The coffee cup trembled against the steel desk edge, rattling out Aubrey's anxiety in sharp, metallic beats. Her hands wouldn't steady no matter how hard she willed them to stop. Above her, the fluorescent lights droned their endless electric hymn, drilling into her skull. The office chatter around her sounded distant, warped—like she was listening from underwater.
"Hey... you okay?"
A coworker's face appeared over the cubicle partition, sharp brown eyes scanning Aubrey with genuine concern.
Aubrey forced her lips into something resembling a smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm fine." The words tasted like ash.
"Yo, Aubs." Leo's voice cut through from the coffee station, his lanky frame drowning in an oversized hoodie. He gestured with exaggerated waves of his hand, his movements perpetually jittery. "Bathroom. Water. Breathe. You know the drill, yeah?"
The walls pressed in from all sides. Aubrey grabbed her bag and mumbled something about needing air before bolting for the hallway. The bathroom door clicked shut behind her—a temporary sanctuary.
She gripped the edge of the sink, cold porcelain biting into her palms. The face staring back from the mirror looked hollowed out, drained of color. Aubrey turned on the faucet and splashed water across her cheeks, gasping at the shock of cold. The water dripped down, distorting her reflection in the rippling surface below.
Then the ripples stopped.
The face in the mirror changed.
A young woman stared back at her—features twisted in a silent scream, eyes wide and empty with terror. Blood trickled dark and wet from her temple.
Aubrey stumbled backward, her spine slamming against a stall door. A strangled gasp tore from her throat.
"Aubrey? Are you okay?"
She whirled around. Sarah from accounting stood there, one hand extended, worry creasing her features.
Aubrey's trembling finger jabbed toward the mirror. "It—it's not me! Look!"
But when she turned back, the reflection showed only her own frightened eyes and Sarah's confused frown.
"You need a break," Sarah said gently, placing a hand on Aubrey's shoulder. "Seriously. Go get some air."
Aubrey didn't need to be told twice. She fled the building, the cool outside air doing nothing to slow her racing heart. Her Polestar 2 waited in the parking lot, its sleek lines promising control she no longer possessed. She slid into the driver's seat and pulled the door shut with a heavy thunk.
Her phone buzzed.
A video message. The screen showed her house—the familiar walkway, the backyard bathed in twilight shadows. Her breath caught in her throat.
Something moved in the frame.
A hooded figure glided across her property with predatory grace. On his chest, emblazoned in stark contrast against the dark fabric, was the Negasign: an inverted spiral surrounded by three weeping eyes and a grotesque six-fingered hand, all circling a central void that seemed to swallow light itself.
The figure paused at her living room window. Then slowly, deliberately, he turned toward the camera. Toward her.
The feed cut to a new angle. Inside her house now. Her mother, Marlene, asleep in her favorite armchair with a book open in her lap. Peaceful. Unaware.
"No. No, no, no—"
Aubrey's fingers fumbled across her phone screen, dialing her mother's number. Call failed. She tried texting. Message failed.
The Negasign logo flashed across her screen, its central void pulsing like a living thing. Then it warped into a pixelated grin—devilish, mocking.
A new message appeared: *"Your calls have been intercepted." —Witnessing of Hollow.*
Her knuckles went white against the steering wheel. A whimper escaped her lips. The phone buzzed again. An incoming call. With shaking hands, she accepted.
"My precious Abby... how are you?"
The voice was synthetic horror made manifest—deep and layered with staticky crispness, like corrupted data given sound and malice.
"Why are you doing this?!" Aubrey screamed into the phone.
A metallic chuckle echoed back. "My, my, Aubrey... I just want to play. Like the good old days."
"Come to me! Leave my mother out of it!"
"Why call me 'he'?" The voice shifted, dripping with sarcastic venom. It smoothed into a feminine lilt, almost playful. "I might be a 'she.'"
"I don't want your mind games!"
"Oh, but you were always my favorite, Aubrey." The voice purred, flickering between deep bass and higher feminine tones. "So direct. Never one to beat around the bush." It stabilized back into its primary chilling register. "So, Abby... solve a riddle for me. It's been on my mind. Do you want to be invited to solve it?"
"If I solve it, you let my mom go?" Aubrey's voice was a wire pulled taut, ready to snap.
A high, childlike giggle bubbled through the speaker. "Maybe... maybe not. Who can say?"
"You're a monster!"
The voice laughed—a dissonant chord of multiple personas overlapping. "Fine. Here it is:
*What is bought with silver, but costs a soul?*
*What seems to make one person whole,*
*While ensuring another's story is never told?*
*To save the hand that took the fee,*
*You must speak this truth to me.*"
"You have thirty minutes."
The screen shifted. Her mother was now tied to the chair, and the hooded figure capered before the camera like a grotesque marionette.
Aubrey slammed the car into drive and tore out of the parking lot. "An education! She sold everything for my education!"
"No." The voice was ice.
"A sacrifice! Her life for mine!"
"No." Deadlier still.
She merged onto the highway, the Polestar's electric motor whining as she pushed the accelerator. Red and blue lights exploded in her rearview mirror.
"Damn it!" Nineteen minutes left.
She weaved through traffic, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted to escape. The police closed in, boxing her in from multiple angles. On her phone screen, the hooded figure mimicked her panic with a macabre dance.
"Guilt! It's her guilt!" The words ripped from her throat as memories surfaced—her mother's averted eyes, whispered confessions about cutting corners, a legacy built on compromised truths.
The timer bled to zero. Cornered by a wall of police cars, Aubrey slammed her fists against the wheel.
"It's a lie!" The realization tore through her like shrapnel. "The answer is a lie!"
The synthetic voice returned, dripping with sarcastic static. "Aubrey... you never disappoint. The brightest mind in Ever Thorne... but too bad your past hasn't taught you." All playfulness drained from the tone. "I am not a person of my word."
Her phone screen lit up one final time.
Marlene. A crimson line drawn across her throat.
Aubrey's scream was raw and dying, swallowed by the wail of sirens. Hands grabbed her, dragging her from the car, metal cuffs biting into her wrists. But her eyes remained locked on the phone, on the horror burned forever into her mind.
As officers shouted commands and the world collapsed into chaos, a final synthetic whisper echoed through her consciousness.
"The game has only just begun, my dear Abby."
---
**Somewhere else. Somewhere watching.**
High above the street corner where police lights painted the pavement in strobing red and blue, a surveillance camera hummed quietly. Its lens focused, adjusted, zoomed.
Inside a pristine office bathed in shadow, a figure sat before a laptop. The screen's cold glow illuminated only the lower half of his face—a mouth curved into a grin that spoke of secrets and schemes. The rest remained swallowed by darkness.
On the screen, Aubrey's breakdown played out in real-time. Her tears. Her screams. Her complete unraveling.
The figure leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His laugh started low, then built into something rich with dark amusement.
"Beautiful," he murmured to the empty room. His voice carried the smooth polish of boardrooms and corner offices. "Simply beautiful."
He reached forward, tapping a key. The camera angle shifted, capturing another view of Aubrey being forced into a police car.
"The pawn believes herself the player," he said softly, that grin widening. "The knight thinks himself the killer. But neither sees the hand that moves them across the board."
He closed the laptop with a soft click, plunging the office into complete darkness.
Only his voice remained, floating through the shadows like smoke.
"After all... the most elegant murders are the ones where the killer never knows he's dancing on strings."
His laughter echoed once more—cultured, controlled, utterly devoid of humanity.
Then silence.
The game continued in the dark.