
Her eyes hollowed out, pupils gone, as if the universe had pulled her soul through them.
The hair that once fell neatly over her forehead recoiled, revealing pale, stretched skin.
When she spoke again, it wasn't a voice. It was a vibration, a scream buried inside a whisper.
"Who truly are you?"
The figure stepped back, shaking.
But the question didn't stop.
"Who truly are you?"
"Who truly are you?"
"Who truly are you?"
Over and over, the voice multiplied — coming from the walls, from under the bed, from behind the mirror. The faces began to appear — dozens of them, each identical to the staff's.
Black eyes.
Unnatural smiles.
Mouths that stretched open as the chorus echoed—
"Who truly are you?"
The lights flickered.
The walls pulsed.
And as the figure screamed—
—she woke up.
Sophia sat upright in her bed, drenched in sweat, eyes wide, gasping. The question still whispered faintly in the back of her mind, fading like smoke:
"Who truly are you…?"
Her hand trembled as she touched her chest.
But there was no voice now.
Only the dark.
And her heartbeat