Lucien didn't expect to see the detective again.
Not this soon.
And definitely not walking straight toward him like he'd made up his mind about something.
For a moment, Lucien just watched him approach, expression unreadable. Based on everything so far, the man wasn't exactly fearless. He had seen enough to understand things were wrong—deeply wrong.
And yet—
Here he was.
That either meant courage.
Or stupidity.
Maybe both.
"You still planning to arrest someone?" Lucien asked flatly.
The question hit harder than it sounded.
The detective's steps slowed slightly, a flicker of awkwardness crossing his face. The confidence he had before was gone—replaced with something far more grounded.
He cleared his throat.
"…No," he admitted. "I'm here for the real killer."
A pause.
"And I owe you an apology. I misread the situation."
Lucien studied him for a second, then gave a small nod.
That was enough.
"You here to help?" he asked.
The detective hesitated.
"…Yeah," he said, though his tone wasn't as firm this time. His hand tightened slightly around the shotgun he carried. "Just not sure how useful this is going to be."
Lucien glanced at the weapon.
"Very."
The answer came without hesitation.
That caught the detective off guard.
Lucien had already thought this through.
Mary Shaw didn't move freely.
She needed vessels.
Anchors.
Those dolls weren't just tools—they were limits.
If she could create them endlessly, she would have. Spread them everywhere. Made herself impossible to kill.
But she hadn't.
Which meant—
There was a cap.
A maximum.
And anything with limits—
Could be broken.
"Destroy the dolls," Lucien said calmly. "You weaken her. Enough damage, and she has nowhere left to run."
The detective blinked once.
Then nodded slowly.
That made sense.
More sense than anything else he had heard so far.
Lucien's gaze shifted slightly. "How many weapons did you bring?"
"…One," the detective admitted. "Department's not exactly well-stocked."
"Ammo?"
"That," he said, tapping his pocket, "I have plenty."
Lucien gave a faint nod.
Good enough.
Sometimes—
Volume solved problems faster than precision.
"Where is she?" the detective asked.
Lucien turned slightly, eyes drifting toward the distance.
"Retreated," he said. "Back to where it started."
Before the detective could ask more—
Footsteps approached.
Jamie returned, slightly out of breath, a metal container in hand.
Gasoline.
He stopped in front of them, glancing between the two. "Got it."
Lucien nodded once.
"Good."
No more explanations were needed.
The three of them got into the car.
From a distance, the Walker couple watched in silence.
One man with a shotgun.
One carrying fuel.
And one—
Who had just forced something inhuman to run.
It didn't look like an exorcism team.
It looked like something else entirely.
Mr. Walker exhaled slowly.
"…We're not following them."
His wife didn't argue.
Some lines—
You didn't cross twice.
—
The drive didn't take long.
The theater sat isolated, surrounded by overgrown land and still water that reflected nothing clearly. Time had eaten away at the place, leaving behind only structure and memory.
The road ended early.
They continued on foot.
Mist rolled in thick layers across the ground, swallowing distance and distorting shapes. Every step felt heavier than it should have.
Then—
Laughter.
Faint.
Distant.
Wrong.
Jamie stiffened.
The detective's grip tightened on his weapon.
The sound came again.
Closer this time.
Not human.
Not entirely.
Fear crept in slowly, subtle but effective. It didn't hit all at once—it built, layer by layer, tightening around the mind.
Lucien kept walking.
Unbothered.
After a few seconds, he spoke—
"Why are you afraid?"
The question cut through the tension.
Neither of them answered.
Lucien didn't look back.
"You're here to kill her," he continued. "You think she doesn't know that?"
Silence.
"If she could kill you outright," he added calmly, "she wouldn't be hiding in the dark trying to scare you first."
That—
That landed.
Jamie's breathing steadied.
The detective blinked once, the pressure in his chest easing slightly as the logic snapped into place.
This wasn't dominance.
This was delay.
Which meant—
"She's stalling…" Jamie muttered.
Lucien didn't respond.
Didn't need to.
By the time they reached the water, the fear had loosened its grip.
They crossed in silence.
And stepped into the theater.
—
Inside—
Rot.
Dust.
Decay.
The smell hit immediately, thick with damp wood and something older beneath it.
Lucien moved without hesitation, heading straight toward the back.
Like he already knew where to go.
The others followed.
The preparation room behind the stage was worse.
The beam of the flashlight cut through the darkness—
And revealed it.
Bodies.
Parts.
Wood and flesh mixed together in incomplete forms scattered across the floor. Limbs without torsos. Heads without expressions.
Half-finished.
Abandoned.
Jamie's stomach tightened.
The detective didn't speak.
Because there wasn't anything to say.
Then—
Lucien stopped.
"There," he said.
They followed his gaze.
A small figure hung in the corner.
A child.
Or what used to be one.
Strings bound its limbs, holding it upright like a display.
Jamie stared.
"…Who is that?"
Lucien's voice didn't change.
"Your relative," he said. "The one who disappeared."
A pause.
"The beginning of all this."
Jamie's mind raced.
Everything he had been told growing up—
The story.
The curse.
The punishment.
It all started to feel… wrong.
Lucien turned slightly.
"You were told your family caused this," he said. "That this is revenge."
Jamie nodded slowly.
Lucien let out a quiet breath.
"That's not the truth."
The temperature dropped.
Subtly.
But enough.
"She didn't become what she is because she was wronged," Lucien continued. "She was already like this."
The air shifted.
Something was listening.
Lucien didn't lower his voice.
"I saw her work," he said. "Her notes."
"Obsession. Experimentation. One goal—perfect puppets."
His eyes moved across the room.
"You don't make those without materials."
Jamie's expression changed.
"…You're saying—"
"She was already killing people," Lucien said flatly.
Not a theory.
A conclusion.
"Your family didn't create this," he added. "They stopped it."
The silence deepened.
Something moved.
Behind them.
Slow.
Subtle.
Lucien didn't stop.
"She needed an excuse," he continued. "And she got one."
A faint tremor ran through the room.
Covered shelves began to shake slightly.
"She wasn't punished unfairly," Lucien said, his tone sharpening. "She got exactly what she deserved."
The shaking grew stronger.
The detective glanced around, tension rising fast.
Jamie's heartbeat spiked.
But Lucien—
Lucien just smiled faintly.
"And now," he finished, "she calls it revenge?"
The cloth covering the display cabinets—
Trembled.
Lifted.
Then—
Dropped.
Revealing them.
Rows.
Dozens.
Over a hundred dolls.
All facing forward.
All staring.
At him.
Their mouths opened—
At the same time.
A scream tore through the room, layered, overlapping, inhuman.
"LUCIEN—!!"
Jamie clutched his ears, staggering back.
The detective did the same, the sound drilling straight into his skull.
But Lucien—
Didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
He just looked at them.
Cold.
Unimpressed.
Then spoke.
"Shut up."