[Breaking News - Crestwood County]
"Good evening. We're interrupting scheduled programming to bring you breaking news from Crestwood County."
The anchor's voice held steady, professional—but his white-knuckled grip on the desk gave him away. His co-anchor leaned into frame, her expression carefully neutral as the red chyron flashed beneath them: *Body Discovered in Luggage Case - Crestwood Park*.
"This afternoon, sheriff's deputies made a grim discovery near Willow March Park," she began, her tone measured. "The victim has been identified as Victoria Lockridge, twenty-five years old. Her body was found concealed inside an abandoned suitcase. While authorities have confirmed the victim's identity, they're withholding information regarding the state of the remains."
The broadcast cut to aerial footage—a winding road flanked by skeletal trees, police vehicles arranged in grim formation. Crime scene tape whipped in the wind like torn streamers. A white forensics tent billowed against the grey sky.
The male anchor cleared his throat before continuing.
"According to sources close to the investigation, the body bore unusual markings that may be ritualistic in nature."
A censored image filled the screen—blurred and pixelated, but the shape was unmistakable: an inverted spiral carved into skin, enclosed within a triangle. Three closed eyes wept black tears. Around it all, a six-fingered handprint pressed into flesh. At the center—emptiness. Pure, hollow void.
"The meaning of this symbol remains unclear," the female anchor said, her voice tightening slightly. "Online speculation ranges from cult activity to a killer's signature. Police have not confirmed any connection to previous cases."
The segment faded to commercial break, as if death could be bookended by detergent ads and car insurance jingles.
---
[Midnight - Emergency Broadcast]
Twelve hours later, the same studio lights blazed again.
"We have urgent developments in the Lockridge murder case," the anchor said, his words tumbling faster than before. "Crestwood Police Department confirms they've received an anonymous data package sent directly to their secure servers. The contents allegedly expose Victoria Lockridge's involvement in a human trafficking operation."
Static-blurred screenshots filled the screen—spreadsheets with coded entries, dark web transaction logs, cryptocurrency trails snaking through digital shadows. Grainy photographs of terrified faces flashed by too quickly to process.
"Investigators believe Lockridge operated as a recruiter, using fabricated luxury employment opportunities through shell companies," the anchor continued. "Victims—primarily young women—were coerced into sex work. Payments were routed through untraceable crypto channels."
The footage shifted—sirens wailing, red and blue lights strobing against darkness. Armored officers breached ornate iron gates leading to a sprawling mansion.
"But the raid ended in tragedy," the anchor said, his professional mask slipping. "When tactical teams entered the property linked to Lockridge's network, they found all suspects already deceased. Each body bore the same symbol—painted in graphite across every wall and ceiling. The spiral. The three weeping eyes. The six-fingered hand."
The next image seemed to suck the air from the studio.
Black letters scrawled beside the corpses: *'Consume corruption with corruption. Ascend through rot.'*
"Several captives were rescued during the operation," the anchor added quickly. "They claim a masked figure entered before police arrival—moving with impossible speed, unseen by security systems. Only carnage and the symbol remained. Online communities have already given this figure a name: Azaqor."
---
[Five Days Later - WELB 7 Live Studio]
The studio lights gleamed brighter here, sharper. The silver bird logo of WELB 7 Live spread its wings across the backdrop.
"Tonight we're joined by social commentator Herfst Veldman," the host said, leaning forward with barely contained eagerness. "Herfst, your recent statements about the Lockridge case have sparked considerable debate. What can you share with our viewers?"
Herfst's smile was deliberate, predatory. Her copper hair caught the lights like polished metal.
"Debate only exists because truth makes people uncomfortable," she replied smoothly. "Everyone's eager to paint Victoria Lockridge as a monster, but they conveniently forget who raised her—Graham Lockridge. Businessman. Philanthropist. Crestwood's golden son."
The host tilted his head. "Are you suggesting his wealth has questionable origins?"
Herfst's eyes flashed. She slid a manila folder across the desk with a sharp click of manicured nails.
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm presenting evidence. Graham Lockridge's empire was built on capital from a very specific backer—a consortium operating through Orphagenynx Industries. And behind that consortium? The Halvern family."
The name dropped like a stone into still water.
"You're alleging the Halverns are connected to—"
"I'm not alleging," Herfst interrupted, leaning close enough to fog the microphone. "I'm exposing. The Halverns cultivate decay. They profit from it. If Victoria's crimes flourished in shadow, it's because those roots were planted long before she was born."
The segment cut abruptly. Disclaimer text scrolled across black screen.
But the seed had already taken root.
---
[Nineteen Days Later - Same Studio]
"Good evening. I'm Aubrey Wynter, reporting for WELB 7."
Her voice remained steady, professional. Only the faint redness rimming her eyes betrayed sleepless nights.
"It is with profound sadness that we report the death of cultural commentator Herfst Veldman. Authorities have ruled her death an apparent suicide. Veldman was discovered early this morning in her downtown apartment. She was thirty-two years old."
A photograph filled the screen—Herfst smiling, vibrant, untouched by the darkness that would eventually claim her.
"Some viewers may recall Ms. Veldman's recent allegations regarding the Lockridge family and the Halvern consortium. Tonight, tributes are pouring in across social media, though questions remain regarding the timing of her passing."
The segment ended with practiced efficiency.
---
[Behind The Scenes]
Aubrey removed her earpiece, pulse still hammering against her ribs.
"Solid delivery, Aubrey," a producer said in passing. "You held it together beautifully."
She nodded without speaking, her throat desert-dry.
Around her, whispers drifted between cubicles:
"She seemed fine last week..."
"Are you serious? She went after the Halverns. Everyone knows how that story ends."
"Keep your voice down."
"They practically own this network."
"Doesn't matter. Someone needs to say something."
"Then someone needs to start planning their funeral."
The murmurs faded into anxious silence.
Aubrey collapsed into her desk chair. Monitor light washed her hands ghostly pale. Her scripts blurred beneath trembling fingers.
Victoria Lockridge.
Herfst Veldman.
And that symbol...
She'd seen it before—years ago in college. Not carved into flesh, but sketched in the margin of someone's notebook. She couldn't remember the face, only the feeling: something ancient whispering from beneath the ink.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number. No caller ID.
Just a contact name: Witnessing of the Hollow
The profile picture was that symbol—spiral, closed weeping eyes, six-fingered hand.
The message read:
Hi Abby. It's been ages, hasn't it? I've missed our games. Let's play again.*
Her chest constricted. Nobody called her Abby. Nobody except—
Her mind went blank. The phone screen dimmed.
Around her, the newsroom continued its oblivious hum.
Then she saw him.
Reflected in the glass partition separating studio from office—a figure sat in the far corner shadows, a presence that hadn't existed moments before. His face was concealed behind a smooth black mask bearing an intricate emblem: a crystalline prism suspended in void.
Inside the prism, a man pressed his hands against invisible walls, frozen between escape and surrender. Outside stood another figure, tall, draped in a coat stitched with reflective thread—like a warden of mirrors. Between them grew a twisted tree crowned with thorns, a serpent coiled around its trunk. The serpent's scaled claw cradled a crimson apple, offering it toward the trapped man within the prism. Light caught the glass in such a way that the apple seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat.
The masked man's gloved hands rested calmly together. His legs crossed with casual elegance. He tilted his head, watching Aubrey with silent amusement—
As though everything unfolding around her was merely a performance he'd come to critique.
---
[Unknown Location - Curtain of Light]
Elsewhere, in a space between spaces, light rippled like water disturbed by unseen stones.
A voice emerged from the luminous veil, distorted and layered with harmonics that shouldn't exist in human speech.
"The Vass piece is positioned. Begin the next phase of the Perception Protocol."
Behind an expansive desk in a room without clear walls or ceiling, a man leaned back in his chair. He said nothing for a long moment, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Papers covered his desk—reports, photographs, psychological profiles—all marked with various iterations of that same hollow symbol.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried quiet satisfaction.
"Excellent. I'm quite interested to see how our Vass vessel develops under pressure. The variables are... particularly promising this time."
He reached forward, sliding one photograph toward the edge of his desk.
It was Aubrey Wynter's press credentials photo.
"Let the sequence unfold naturally," he continued. "Observation without interference. For now."
The curtain of light shimmered once, then fell silent.
The man in the office returned his attention to the documents before him, a thin smile playing at the edges of his mouth.
The game had begun.
And this time, the pieces didn't even know they were on the board.
---