Rain whispered against the tall windows of Dr. Isolde Crane's office, tracing silver lines down the glass. The city outside was a blur of lights and motion, but inside, the air was still—too still. The clock ticked softly, marking the seconds between breaths. Across from her sat Victor Hale, his hands trembling in his lap, his eyes darting to the corners of the room as if something unseen lingered there.
"You said he's been following you," Isolde prompted, her voice calm, professional. "Tell me more about him."
Victor swallowed hard. "He doesn't follow me. He… appears. When I close my eyes, when I sleep, when I think I'm alone. He knows what I want before I do. He makes me feel things I shouldn't."
Isolde leaned forward slightly, pen poised above her notebook. "You're referring to Damien Vale?"
Victor's gaze snapped to hers. For a moment, his fear sharpened into something else—longing, maybe. "You've heard of him."
"Only from you," she said. "You've mentioned him in every session for the past month."
Victor's lips twitched into a faint, haunted smile. "Then you understand. He's not like anyone else. When he looks at you, it's like he's peeling you open. You want to run, but you can't. You want to scream, but you're too busy wanting him."
Isolde's pen hesitated. "You believe he has some kind of control over you?"
Victor shook his head. "Not control. Permission. He gives you permission to be what you really are. That's worse."
The rain deepened, a steady rhythm against the glass. Isolde studied him carefully. His pupils were dilated, his pulse visible at his throat. Classic signs of obsession, she thought. But there was something else—an undercurrent of euphoria that didn't fit the fear in his voice.
"Victor," she said gently, "have you been taking any new medication? Stimulants, perhaps?"
He laughed, a hollow sound. "You think this is chemical? You think he's a hallucination? He's real, Doctor. He's real, and he's coming for me."
"Why would he do that?"
Victor's eyes flicked toward the window. "Because I tried to leave."
Isolde followed his gaze. The street below was empty except for the reflection of neon lights in puddles. When she turned back, Victor was staring at her with sudden intensity.
"He'll come for you too," he whispered. "He likes people who think they can't be broken."
A chill ran through her. "Victor, no one is coming for me. You're safe here."
He smiled again, but it was wrong—too calm, too knowing. "That's what I thought."
The session ended in silence. Victor left without another word, his footsteps fading down the hall. Isolde sat for a long time, staring at the empty chair. The scent he left behind lingered—something metallic, faintly floral, like roses and blood.
She shook it off, closing her notebook. Another delusional patient, she told herself. Another mind lost to fantasy. Yet when she reached for her glass of water, she noticed faint fingerprints on the rim—dark smudges that shimmered faintly under the light, as if burned into the glass.
Two days later, the call came.
"Dr. Crane? This is Detective Lorne. I'm afraid I have some bad news. Your patient, Victor Hale—he's been found dead."
Isolde's pen slipped from her hand. "Dead? How?"
"Heart failure. Sudden. No signs of struggle. We found your card in his pocket, so we thought you should know."
She thanked him mechanically, but her mind was already racing. Heart failure? Victor was thirty‑five, healthy, terrified but alive. She remembered his last words—He'll come for you too.
That night, she couldn't sleep. The rain had returned, tapping against her windows like restless fingers. She sat at her desk, reviewing her notes. Every line about Damien Vale felt heavier now, more deliberate. She opened her laptop and typed the name into a search bar.
Nothing. No records, no photographs, no trace of existence. Only a few obscure mentions on anonymous forums—rumors of a private society called The Veil, a place where pleasure and pain were indistinguishable, where people went to lose themselves.
She almost closed the browser, but then she saw it: a single image buried in an archived article. A man in a black suit, half‑turned toward the camera, his face blurred by motion. Even through the distortion, his presence was magnetic. The caption read: Damien Vale, founder of The Veil, 2012.
Her pulse quickened. The name was real. The man was real.
A knock startled her. She froze. It was nearly midnight. When she opened the door, no one was there—only an envelope lying on the floor. Inside was a black card, smooth and cold to the touch. Embossed in silver was a serpent coiled around a single word: The Veil.
Beneath it, in smaller letters, her name.
Dr. Isolde Crane.
She stared at it for a long time, the rain whispering behind her. The card smelled faintly of roses. The same scent Victor had left in her office.
Her rational mind screamed to throw it away, to call the police, to forget. But another part of her—the part that had leaned forward when Victor spoke, the part that had felt that chill when he said He'll come for you too—wanted to know more.
She placed the card on her desk, tracing the serpent's curve with her fingertip. The silver shimmered faintly under the lamplight, almost alive.
When she finally turned off the light and went to bed, she dreamed of a man standing in the rain, his eyes dark and knowing, his voice a whisper that slid beneath her skin.
Welcome, Doctor, he said. I've been waiting.