Chapter 2 - The One Who Read Me

CHAPTER 16 — Trapped in Nightmares

Sleep had become a battleground. Aria no longer welcomed it, no longer sought the refuge of darkness and quiet. Every night, as soon as her head hit the pillow, the world of nightmares came alive—not random dreams, but orchestrated visions sent directly from the killer's mind.

It started subtly, with the whispering that had become all too familiar.

"Close your eyes… it's easier if you close your eyes…"

Aria tried to resist, pressing her hands over her ears, squeezing her eyes shut, but it was useless. The whispers burrowed inside her skull, curling around her thoughts, forcing images into her mind.

The room darkened around her, but the nightmare was vivid, real. She was no longer in her apartment. She was standing in an alleyway she had walked past earlier in the week, the walls slick with rain, the air thick with the smell of wet concrete.

She knew this alley. She shouldn't be here. And yet, there was no choice. She was trapped.

A figure appeared at the far end. Shadowed, indistinct, but unmistakable in intent. He moved like a predator, slow, deliberate, confident. And he wasn't alone—scattered around him, in cages of light and shadow, were people she recognized from town: strangers, neighbors, even friends.

Her chest tightened. Fear surged, but deeper than that was a creeping realization: these weren't real. Not yet. The killer was showing her what could happen. Future murders, rehearsed in his mind like a performance he had already directed.

"Watch closely… this is how it happens…"

The scene shifted fluidly, showing victim after victim. One woman stumbled in a dark alley; the killer was already there in her peripheral vision. Another man walked home late, unaware of the shadow that followed. And then… she saw herself.

Aria froze. Her own terrified face reflected back at her from the puddles of rain on the cobblestones. She could see her breathing, her panic, the rapid pulse of her heart in her chest. She was a part of the nightmare, and the killer's eyes were on her.

"You can see it, can't you?" the whisper coiled around her thoughts. "You understand the fear… the panic… the inevitability. And soon… you will understand me completely."

Aria's mind screamed at her to wake up, to fight, to run. But she was trapped. The dream—or rather, the mental prison—was too strong. Every instinct she had told her she was powerless in this space. And yet, she forced herself to observe, to memorize. Every detail. Every movement. Every flicker of intent in his shadowed eyes.

The scenes accelerated, overlapping like a cruel montage. Streets she had walked, alleys she had passed, houses she had seen—all became stages for his rehearsed killings. And every time she tried to intervene in the nightmare, to warn or protect, she was thrown back, powerless, watching in helpless horror.

"You see, Aria… this is how the world works. Fear is the language. Panic is the key. And only I know the script. Only I can direct the show."

Aria clenched her fists, trying to block the visions, trying to push him out. But the mental grip was too strong. He was inside her thoughts, inside her mind, forcing her to live each moment as he imagined it.

She realized, in that moment, that the killer wasn't just obsessed with controlling others in the real world. He wanted to dominate her mind, to make her experience every fear, every panic, every moment of helplessness. He wanted to prove that no one—not even her—could escape his power.

And the worst part: she knew he could.

The visions slowed then, focusing on one particular scene. A young girl in a deserted park, evening shadows stretching long and twisted. The killer circled her like a hawk. She stumbled, panic overtaking her. Aria could feel the girl's heartbeat, sharp and irregular. She could hear the whispered thoughts of fear, confusion, and desperation.

"This is how it feels," the killer murmured inside her mind. "Every moment… every twitch… every breath. And you… you will understand this soon enough."

Aria's body trembled. She wanted to scream, but no sound came. The images were too vivid, too overwhelming. And yet, somewhere deep inside, a spark of determination lit within her.

She realized she had survived his mental invasion before. She had endured the whispers, the rehearsals, the connection. And if she could survive that, maybe—just maybe—she could find a way to fight back in this space too.

She focused on the edges of the nightmare, on the flickers of light and shadow, on the rhythm of the killer's projected thoughts. She tried something daring: she pushed against the fear, feeding her own presence into the dream, letting it pulse outward like a small, stubborn beacon.

For a moment, the visions wavered. The alley blurred, the shadow shifted. The killer's voice hissed in her mind, frustrated, sharp:

"No… you cannot interfere… this is mine…"

But Aria pressed harder. She couldn't escape physically, but maybe—just maybe—she could influence the nightmare mentally.

She imagined a barrier, a wall of her own will between herself and the visions. She forced the images to slow, to fragment, to bend. She realized that even though he had trapped her, he had also shown her the limits of his control. He could project, invade, frighten—but she could resist.

The nightmare ended abruptly, the alley dissolving into blackness. Aria awoke with a gasp, body drenched in sweat, heart hammering. The room was quiet, normal. Safe. Or at least as safe as it could be in Riverton.

But she knew the truth. He would be back. The nightmares were a weapon. A test. A way to practice control, to push her to the edge, to break her. And she had barely survived the first one.

She pressed her palms to her face, trying to calm her racing thoughts. Yet, somewhere deep in her mind, she felt a dangerous spark: the realization that she could fight back, that she could push against him.

For the first time, a sliver of hope pierced the terror. She had survived his invasion. She had endured his rehearsals and his whispers. And she had resisted.

Aria knew what she had to do. She had to learn to strengthen her mind, to train herself against him, to turn her fear into a weapon.

Because if she didn't, the nightmares would only get worse. And eventually, they would bleed into reality.

When that happened, there might be no one left to stop him.

CHAPTER 17 — Pushing Minds

The night after the nightmare, Aria didn't sleep. She sat on the edge of her bed, knees drawn up, staring at the darkness outside her window. Her mind raced with fragments of the killer's rehearsals, the echoes of his abusive childhood, and the terrifying power he wielded over fear and panic.

And yet, amid the fear, a small, undeniable spark had begun to grow.

She had survived his mental invasion. She had resisted his projections. And now… she sensed something different. Something new.

It started as a whisper in her mind—not his, but her own. Subtle, probing. A question: What if you could do more than just hear him?

Aria frowned. She wasn't sure she wanted to know. The thought of reaching into someone else's mind was frightening, almost dangerous. And yet, she couldn't ignore it. Something deep inside her—a strength born from fear and necessity—urged her to try.

She closed her eyes, focusing on a small memory from earlier that day: her friend Jake, walking down the street, humming to himself, unaware of the world around him. She imagined his thoughts—the mundane worries, the fleeting daydreams—and then, tentatively, she reached.

At first, nothing happened. Then, she felt it—a subtle vibration in her mind, like a ripple through water. And suddenly, she understood, in the smallest, faintest way, what it meant to push.

She concentrated harder, envisioning a single idea, a single word, and sending it outward, toward Jake's consciousness. "Stop."

It wasn't loud, it wasn't forceful, but she felt a response. A hesitation. Jake stopped walking mid-step, looked around, as if a thought had brushed across his mind, nudging him gently.

Aria gasped. It had worked. She had pushed a thought—just one, brief, almost imperceptible—into someone else's mind.

Her heart pounded. She pressed her palms to her face, trying to calm the rush of adrenaline. This was dangerous. This was powerful. And, if she wasn't careful, it could backfire.

She tried again. This time, she focused on a simple image in her mind: a red ball, bouncing. She reached outward, projecting it like a tiny beacon. The next thing she knew, the image appeared in her own mind, bouncing back from Jake's consciousness, mirrored and amplified. The realization hit her: she could not only hear thoughts—she could briefly influence them.

It was exhausting. Every push drained her energy, like lifting a weight that grew heavier with each attempt. But the potential… the potential was immense.

Aria sank back onto the bed, breathing hard. She could see it clearly now: this ability was not just a gift, not just a defense—it was a weapon. A way to intervene, to disrupt the killer's plans, to reach victims before he struck. But it was delicate. Fragile. And she would have to learn control quickly, or risk harm.

The thought of the killer loomed over her, as always. He could read minds with ease. He could anticipate reactions, manipulate fear, and orchestrate murders with horrifying precision. And now, she had a tool of her own—one he didn't know she possessed.

Her mind raced with possibilities. What if she could nudge someone just in time? Warn them without revealing herself? Distract the killer, mislead him? The power was raw, unrefined, but it was hers. And for the first time, she felt she had a fighting chance.

She spent hours that night practicing on herself first—pushing small thoughts back and forth, sending tiny fragments of memory, testing the limits. She discovered that longer messages, stronger emotions, or complicated ideas were difficult to control. The mind resisted, pushed back, blurred. But short, simple nudges… small sparks… worked.

By dawn, Aria's arms ached, her eyes were raw, but her confidence had grown. She could reach into minds, even briefly. She could influence. She could act.

Her thoughts drifted to the killer. What would he do if he realized she had this power? She shivered, imagining the games he might play, the ways he could counteract her pushes. But then she remembered his rehearsals, his dependence on predicting reactions. And suddenly, a strategy formed. If she could push thoughts into others, she could become unpredictable. She could force mistakes, interruptions, and hesitation.

Aria knew there would be a learning curve. Misfires could alert the killer, could harm the innocent, could backfire horribly. But she had no choice. Every day she waited was another day someone might die. Every hour she hesitated was a victory for him.

She made a plan. She would start small, invisible. A single push to redirect attention, a thought to caution, a brief suggestion to pause. Nothing that could be traced back to her. And then, slowly, she would expand.

Her mind returned to Jake. She smiled faintly. Just a small demonstration, harmless, but proof that it worked. If she could do this, she could save people. She could disrupt the killer's script. And for the first time, she felt a sense of control creeping in, a fragile shield against the fear that had dominated her life for weeks.

Yet, even as she focused on the possibilities, a warning echoed in her thoughts—subtle, almost like a whisper from herself: Be careful. He is still there. Watching. Waiting. Always watching.

She knew it. She could feel the connection, faint but present, as if the killer's mind was brushing against hers, sensing change. And that meant she had to act, but wisely. Every push, every thought she influenced, could ripple in ways she couldn't fully predict.

Aria closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. She would not be a passive observer anymore. She would not wait for him to dictate the fear and the chaos. She had power now. The whispers had told her horrors, shown her the past and the future, but they had also led her to this moment—a moment where she could fight back, where she could influence, where she could survive.

So, with her heart racing and her mind sharp, she made a silent promise to herself: she would learn, she would master this new ability, and she would use it to protect the innocent. The killer might be clever, ruthless, and experienced—but Aria was no longer just a victim. She had a weapon inside her own mind, and she was ready to wield it.

The first push had been small, experimental. The next one could save a life.

The next… might even stop him.

CHAPTER 18 — A Warning in Time

The evening air was heavy with the smell of rain, and Aria walked briskly down the crowded streets of Riverton. Her mind buzzed with tension, the constant awareness of the killer's presence never far from her thoughts. She could feel him—faint, lurking at the edge of her senses, watching, waiting—but tonight, she had a purpose.

Her new ability to push thoughts into minds, even briefly, had been tested in private, small, harmless experiments. But now, for the first time, she would use it to intervene in reality, to save someone she didn't even know, and potentially prevent the next murder.

She scanned the street, observing the pedestrians around her. Most were oblivious, lost in their own routines, but her senses, sharpened from weeks of fear and practice, caught subtle signs: anxiety in their gait, distracted glances, tension in their posture. She focused on one woman walking ahead of her, alone, glancing nervously over her shoulder as if she felt she was being followed.

Aria's pulse quickened. She recognized the pattern immediately. The whispers in her mind sharpened, alerting her: this woman was in danger.

"He's here… close… she's next…"

Aria moved carefully, matching her pace to the woman's. The killer had a style, a rhythm. He studied his victims, waited for the right moment, and struck when they were most vulnerable. Aria had seen his rehearsals, felt his planning, and now, she knew she had to act quickly.

She took a deep breath, centering herself. Closing her eyes for just a moment, she reached out mentally, focusing on the woman ahead. It was subtle at first—a nudge, a gentle suggestion, a flicker in the stream of her thoughts. "Stop. Look behind you."

The effect was immediate, though delicate. The woman paused mid-step, her brow furrowing as though a sudden thought had interrupted her. Her head turned slightly, scanning the street.

Aria felt a surge of hope and fear. It was working. The push, small and brief, had captured her attention. She needed more. She concentrated harder, pushing a second thought, simple and urgent: "Don't go that way."

The woman hesitated, shifting direction slightly, veering toward a better-lit area of the street. Aria kept her focus, feeling the strain in her own mind. Each push required energy, precision, and absolute control. Overreach could alert the killer, could confuse or frighten the woman, or worse.

From the corner of her perception, Aria sensed him. A shadow moving fluidly between buildings, unseen by the crowd but unmistakable to her. The whispers in her mind intensified, sharp and chaotic, as if he had noticed the mental nudge, noticed her interference.

"So… clever… but not enough…"

Her heart pounded. She couldn't afford hesitation. The killer was near, and this was her first real test. Her mind sharpened, her thoughts clear. Another push—a gentle but firm suggestion: "Cross the street. Now."

The woman obeyed instinctively, stepping into the opposite lane, her pace quickening as she moved toward safety.

Aria exhaled slowly, relief washing over her. For a fleeting moment, the tension lifted. She had done it. She had intervened. She had saved someone's life.

But the relief was short-lived.

A movement in the shadows, a shift too precise to be random. The killer was observing, and now, she knew, he was furious. The whispers in her head were laced with rage, a dark pulse that made her knees weak.

"You think you can play games with me? Interfere? No… I will find you… and break you."

Aria's stomach tightened. She had known that testing her ability would come with risk. She had known he might sense her interference. But the intensity of his fury was far greater than she anticipated. It wasn't just anger—it was a calculated, focused, obsessive rage, aimed directly at her.

She backed into the shadows herself, trying to blend into the streetlights and the evening crowd. Her senses screamed at her, warning her of the danger, yet she had no choice. She couldn't stop using her ability—she couldn't let the killer claim another victim.

Her mind raced. She replayed the steps she had taken, analyzing every push, every suggestion, every ripple she had sent into the woman's consciousness. It had worked, but barely. The killer's awareness of her interference meant he could adapt, anticipate, and counter in the future.

Aria swallowed, forcing herself to calm her racing thoughts. She needed strategy, precision, and control. Fear could not dictate her actions—only clarity could.

The woman she had saved disappeared into the crowd, unaware of the danger she had narrowly escaped. Aria felt a pang of guilt—she had intervened without explanation, without warning, leaving the victim to wonder why she had suddenly shifted direction. But there was no time for guilt now. She had learned an important truth: the killer's fury was personal. He had recognized her interference, sensed her growing power, and now he would hunt her more fiercely than before.

Aria pressed her palms to her face, taking deep breaths. The danger was escalating. She had proven that she could act, that she could influence thoughts, that she could save lives—but every success drew his attention more sharply. Every intervention would make her more of a target.

Her thoughts drifted to Detective Rayan. She knew she needed his help, his instincts, his ability to act in the physical world. But could she reveal this new ability to him? Could she trust anyone with the knowledge of what she had just done?

The answer came almost immediately: yes. She had to. The killer's awareness of her powers meant she could not operate alone. Every push, every mental nudge, needed coordination. She had to plan, to strategize, to protect both herself and those at risk.

Aria took one last look at the street, scanning for any sign of movement, any hint of the shadow she knew was still out there. She could feel his presence, faint but unmistakable, like a dark pulse at the edge of her mind.

And she smiled, just slightly. Fear was still there, yes, and danger was still very real. But for the first time, she had tasted victory. She had reached into someone's mind, nudged them toward safety, and survived to tell the tale.

She had power. She had control, fragile as it was. And she would use it.

Because the killer was furious now. And furious killers made mistakes.

Aria took a deep breath, letting the adrenaline subside, and whispered to herself:

"I'm ready for you. And next time… I won't just nudge. I'll strike."

CHAPTER 19 — Furious Mind

The whispers in Aria's head were no longer subtle. They raged like a storm, crackling with fury, echoing with malice she had never felt before. The killer had sensed her interference, the mental push she had used to save the woman in the street, and now his anger consumed every corner of her mind.

"You think you can touch my world… my plans… my people…?" the voice hissed, cold and sharp. "You are nothing. You will pay… and I will break you. Every thought, every memory… I will crush them."

Aria stumbled backward, clutching her head as the words stabbed into her consciousness. The intensity was unbearable—like someone had wrapped a vice around her skull, twisting her thoughts and squeezing out panic. She fell to the floor, knees hitting the ground, heart pounding.

She had known that interfering with the killer would come with risk. She had feared detection, feared his awareness, feared the escalation. But she had not anticipated the raw, personal fury of someone who had been trained by pain and sharpened by cruelty. This wasn't just anger. It was obsession. It was a storm designed specifically to torment her.

The room around her blurred. Her apartment, the streetlights outside, even the distant hum of cars—all faded into nothing as the mental storm took over. She could feel his presence everywhere, a shadow in her mind, stretching tendrils of thought into her very consciousness. He wasn't just targeting others now. He was targeting her.

"You can't hide, Aria… you can't run… you can't think your way out. I will find every corner of your mind and destroy it… until there's nothing left. NOTHING."

The words were punctuated by flashes of images—victims she had seen, the woman she had saved, the dark alleyways, the empty streets. They overlapped with her own memories, twisting and warping them into a tapestry of fear. She could almost feel his hands inside her mind, probing, searching for weakness, for cracks, for vulnerability.

Aria's breath came in ragged gasps. She pressed her palms to her ears, tried to block out the mental onslaught, tried to retreat into herself. But he was relentless. He had always been relentless. The same patience that allowed him to stalk his victims, to anticipate every move, to manipulate every fear, was now turned on her. And he was learning fast.

"You will break, Aria… just like the others would have… just like I was broken… and you… will feel it all. Every terror… every scream… every moment of helplessness."

The fury in his words wasn't just for control; it was personal. She had dared to interfere with his plans, dared to challenge him, dared to show that she could resist him. And now he wanted revenge. Not just on her life, but on her mind, her spirit, her very essence.

Aria's thoughts raced. She had survived nightmares, survived rehearsals of future murders, survived his whispers and manipulations. But this was different. This was not about seeing through his plans or predicting his moves. This was about enduring an assault on the most intimate part of herself: her consciousness.

She clenched her teeth and tried to focus. Panic was a weapon he wielded expertly, and if she succumbed, he would win. She drew on every lesson she had learned in the past weeks—the mental discipline she had honed, the careful observation of his patterns, the strength she had discovered within herself. She had survived before. She could survive this.

"You think you're clever… but I am everywhere… I am every fear you have… every shadow… every doubt… I am in your mind, Aria. And soon, I will own it completely."

The words weren't just threats; they were promises. And Aria felt the truth of them pressing down, heavy and suffocating. But beneath the fear, a spark of determination flickered. She had been afraid before. She had been hunted. But she had also learned, adapted, grown stronger.

"I am not yours," she whispered in her mind, defiant despite the storm. "I will not be yours."

The killer's response was immediate. A violent surge of images, thoughts, and emotions collided in her consciousness. She saw flashes of his childhood, the abuse, the shaping of his mind into a weapon. She saw glimpses of his rehearsed murders, the precision, the fear in his victims. And woven through it all was his obsession with her—calculating, dark, and absolute.

Aria's hands shook, her knees weak, but she forced herself to focus. He had underestimated her before. He had assumed that knowledge alone gave him power. But she now possessed something just as dangerous: understanding, insight, and her own growing abilities.

She concentrated, forcing a thin barrier of thought around herself, a fragile shield against the invasion. The storm raged, trying to tear it down, probing for weakness, pushing with every ounce of fury he could muster. Aria gritted her teeth, summoning every fragment of control she had left.

"You can rage… you can threaten… you can try to crush me… but I will endure… I will survive… and I will fight."

The words were not sent aloud—they were a mantra, a declaration to herself, to the world, to him. And slowly, imperceptibly, the storm began to lose its grip. Not completely—he was still there, still furious, still dangerous—but the edge had dulled. Aria felt the tiniest flicker of power, a hint that she could resist, that she could push back.

"Mark my words, Aria… you will pay… and when I find you… when I finally break through… you will regret every thought you've dared to touch. Every life you've interfered with… every push you've made… I will make you suffer… until your mind is mine."

The finality of the threat sent a chill through her, but she did not cower. She had faced his whispers before. She had faced his rehearsals. She had faced the echoes of his trauma. And now, she faced his fury directly.

Aria closed her eyes and drew in a deep, steadying breath. The storm of rage in her mind was a warning, a challenge, and a revelation all at once. He would hunt her more aggressively now. He would anticipate her moves, stalk her thoughts, and seek to dominate her consciousness.

But she had learned something crucial: he was not invincible. Even at his most furious, even at his most focused, he could be resisted. And that resistance—small, fragile, imperfect—was the key to survival.

Her mind settled, slowly, as the whispers faded to a simmer, though the promise of fury lingered. She knew what she had to do. She could not hide, could not flee indefinitely. The next steps would be dangerous, precise, and deliberate. She would need to combine her understanding, her intuition, and her mental abilities to stay ahead.

Aria's chest rose and fell steadily now, her heart still racing but her mind clear. She would survive. She would resist. And one day, she would turn the tables.

Because the killer's fury, powerful and consuming as it was, had revealed something she had not realized before: he saw her as a threat. He feared her ability to interfere. And fear, in the mind of a killer, was a weakness she could exploit.

The storm had passed for now, but the battle was far from over. Aria rose from the floor, her resolve hardened, her focus sharpened, and her determination unbreakable.

He had vowed to break her mind. But she would not let him.

Soon, he would learn that surviving him was only the first step in fighting back.

CHAPTER 20 — The Abandoned Walls

The clues came together slowly, like a puzzle Aria didn't realize she was assembling until the final piece clicked into place. A street name overheard in the killer's stray thoughts. A rusted sign glimpsed in his childhood memory. A broken hallway flashing behind his rage when he attacked her mind.

At first, Aria dismissed it as noise—old fragments of a life he had tried to bury. But then she noticed something: every time he grew emotional—furious, panicked, or nostalgic—those same fragments resurfaced. A long corridor of peeling green paint. A room number carved into a metallic plate: Ward C-12. A tall iron gate sealed with chains.

It wasn't new. It wasn't a dream. It was a place.

And now Aria knew where to find it.

When she explained it to Rayan, he didn't question her. Not anymore. He listened, jaw tight, eyes sharp, trust replacing doubt. She showed him the scribbled sketches she had drawn from her mental visions—hallways, doors, a sign half-rotted with time.

Rayan studied them for a long moment, then told her quietly, "There's an old psychiatric hospital outside the city limits. Shut down around twenty years ago. Some lawsuits. Abuse cases. It matches this."

Aria didn't need confirmation. She already knew. The killer's mind had taken her there again and again.

An hour later, they were driving in silence along a narrow road slicing through forest. The sky had begun to dim into a faint purple, shadows stretching into claws along the pavement. Aria stared out the window, feeling a pressure somewhere behind her eyes—a warning, a presence.

He was watching.Listening.Waiting.

But he didn't speak. His silence was worse than words.

The hospital appeared on the horizon like a scar on the landscape—tall, decrepit, windows shattered, the roof sagging like a broken spine. A rusted metal sign swayed in the wind, the faded letters barely legible:ST. HAVEN PSYCHIATRIC INSTITUTE

The wind howled through the gaps in the broken structure, producing a low moan that made Aria's chest tighten.

Rayan killed the engine and looked at her."Stay behind me," he said.She nodded, even though they both knew she wouldn't.

They walked through the tall iron gate—exactly as she had seen it in the killer's memory. The chains had long since snapped and rusted away, hanging like lifeless snakes on each side.

Every step deeper onto the grounds made her stomach twist. The killer had walked these halls. As a child. As a teenager. As something worse.

The sensation hit her abruptly—like she'd walked into a cold, invisible wall.Memories.Echoes.Fear soaked into the walls like old blood.

Rayan felt the shift and glanced back."You okay?"She swallowed, forcing her voice steady. "His memories… they're everywhere."

And they were. Every hallway was a corridor she'd glimpsed in fragments. Every door a place where someone had screamed or begged or broken.

As they moved further inside, Aria's fingers brushed the wall.

A shock rippled through her.A child crying.A woman shouting.The metallic taste of fear.

She jerked her hand back."He was here," she whispered.Rayan nodded grimly. "We find anything that helps us track him, we leave immediately."

They passed through a wide lobby filled with collapsed furniture and mold. Papers covered the floor like fallen leaves, brittle and yellowed. The air smelled of mildew and something older—something that clung to the lungs.

Aria's pulse quickened.She felt him.Not physically—but the imprint of who he had been. The shadows of a childhood carved into trauma.

As they stepped deeper, she noticed the door numbers.A-03B-17C-08

Her breath hitched. They were close.Ward C.

She led the way now, her body moving as if guided by the memories themselves. Rayan didn't question it. Not anymore. His faith in her instincts had become quiet and unshakable.

When they reached C-12, Aria froze.Her heart slammed against her ribs.This was the room she had seen again and again.The room where his mother screamed.Where he hid.Where he learned to fear the world.

Rayan gently touched her arm. "We don't have to go in yet.""We do," she whispered. "This is where he became what he is."

She pushed the door open.

The smell hit first. Old mold. Dust. Rot.Then the darkness.Then the feeling—thick and suffocating—of pain lingering in the air like smoke.

The room was small, claustrophobic, with a rusted bed frame shoved against the wall and a cracked mirror hanging by a single nail.

Aria stepped inside slowly.Her foot brushed something metallic.She bent down and picked it up—a small, broken nameplate. The words barely visible beneath rust:PATIENT 23 — L. M.

Her blood ran cold.This was his mother's room.But why would she have been a patient?

Before she could process it, a sharp burst of sound echoed in her head—A scream.A sob.A child crying, "Stop, please, stop!"

Aria gasped and stumbled.Rayan caught her."What happened?""He… he relived something traumatic here," she whispered. "Something violent."

The killer's childhood was more tangled than she realized. His mother hadn't just been abusive—she had been unstable, institutionalized, fighting demons of her own.

And he had absorbed them all.

Aria moved to the cracked mirror.The glass was smeared with old fingerprints.She touched it—And suddenly the room shifted.Not physically, but in her mind.It became brighter.New.Alive.

She saw a boy sitting in the corner, knees to his chest.A woman pacing, muttering, pulling her hair, screaming at shadows only she could see.A nurse yanking the boy out roughly, ignoring his tears.

Aria gasped and jerked her hand back, the vision snapping apart.

Rayan looked shaken but determined. "We need to find his files. Maybe there's something here. A real name. A clue."

Aria nodded.Her limbs trembled, her mind buzzing with the remnants of trauma that wasn't hers.But something else pulsed beneath it—A direction.A warning.

She felt the killer's attention shift toward her.Not a whisper.Not a word.Just an awareness.

He knew she was here.

Her breath caught."Rayan," she whispered, voice tight. "We need to hurry. He feels us."

They moved quickly, searching old file cabinets, broken drawers, rusted lockers. Papers crumbled in their hands, ink faded.

Then Rayan found a metal box wedged behind a fallen filing cabinet.He pried it open.Inside were old medical records—several pages stamped with the hospital's seal.

One record stood out—a file labeled M. L. — dependent child.

Aria felt adrenaline spike.This was him.She didn't know his full name yet, but she was close.Very close.

Before Rayan could hand her the file, a loud, metallic clang echoed through the hallway outside—Footsteps.

Aria's blood turned to ice."Rayan… someone's here."

His hand went to his pocket—his knife, the only weapon they had.He positioned himself in front of her, eyes sharp, body tense.

Aria closed her eyes.Reached out with her mind.Listened.

Not one mind.Not two.Many.

Whispers.Crying.Begging.

Not alive.Not present.Not human.

Voices from memories.Voices from trauma.Voices of the past.

Her breath trembled."Rayan… the voices… they're not his."He looked at her, confused. "Then whose?"

Aria swallowed hard."Victims," she whispered."The walls remember them."

The killer…He was getting closer.

CHAPTER 21 — Voices That Never Left

The abandoned psychiatric hospital grew colder the deeper Aria and Rayan went. The air felt thicker now, as if the shadows themselves were breathing. Aria walked slowly, her fingers brushing the ruined walls, and each touch sent a faint pulse through her mind—like distant footsteps, like whispers far away.

At first, she thought it was the killer trying to speak to her.

But then the voices multiplied.

A young girl sobbing.A man whispering, "Please… don't…"A woman gasping for air.A trembling whisper: "Help me. Someone help me."

Aria froze.These were not memories she had seen before.These were deeper—darker—buried so far inside the killer's mind that she had never felt them until now, standing in the place where his pain began.

Rayan noticed her stiffening."Aria? What's wrong?"

She shook her head slowly, trying to steady her breathing."They're not his thoughts," she whispered. "Not his memories. These are… theirs.""Whose?""The people he killed."

Rayan went still, the weight of her words sinking into the air.

Aria pressed her palms to her temples, trying to shut out the flood of voices rushing into her mind. They came from all directions, overlapping, merging into a wave of sorrow that made her knees buckle.

Rayan grabbed her arm quickly. "Sit—here. Breathe."

But breathing didn't help. The voices weren't fading. They were getting clearer, stronger, as if finally being allowed to speak after years of silence.

"Don't open the door…""He's lying…""He watched me sleep…""He said he could hear my dreams…""He made me choose…""All I wanted was to go home…"

Aria felt tears blur her vision. These voices didn't belong to the present—they were echoes imprinted into the killer's mind, echoing through the walls that had shaped him.

The killer hadn't just murdered these people.He had absorbed something from them—fragments of fear, final thoughts, mental screams. And now she was hearing them all at once.

She forced herself to focus on one voice—a young boy, maybe ten years old.

"He said he was my friend…"

Aria's chest tightened painfully.She hadn't known this victim existed. The police hadn't found evidence of a child among the murders. The killer had hidden it. He always hid the ones that would make the world hate him most.

Rayan watched her, worry deepening in his eyes."Aria," he said softly, "tell me what you're hearing."

She opened her mouth to speak—then another voice crashed through her mind so violently she gasped.

A woman crying, her words broken:"Don't let him see you. Don't let him hear you think."

Aria froze.Rayan leaned closer."What? What did she say?"

Aria whispered, voice trembling,"She said… don't let him hear you think."

A cold realization struck both of them at once.

The victims knew.At least some of them.They realized the killer could hear thoughts—maybe not in the beginning, but before they died, when it was already too late.

"Aria," Rayan said slowly, "are these actual memories he… kept?"

Aria nodded."He hears everything they thought in their final moments. He remembers it. Even when he tries not to."

She touched the wall beside her again, and another jolt hit her—stronger this time.

A woman screaming.A dark room.A rope.The killer's voice calm, curious:"What does your mind sound like when it breaks?"

Aria jerked her hand away, shaking.

"Enough," Rayan said, stepping between her and the wall. "We're leaving this hallway."

But the voices didn't stop when she walked.They followed.Cried.Begged.

Some whispered warnings, their fear echoing into her bones.

"He's coming back…""He knows you're here…""You shouldn't have followed his memories…""He wants you to see it…""He wants you to understand him…"

Aria suddenly realized something chilling.

The killer wasn't hiding his memories anymore.He was leading her into them.

She stopped walking.

Rayan turned. "Aria?"

"He wants me to hear this," she said softly. "He's showing me what shaped him."

Rayan frowned. "Why?"

Aria swallowed hard."Because he thinks… I'm like him."

The silence between them tightened like a wire.

Before Rayan could respond, another wave of voices hit her—so loud she staggered backward.

A man's voice, panicked: "Run, please! RUN!"A girl crying: "He likes the ones who pretend to be brave…"Another voice curled in bitterness: "He doesn't kill fast. He waits. He listens."

Aria gripped the side of a rusted bed frame to steady herself.

Rayan crouched beside her. "We're stopping. Tell me what you need."

She looked up at him, her face pale.

"I need to understand what he's trying to tell me."

Rayan's jaw clenched. "No. That's exactly what he wants."

"He's going to keep killing until I do," Aria whispered. "I feel it. In the voices. In their fear. They're not just memories… they're warnings."

Rayan hesitated—but only for a moment.Then he nodded grimly."Then we'll face whatever he's trying to show you. But not alone."

Aria took a slow breath and let the voices settle, focusing on the loudest one—the one closest to the killer's core.

It wasn't a scream.It wasn't fear.

It was a whisper—exhausted, defeated, almost numb.A man's voice she didn't recognize.

"He wants someone who understands. Someone who won't run. Someone who can hear him."

Aria's breath hitched.

The killer wasn't just hunting for power.He was hunting for connection.

Rayan watched her carefully. "What did you hear?"

Aria closed her eyes.

"He's lonely," she said. "And that makes him more dangerous."

Rayan stood, scanning the hallway. "If he was here before, maybe he left something. Evidence. A clue."

But Aria didn't move.

She felt something new rising beneath the sea of voices—something deeper, darker, closer to the killer himself.

A shadow of thought.A whisper without sound.A message meant only for her.

You're listening, Aria… good.

Her heart slammed painfully.He was inside the voices now—twisting them, guiding them, shaping them into a message.

You hear them because I allow it.You feel them because I want you to.But soon… you'll hear only me.

Aria staggered back, horrified.

Rayan caught her shoulders. "Aria! What did he say?"

She shook her head, voice shaking.

"He's getting closer."

This time…

The voices didn't fade.

They screamed.

CHAPTER 22 — Into the Mind

Aria's hands trembled as she stood in the hallway of the abandoned hospital, the voices of past victims still echoing in her mind. Each whisper, each cry, each plea had been seared into her consciousness, leaving a residue of fear she couldn't shake. But now, she knew she had no choice.

She had to go deeper.

Rayan stood beside her, silent but steady, his presence a grounding force. He had trusted her instincts before, and now he would trust them again. But even his calm gaze couldn't ease the terror curling in her chest.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked quietly.

Aria nodded, her jaw tight. "It's the only way to stop him. I have to confront him… inside his mind."

Rayan's hand hovered near the pocket where his knife rested. "If something happens—"

"It won't," she interrupted. "I can do this. I've been hearing him for weeks, feeling him, sensing his thoughts. I just… have to reach him."

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and focused.

The world around her blurred. The hospital walls, the broken furniture, even Rayan's steady form faded into a haze. Her mind stretched, searching for the source—the killer's consciousness. She felt it first as a pulse, like a heartbeat far away, and then as a dark shape looming in the distance, twisting and writhing, unstable but unmistakable.

Aria's vision shifted entirely. She was no longer in the hallway. She was inside him.

The landscape was unreal, shaped by his memories, his fears, his desires. Shadows stretched like living things across a distorted corridor. Doors opened into rooms filled with screaming voices, echoing endlessly. The air was thick, heavy with panic and anger. And at the center of it all… him.

The killer's consciousness was a jagged tower of obsessions and pain, spiraling upwards, walls lined with reflections of past victims, each trapped in a silent scream. He didn't notice her at first, focused entirely on the echoes of his own thoughts, rehearsing murders, replaying memories. But she could feel his awareness shift as soon as she entered, subtle but undeniable.

"Who's there?" His voice slithered into her mind. Not loud, not commanding, but probing.

Aria steadied herself. "I'm here. Aria."

There was a pause. Then another thought, cold and sharp: "You shouldn't be here. No one enters here."

"I have to," she replied firmly. "You're hurting people. I need to stop you."

The killer laughed—a quiet, twisted sound that made the landscape shudder. "Stop me? You? You think you understand me?"

She forced herself to move closer, navigating the twisted halls of his mind. Every step was a test, every shadow a trap. Voices whispered from the walls, memories of victims crying for release, begging her to turn back. Aria ignored them, focusing on the pulse of his consciousness.

As she approached the center, the environment shifted again. The corridors narrowed, the air grew colder, the shadows deeper. And then she saw him—not fully, but enough. A figure standing tall, faceless, wrapped in darkness, yet radiating control and menace.

"You're brave… or foolish," the voice said. "I've felt you. I've heard your thoughts. You are… different."

"I'm not different," Aria said, her mind steady. "I just refuse to let you continue."

He seemed to consider her words, tilting his head. Then a rush of images assaulted her mind—scenes of murder, blood on walls, terrified eyes staring up at him, helpless hands reaching out. She staggered under the weight of it but held on, reminding herself: she was only observing, only confronting, not becoming part of it.

"You think you can stand in my mind and not be broken?" he asked, voice rising. "Everyone who comes here falls. Everyone."

Aria's pulse quickened, but she refused to yield. She focused on her own strength, the mental control she had been building for weeks. She reached out—carefully, deliberately—into the swirl of his thoughts, testing the boundaries of her presence.

The killer's awareness flared like a storm. "You feel it too, don't you? The others. Their fear. Their pain. You hear them because I allow it. You see them because I want you to understand."

"I do understand," she said. "I understand enough to stop you."

For a moment, silence fell, strange and heavy. Then, almost imperceptibly, she noticed a change—something fragile, hidden beneath the rage and cruelty. A flicker of… fear? Doubt? She couldn't tell, but it was there.

Aria took a careful step closer, focusing on that flicker. "You're still holding onto them—your victims—but not just as tools. You remember them because you're scared. Scared of losing control, scared of being alone."

The shadows around him writhed, testing her resolve. Voices of victims screamed louder, trying to push her back, but she pressed on. "You don't have to be like this. You can stop. You don't have to hurt anyone else."

The killer's consciousness recoiled, flaring violently. "You don't understand! I am what I am! You can't stop me—no one can!"

"I understand more than you think," Aria said softly, stepping closer still. "I've been hearing you for weeks. I know your patterns. Your memories. Your fears. And I've learned—whatever made you, whatever shaped you… it doesn't define what you do next."

The darkness around him pulsed like a heartbeat, faster, more unstable. Aria sensed the storm within him starting to waver. She focused on her own calm, on the steady pulse of her thoughts, letting it seep into the chaos around her.

"I… I control everything," he hissed, but the certainty in his voice faltered. "I… I can hear everything. I can know everything."

"And yet," Aria whispered, "you can't stop me from being here. You can't stop me from trying."

For the first time, she saw him—fully—not the controlled, faceless predator, but the boy beneath. The hurt. The fear. The loneliness twisted into something dangerous. And she understood: this confrontation wasn't just about stopping him. It was about reaching the part of him that still remembered being afraid, being small, being powerless.

The killer surged, a final mental wave of rage, trying to push her out, to destroy her from the inside. But Aria braced herself. She had entered his mind fully now, and retreat was not an option. She could feel the edges of his consciousness trembling, splintering under the weight of her focus, her resolve, and the echoes of the victims around her, their voices guiding her, lending her strength.

For the first time, Aria realized something profound: she could confront him here, not just as a pursuer or a hunter, but as someone who could withstand the darkness, someone who could face the storm without being consumed.

The shadows writhed, the echoes of his victims screamed, the landscape trembled—but Aria stood firm. And the killer, for the first time, seemed… uncertain.

"You…" he whispered, almost a question. "…you're still here?"

"I'm still here," Aria said, her voice calm, resolute. "And I'm not leaving until this ends."

The darkness trembled, and somewhere deep inside his mind, a seed of fear took root.

Aria opened her eyes—though they were still inside him—and realized this was only the beginning.

She had entered the mind of a killer.She had faced his chaos.And she had survived.

But surviving was only the first step.

CHAPTER 23 — The Child Beneath

Aria had stepped fully into the killer's mind, and the mental landscape around her churned like a stormy ocean. Shadows of his memories twisted and collided, screaming echoes of past victims rattling the walls of his consciousness. She had expected chaos—but what she saw next was something far more human, far more horrifying.

A small figure crouched in the center of the storm, shivering, hugging its knees. The figure was pale, eyes wide and terrified, and its clothes hung loosely on a frail frame. It wasn't the predator she had imagined—the unstoppable, calculating killer—but a scared child.

Aria's chest tightened. She had anticipated confrontation with evil, but here, in the raw core of his mind, she saw its origin: fear. Pain. Abandonment.

The child flinched as she approached, pressing into itself as if her presence could harm it. Aria's heart ached, but she knew she couldn't reach him with pity alone. She had to understand. She had to see the transformation.

Carefully, she moved closer. The storm around the child—the swirling shadows of his violent thoughts—slowed slightly as if sensing her intent.

The memories began to play, fragile and fragmented at first, like old film flickering to life. A younger version of the child sat alone in a dim room, hands trembling as his mother shouted, her voice jagged with anger and fear. The boy flinched at every word, every movement, curling tighter into himself.

Aria felt it in her own chest—the fear, the confusion, the helplessness. She closed her eyes briefly, letting herself absorb it.

Then came the small, sharp moments that changed everything. The boy hiding under a bed as his mother raged above him. The night he couldn't sleep because of the screams and the slamming doors. The day he realized that no one was coming to protect him.

The child's small fists pounded against invisible walls in his mind, trying to keep the world at bay, trying to control the chaos he couldn't stop.

Aria whispered softly, "I see you. I see what you went through."

The child looked up at her, eyes wide, tears streaking his dirty face. In that instant, she saw the turning point—the moment fear became anger, anger became control, and control became a weapon.

The next wave of memories hit her like a hammer.He was no longer a child hiding, no longer just reacting. He was learning, adapting, planning. Each cruel act he witnessed became a lesson in manipulation. Every scream he heard became a blueprint. Every moment of helplessness etched a method of survival and domination into his mind.

Aria staggered slightly under the intensity, but she forced herself to continue. She had to see the full transformation.

The child grew older in flashes—teenager, young adult—still scared, still fragile, but now twisting that fear into a mask of confidence. She saw him experiment with control: first small animals, then classmates, then people who trusted him. The same patterns of fear, manipulation, and domination emerged again and again, forming the monster he would become.

She could see it—the monster wasn't born fully formed. It was forged piece by piece from pain, neglect, and anger, sharpened by each secret cruelty and each hidden thought of his victims.

And yet, buried deep beneath the monster, the child still existed. Every calculation, every cold plan, every ruthless act had roots in that shivering boy. The fear, the abandonment, the desire to survive—it hadn't vanished. It had been buried, twisted, weaponized.

Aria's mind shivered under the weight of it all. "So that's you," she whispered. "That's who you really are."

The monster that had terrorized Riverton wasn't some abstract evil. It was a scared child turned weapon, a boy who had never been protected, who had never been loved, who had never felt safe.

Yet, the child's eyes looked at her now with recognition. Not gratitude, not understanding, but raw awareness—he knew she could see him.

The shadows around him reacted violently to her words. The storm of memories and stolen thoughts swirled faster, harsher, like an animal cornered.

"You think you know me?" His voice rumbled through her mind, deep and dangerous. "You don't. You only see what I allow."

"I see you," Aria replied firmly. "The boy. The monster. All of it."

The child within him flinched at the acknowledgment. The monster surged forward, roaring with rage, trying to swallow the small, trembling figure that was him. Aria felt the mental wave hit her chest like a physical blow, knocking her back.

But she did not retreat. She forced herself forward, eyes on the child, on the transformation, on the truth.

"I made myself this way!" the voice bellowed. "Everything you see—the killings, the fear, the control—was the only way to survive!"

"I understand that," Aria said, steadying herself against the mental onslaught. "But it doesn't have to control you anymore. That child… that scared boy… he doesn't have to be lost in the monster you've become."

For a fleeting moment, silence. The storm of memories hesitated. The child curled up in the center of the chaos, trembling, vulnerable, but visible.

Aria reached out—not physically, but mentally, pushing her calm presence into the storm. She let it wrap around the frightened child, letting him feel seen, acknowledged, and understood.

And the monster recoiled.

"No… you can't…" The voice was fractured, uncertain, wavering. "You don't understand… you don't—"

"I do," Aria said softly, even as the storm tried to throw her back. "I see everything you've lost, everything you've suffered, everything that made you what you are. But I also see that you're still human. And that means there's still a choice."

The shadows around the child shuddered. The stolen memories of victims trembled, voices fading slightly, as if giving her space. Aria realized, for the first time, that she could not just see him—she could reach him.

Not completely. Not yet.But the boy—the scared child—was there, and the monster had to acknowledge him.

The storm began to lose its sharp edges, though danger lingered. Aria's pulse raced, her mind fatigued, but she had glimpsed the truth: the killer was not an unfeeling predator from birth. He was a boy who had suffered, and that suffering had been twisted into something deadly.

She understood now.To defeat him, she would have to confront not just the monster, but the child within him.

Rayan's presence was faint in the back of her mind—support, safety, grounding—but here, in the core of his consciousness, it was all on her.

She was ready.

The child and the monster coexisted—fragile, dangerous, terrified, and powerful. And Aria knew: if she could navigate both, if she could reach the scared boy without being consumed by the monster, she could change everything.

But she also knew the storm wasn't over. The monster still roared, still fought, still wanted to dominate. And outside, in the real world, he would do the same if she didn't act quickly.

Aria took a deep breath, steadying herself for the next step. She had seen the heart of the killer—the scared child turned monster. Now she had to confront the full force of him.

CHAPTER 24 — Breaking the Barrier

The world around Aria shimmered as she returned from the depths of his mind. She staggered slightly, blinking against the dim light of the abandoned hospital. The memories, the voices, and the twisted corridors of his mind still clung to her consciousness, leaving her feeling drained but more aware than ever.

Rayan was close, his eyes scanning every shadow. "Aria?" he asked softly. "Are you… okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, though her voice was quiet, strained. "I've seen him… really seen him. The boy inside him. The reason he became… what he is."

Rayan didn't respond, only nodded, sensing the weight of her words. She had never sounded so solemn, so aware of the darkness she faced.

But even as she spoke, a shiver ran down her spine.

It was him.

She could feel it before she saw it. The killer's presence was different now—sharper, heavier, but not just anger. Not just menace. There was recognition in it. He had realized something crucial: she could withstand his mind, navigate his chaos, and remain whole. He had underestimated her before, but now he understood.

And that realization made him dangerous.

Aria's mind flashed back to the child she had seen, the frightened boy hiding inside the monster. She had shown him that she could see the pain behind the cruelty. But now, the monster surged to the surface, a tidal wave of raw force and intent.

She heard his voice—not in her head, but around her, almost tangible, carried on the cold air of the empty hospital.

"You're stronger than I expected," he said. Calm. Measured. But there was an edge to it, a pulse of danger beneath the control. "And that makes you… interesting."

Aria swallowed, realizing he was no longer trying to manipulate her mind. He was shifting tactics. Mental control was no longer enough—he wanted to assert power in the real world.

The shadows in the hallway around them seemed to stretch unnaturally, moving with him as he emerged from the darkness. He was tall, athletic, his movements precise. His face remained calm, almost detached, but his eyes—dark and calculating—spoke volumes. The same eyes had haunted her through whispers, thoughts, and nightmares.

"You understand me," he said softly, almost wistfully. "And yet you oppose me. Why?"

Aria took a step forward. "Because people die when you use your power. That's why. And because you don't have to be alone, not like this."

A shadow moved behind him, twisting unnaturally as he lunged forward. This time, it wasn't a thought. It wasn't a whisper. It was action. He moved with fluid precision, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat.

Aria's heart slammed. Her mind screamed at her to react. She could feel his intent, the deadly certainty behind every motion, but she could also sense hesitation—echoes of the child, the scared boy, lingering in the folds of his consciousness.

"I've controlled everything for so long," he murmured, almost to himself. "I never expected anyone to stand inside my mind and not break… but you did. You saw me. All of me. And now… you're in my world."

Aria dodged instinctively as he swung. The strike was fast, but her body moved with the reflexes she hadn't realized she had. He was testing her, probing her limits, trying to see if he could break her physically when he couldn't break her mentally.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, voice low, almost pleading. "But you leave me no choice."

She froze for a heartbeat. His words were genuine, layered with frustration and pain. This wasn't cruelty for the sake of cruelty—it was desperation, the desperate reasoning of someone who had survived by controlling everything around him, now confronted by someone immune to his usual tactics.

The next strike came faster. Aria twisted to avoid it, feeling the rush of air as his hand sliced past her shoulder. She ducked, rolled, and sprang back, adrenaline and fear sharpening her focus. He was powerful, precise, almost elegant in his violence. But Aria's mind was sharp too. She could sense the hesitation behind every strike—the child, hidden within, still unwilling to truly harm her.

"You don't have to do this," she said, voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. "I see you. The child inside you. You don't need to hurt me to prove yourself."

For a split second, his movements faltered. He froze mid-lunge, as if weighing her words. She saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the tiny catch in his breath. The monster and the child were warring within him, both present in every calculated move.

"You're strong," he whispered, almost admiringly. "Too strong. You shouldn't be. And yet… here you are."

He lunged again, this time with more force, trying to overwhelm her through sheer speed and precision. Aria barely managed to dodge, stumbling back, her mind racing. She could feel his intent, his strategy, his anticipation. He had planned for every counter, every reflex—but he hadn't counted on the empathy, the understanding that fueled her courage.

"You can stop this," she said, voice louder, filled with determination. "You can stop hurting people. You can stop yourself. I'm not your enemy."

The strike froze mid-air. He looked at her, and for the first time, she saw raw vulnerability in those dark eyes. The monster's control was slipping, just enough for the boy beneath to whisper.

"I… don't know how."

Aria's heart ached at the whisper. The boy, so scared, so alone, trapped inside the monster's body, still lingered. And that lingering part was the only thing keeping him from pure destruction.

But the storm wasn't over. The killer recovered quickly, his movements resuming with renewed force. He was dangerous, and he was determined—but now, he was aware of her strength. He realized she could stand against him in mind and body. And that realization made every strike, every lunge, every attempt to overpower her physically, sharper, more desperate.

Aria ducked another blow, her mind calculating, sensing, predicting. She understood the rhythm of his body, the echoes of his thoughts pushing forward, and yet she didn't hate him. She couldn't. She had seen the scared child. She understood the fear and loneliness behind every violent motion.

He growled—not a roar, not a threat, but a frustrated, human sound. A sound of someone cornered by their own power and confronted by someone unafraid.

"You've made me… vulnerable," he said quietly. "Stronger than I imagined. And now… I don't know what to do with you."

Aria's chest heaved. She knew the danger wasn't over. He was still capable of killing if he chose to. But she had seen the truth: beneath every movement, beneath every calculated strike, was a boy longing for understanding, for acknowledgment, for someone to see him without fear or hatred.

That was the key.

She took a cautious step forward, ready to meet him again, not with fists or weapons, but with the presence of someone who could endure him fully, mentally and emotionally.

The killer's eyes narrowed, assessing, calculating, realizing that no physical attack could break her now. He might dominate physically, he might strike with precision—but her mind, her understanding, her ability to withstand his chaos, had given her a strength he could not anticipate.

For the first time in his life, the boy inside him hesitated.

Aria braced herself, ready for whatever came next. She knew the battle was far from over, but she also knew that the path forward lay not in hatred, but in the fragile balance between the child and the monster.

CHAPTER 25 — A Fight Between Minds and Hearts

Aria's back hit the cold wall as the killer stepped into the abandoned hospital corridor, the broken lights flickering behind him. For the first time, she saw him not in glimpses, not in memories, not in mental visions—but in reality.

He did not look like a killer.

He looked like someone who had stepped out of a dream.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharply defined jaw and an Adam's apple that dipped every time he swallowed. His black shirt clung to his toned chest, outlining a body sculpted from years of silent discipline—tight core, strong arms, and the faint shape of six abs beneath the fabric. His presence was magnetic, dangerous only because it was too beautiful.

If people saw him on the street, they would trust him instantly. They would smile at him. They would never, ever call him a murderer.

His eyes—soft but trembling with old pain—locked onto hers.

"You finally see me," he whispered, voice gentle, almost relieved.

Aria's heart hammered. She had seen his mind, his memories, his suffering… but standing before him was different. Too human. Too tragic. Too real.

Before she could speak, footsteps thundered down the hall.

"ARlA!"

Rayan burst in, gun raised, breath heavy. His eyes widened when he saw the man beside her.

Rayan looked powerful too—muscular arms, solid shoulders, tall and athletic, the type trained to protect people. Unlike the killer's smooth, controlled physique, Rayan's build was rugged, strong from fieldwork, not perfection. His presence felt like safety, warmth, reality.

Two completely different kinds of strength stood face-to-face.

Two men who loved her in entirely different ways.

The killer's gaze flicked to Rayan, then back at Aria.

"He can't protect you from me," he said quietly. "He doesn't think fast enough."

Rayan's jaw tightened. "Step away from her."

The killer smiled—but not cruelly. Sadly. "You came here thinking anger would guide you. But I've already felt every move you plan to make."

Just like that—Rayan froze. Not physically, but mentally. His thoughts slammed into a wall, blocked, redirected. He tightened his grip on the gun, but the killer whispered before he could act:

"You planned to shoot near my leg, distract me, then pull Aria back. But I knew that ten minutes ago."

Aria felt the familiar pressure in her head—the killer brushing against her thoughts, trying to reach her.

Aria… come to me. You understand me. No one ever has.

She shook her head. "Stop. Please."

Rayan stepped forward anyway. "Get away from her!"

The killer didn't move. He simply leaned his head slightly, as if listening to a thought floating in the air.

"I already know you'll try to hit me from the left. I'll step back before the punch lands."

Rayan charged—and the killer moved exactly as predicted, dodging effortlessly.

It was like watching a fight already decided.

Rayan threw another hit. Another. Another.

Every move was anticipated.

The killer didn't strike back. Not once. His eyes never left Aria.

"I don't want to hurt him," he murmured. "I only want you to hear me… to feel what I feel."

Aria's chest tightened. His emotions washed through the air—raw longing, broken love, a desperate plea from a heart that never learned how to love safely.

"Don't," she whispered, voice shaking. "Don't do this."

He stepped toward her slowly, eyes soft. "I never wanted to be your monster, Aria. I wanted to be the one person who finally understood you."

Rayan pushed himself up, breath sharp. "Aria, stay back. He's manipulating you."

"No," the killer whispered, "I'm showing her the truth."

He reached a hand toward her—not forceful, not threatening, but gentle, hoping.

"Come with me. I won't hide anymore."

Aria felt her vision blur. His presence filled her mind, not with violence, but with longing so deep it felt like a wound.

He loved her.

In the only damaged way he knew.

Rayan lunged again—but the killer blocked him without effort, like swatting away a shadow. "I don't want to fight you," he said quietly, "but I will if you stop me from speaking to her."

Aria's voice cracked. "Stop. Both of you… stop."

The killer's eyes softened as he stepped closer. "I have never asked anyone for anything. Not in my life." His voice trembled. "But I'm asking you now. Hear me. Really hear me."

Aria's breath caught.

Rayan's fists clenched, helplessly.

The killer reached out, touching her cheek with the back of his fingers—a touch so soft, gentle, careful, like she was something fragile.

A touch filled with unspoken love.

"I never wanted to kill you," he whispered. "I wanted you to save me."

His voice broke.

For a second—just a second—Aria felt herself pulled toward him.

Not by mind reading.

By emotion.

By the lonely boy inside him who had never been loved by anyone.

But then—

The lights above flickered violently, the air thick with danger.

Aria knew what this moment meant.

This was the beginning of the end.

CHAPTER 26 — Aria Reaches Him Where No One Ever Did

The world around Aria flickered like a dying bulb—bright, then dark, then bright again—each pulse stitching her deeper into the killer's mindscape. His thoughts weren't shaped like memories anymore; they were storms, violent and starving, lashing out with every step she took.

She could still hear Rayan's voice calling her name from the real world, distant, muffled—like she was hearing him through water. His hand had been the last thing she felt, gripping her wrist before everything snapped, and she was pulled straight into the killer's collapsing psyche.

Now she stood inside a place that didn't belong to the living.

Cold, hollow corridors stretched in all directions, walls covered in hateful whispers etched into the stone itself. But underneath all of them, beneath the chaos and the static, there was a single beating presence—heavy, aching, drowning.

Him.

The killer.

He wasn't hiding anymore.

Aria followed the sound of his thoughts, quiet at first, then crashing louder the closer she got:

"Don't come."

"Don't look at me."

"Don't see what I am—"

Aria kept walking.

She stepped into a wide, crumbled hall—his subconscious taking shape in the one place his mind returned to again and again: the ruined room where his first trauma had happened, though the details blurred, shifting like smoke. And there he was.

He stood in the middle of the empty space, his back to her, his silhouette tall, shoulders tense. His body radiated fury, fear, guilt—everything twisted so tightly it had become indistinguishable. He wasn't a monster in this place. He wasn't even a man.

He was a wound.

Aria swallowed softly. "I'm not here to hurt you."

His head jerked slightly, but he didn't turn. "You shouldn't be here at all."

"Maybe not," she said gently, taking another step, "but I am."

"I told you to stay out of my mind." His voice cracked like glass. "You'll break."

His words weren't a threat—they were a warning.

A frightened one.

Aria stopped just a few feet behind him. "You think the world sees you as a monster," she said softly. "But right now? All I see is someone who's been alone for too long."

His breath hitched—so quiet she wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't been listening for it.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head, fingers curling helplessly at his sides. "No one sees me. They see what I did. What I became."

"I'm seeing what made you," Aria said.

The room flickered violently, cracks ripping through the walls as if her words struck somewhere deep inside him.

"Stop," he muttered. "Don't try to understand me. I don't deserve—"

"You don't get to decide what I see," Aria said, stepping until she was beside him.

For the first time, he turned.

Even here, in the twisted landscape of his own mind, he looked almost painfully human. His jaw was set tight, but his eyes—those shattered, storm-gray eyes—reflected something she hadn't expected.

Fear.

Not of her.

Of being seen by her.

His lips parted slightly as if he wanted to speak but couldn't find the words.

Aria's chest tightened. "All this time, you pushed people away because you were terrified someone might reach the part of you that still feels."

He flinched.

"Aria…" He said her name like it hurt.

"You think your darkness defines you," she continued. "But I can hear something else. Beneath all the rage. All the scars." She pressed her hand against her own heart. "You care. Even if you fight it."

His breath trembled.

"Don't say that," he whispered. "Don't make me—don't let me feel things I'm not allowed to feel."

"You're allowed," she said softly.

"No," he said, stepping back as the room shook again. "If I let myself feel, I'll break."

There it was—the truth buried under years of violence, fear, and isolation.

He wasn't scared of hurting.

He was scared of hoping.

Aria stepped forward again, refusing to let distance grow between them.

"You think you're beyond saving," she said, "but you don't get to decide that either."

His eyes widened. His defenses shuddered. For a moment, he looked young—lost—even innocent.

"I don't know how to stop," he whispered. "You don't understand. The thoughts… the noise… it never ends. It's all I am."

Aria reached out, slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild animal in pain.

"You're not just your thoughts," she said. "You're the part of you that's fighting them."

He stared at her hand.

Then, for the first time in his life, he let someone touch him.

Her fingers brushed his forearm, and the entire hall blazed with light—blinding, overwhelming—because he had never been touched with kindness. Not once. Not by anyone.

His knees almost gave out from the shock.

"Why are you doing this?" he whispered, voice breaking. "Why are you looking at me like… like I'm still human?"

"Because you are."

His breath tore out of him in a sound that wasn't a sob but close. The walls trembled, not with rage now, but with something softer—something dangerous to him.

Trust.

Aria kept her voice steady. "You're not alone anymore."

The killer's expression twisted—pain, longing, disbelief all fighting inside him.

"No one has ever reached me," he said, shaking.

"I just did."

He stared at her like she had broken the laws of his universe.

"Aria…" He swallowed, voice trembling. "If you keep going, I won't be able to hate you."

She stepped closer, her presence grounding the collapsing room around them.

"Good," she whispered. "Because I don't want you to."

The killer's mask—his armor, his walls, every defense he had ever built—fractured in one silent, devastating moment.

For the first time, he let someone see him.

Really see him.

Not the murderer.

Not the darkness.

But the wounded human buried underneath.

The one who had never been reached.

Until now.

CHAPTER 27 — The Killer Breaks—Not From Hate, But Love

For one suspended moment, time inside the killer's mind softened.

The walls stopped shaking.The air stilled.Even the shadows—those living, breathing storms of his past—seemed to curl inward, watching silently.

Because Aria had touched him.

Because someone finally reached the part of him he had spent his whole life trying to bury.

He stood frozen in front of her, eyes wide, chest rising and falling like he didn't know how to breathe. Her hand still rested lightly on his forearm—a simple touch, but to him, it felt like a miracle he didn't know he was allowed to have.

His voice broke first.

"Why…" he whispered, not understanding himself, "why would you come here? You should have run. You should have gotten far, far away from me."

Aria didn't move her hand. "You weren't running from me," she said softly. "You were running from yourself."

His throat tightened painfully.

"You don't know what I've done."

"I saw glimpses," she replied. "But I also saw why."

He flinched. "That doesn't excuse anything."

"No," Aria agreed. "But it explains everything."

The room cracked again—but not like before. Not violently.

It broke gently, like ice melting.

He looked down at her hand on his skin, confusion twisting into something terrified and fragile.

"Nobody…" he breathed, swallowing hard, "…nobody has ever tried to understand me, Aria."

"I know."

"Nobody has ever spoken to me like I'm still alive."

"You are alive."

His jaw clenched, emotion rippling across his features like he was fighting a war inside himself.

But he was losing.

Not to anger.

Not to madness.

To her.

He lifted his eyes to hers—slowly, as if it hurt.

"You don't hate me," he whispered.

"No."

"You don't fear me."

"No."

"Then what…" His voice shook violently. "What do you see when you look at me?"

Aria took a breath, steady, honest.

"I see someone who never got a chance to be loved."

Something inside him shattered.

It wasn't loud.It wasn't dramatic.It wasn't even visible.

But Aria felt it—through the shared link in his mind—felt it like a glass heart cracking in her own chest.

He staggered back a step, pressing a hand to his face, fingers trembling. His breath came too fast, too uneven.

"Don't say that," he whispered harshly. "Don't—don't give me that kind of hope."

Aria moved toward him again.

"I'm not giving you hope," she said gently. "I'm giving you truth."

The room warped.

The walls bent inward.

The world flickered from darkness to light, then back again.

He was losing control—not because he wanted to hurt her…

…but because he didn't know how to hold something gentle without breaking.

He looked at her helplessly.

"I don't know what to do with what you're giving me," he admitted, voice cracking. "I don't know how to carry something that—" His voice failed. "—that feels good."

"You don't have to know," she whispered. "Just let yourself feel it."

He stared at her.

Then, slowly—almost painfully—he let his defenses fall.

The shadows behind him dissolved into dust.

The walls unbound themselves from the ceiling.

The entire hall opened into a vast, empty sky.

Because for the first time in his life, he wasn't holding everything inside.

Aria stepped closer, lifting her hand toward his face—but paused, waiting.

Waiting for permission.

He inhaled sharply. It was the first time someone ever waited for him.

He leaned into her touch.

The moment her fingers brushed his cheek, he closed his eyes, expression breaking open completely—a raw, trembling mixture of relief and devastation.

"You're the first person who ever showed me kindness," he whispered."And the last person I ever wanted to hurt."

Aria's voice was barely a breath. "Then don't."

"I can't promise that," he said honestly, eyes opening with a kind of tortured sincerity. "Not with the chaos inside me. Not with what I am."

"You're more than what you are."

"And you're more than what I deserve," he murmured. "That's why I'm breaking."

Aria felt it before she saw it—the cracks spreading through his mindscape, but not born of rage or violence. These cracks were soft.

Fragile.

They came from all the emotions he had spent years burying:

The longing.The guilt.The hunger to be seen.The unbearable relief of finally being understood.

His knees buckled.

Aria caught him before he fell.

He stared at her like she was air after years of drowning.

"Aria…" His voice was barely audible. "If there's a world where I could have been different… I think it would have been because of you."

Her chest tightened painfully. "You could have been saved."

He shook his head, eyes glistening with emotion he'd never allowed himself to feel.

"No," he whispered. "You saved the part of me that was human. That's enough."

The ground beneath them fractured entirely—his world breaking apart because he couldn't hold himself together anymore.

Because the truth was:

He wasn't breaking from hate.

He was breaking from love.

Love he was never supposed to feel.Love he didn't know how to carry.Love that felt like it belonged to someone else, someone better.

His breath hitched, tears he didn't know he could shed filling his eyes.

"I didn't know I could feel this," he confessed, voice trembling. "Not… this kind of warmth."

"You're not wrong for wanting it," Aria whispered, gripping him tighter as the world cracked beneath them. "You're not wrong for wanting to be held."

He let out a shuddering breath—a sound so broken it echoed through the collapsing sky above them.

"I'm scared," he admitted.

Aria's voice softened. "Of what?"

"That this feeling…" he whispered, eyes searching hers desperately, "…will be the last thing I ever have."

Aria opened her mouth to answer—but the world split open behind him.The edges of his mind trembled violently.

He was losing himself.

Losing everything.

The storm was calling him back.

He looked at her one last time—really looked—and the expression on his face was devastatingly pure.

Not hate.Not rage.Not vengeance.

But love.

A deep, unspoken, impossible love.

The kind that destroys gently.

He exhaled, voice breaking on the single truth he had never said out loud—not to her, but to himself.

"You reached me," he whispered. "No one else ever did."

Then the floor beneath him shattered.

His world collapsed.

He fell.

Not because she pushed him.

Not because he fought.

But because he finally let go.

Because love—not darkness—was the thing that broke him.

CHAPTER 28 — Aria Feels His Last Thoughts as He Fades

The abandoned hospital was so silent it felt dead. Dust floated through the cold air like forgotten memories, and every broken chair, cracked tile, and hanging wire seemed to whisper the same thing:

This is where it ends.

Aria stood in the center of the ruined hallway, chest rising and falling too fast, the killer's presence pressing against her mind like a storm about to break. Rayan kept a few steps behind her, gun raised, but even he could sense the unbearable tension around them.

Then a tall silhouette stepped out from the shadows.

The killer.

Not a monster.Not a creature of nightmares.A man.

Beautiful in a tragic way—broad shoulders, toned body, elegant posture, jaw as sharp as a carved statue. His dark shirt clung to his gym-hardened frame, and his eyes glowed with a sadness so deep it pulled at her heart.

He looked nothing like the evil the world feared.

He looked like someone who had never been loved.

His gaze fixed on Aria… and for a moment, the hospital around them disappeared.

They were connected so strongly she struggled to breathe.

"You came," he whispered—not in her mind, but out loud, voice trembling. "You… came for me."

Aria swallowed hard. "To stop you."

He smiled softly. "No. You came because you understand me."

That was the moment his mind flooded into hers—

Not harsh like before.Not violent.Not demanding.

Soft.

A trembling hand reaching out in the dark.

Images hit her in gentle waves—his childhood room, his mother's screams, the nights he cried alone, the years of feeling invisible, dangerous, unwanted. She felt every wound. Every bruise. Every moment he begged the world to let him belong somewhere.

You're the only one who ever saw me, his voice whispered inside her.

Aria's breath caught.

Rayan stepped forward. "Don't move!" he shouted.

But the killer didn't even look at him.

His entire soul was focused on her.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Aria," he said softly. "I just… didn't know how to stop the noise until you came."

His mind touched hers again, warm and desperate:

Stay. Don't leave me alone.

Her heart twisted. This wasn't a monster.This was a broken man drowning in loneliness.

"Please…" he whispered aloud, "…don't turn away."

Aria felt tears rise unexpectedly.

"I'm not turning away," she whispered.

For the first time, his expression cracked—pain and relief mixing into something fragile.

Then he stepped closer.

Too close.

Rayan reacted instantly.

"Aria, get back!"

But she couldn't. The killer's presence wrapped around her mind like fading warmth.

And then—

A sharp crack echoed through the hospital.

A gunshot.

Rayan fired.

The killer froze.His eyes widened.A slow breath escaped him.

But he didn't fall—not yet.

Instead… his final thoughts slammed into Aria like a breaking wave.

Thank you for seeing me.Thank you for hearing me.I'm sorry I couldn't be better for you.You were the only bright thing in my life.I loved you in silence.Please… remember me as someone who tried.

Aria staggered, gripping her head as his thoughts spilled beautifully, painfully into her.

Warm.Soft.Breaking.

His body collapsed at last, knees hitting the floor before he slumped against the cold tiles. Rayan rushed forward, shouting his name, checking his pulse, but Aria already knew.

His mind was fading…slipping…dissolving…

And she felt every last drop of him as it disappeared.

Not hate.Not anger.Not darkness.

Only love—so deep it hollowed her out.

The killer's final voice brushed her mind like a dying ember:

Aria… thank you.

Then he was gone.

Completely gone.

Aria fell to her knees as the silence inside her mind shattered her.

He was dead—but she felt the moment his soul faded, and it tore something inside her that she knew would never heal.

CHAPTER 29 — A New Voice Rises… And Aria Is Not Alone

The ambulance lights flashed outside the old hospital, blue and red reflecting over Aria's pale face. She sat on the steps, wrapped in a blanket, but no amount of warmth reached the ache inside her chest.

Rayan crouched beside her.

"Aria," he whispered gently, "he left you no choice."

But Aria didn't answer.

Her mind was too quiet.

Too empty.

For weeks she had lived with whispers, warnings, fear, and a killer's overwhelming presence. But now—after feeling his last thoughts fade into nothing—her mind was a silent, echoing room.

A loneliness she had never known settled deep inside her.

He had loved her.Twisted, broken, desperate love—but real.And she had felt every part of it as he died.

Rayan touched her hand carefully. "You're safe now."

But she wasn't sure.

Safe felt like a lie.

Because the space the killer once filled… hurt.

Rayan looked at her with worry, guilt, and a quiet devotion she didn't yet know how to accept. But she appreciated him. More than he knew.

Still—

Something was wrong.

The air around her shifted.

A cold breeze slid across her spine.

Aria froze.

No… this shouldn't be happening.

Her heart pounded. Rayan noticed instantly.

"Aria? What's wrong?"

She didn't speak.

Because a whisper—soft, unfamiliar—slipped into her mind like a needle sliding under skin.

Not the killer.

Not a memory.

Something new.

Something darker.

Something watching.

The whisper crawled through her mind, slow and deliberate:

"Now you're the only one left…Aria…use it."

Aria's breath caught. The voice was not human. Not broken. Not loving.

It felt ancient.Cold.Patient.

Rayan grabbed her shoulders. "Aria! Tell me what you're hearing!"

But she couldn't.She couldn't breathe.She couldn't move.

Because the whisper echoed again, stronger:

"The killer is gone.Now the power is yours.And you are not alone."

Aria's eyes widened.

The story wasn't ending.

It was only changing.

Her ability hadn't begun with the killer.And it wouldn't end with him.

A new threat had awakened.A new mind was reaching for her.

Aria Walker—the girl who could hear thoughts—had just stepped into something far more dangerous.

She looked up at the dark sky.

Her heart steadying.

Her voice a whisper:

"…I'm still here."

The night whispered back:

"Good.Let's begin."

THE END