Chapter 9 — The Trap
1169 Words
The night was silent.
Too silent.
Camille sat in the dark, barefoot on the cool hardwood floor of her bedroom, a switchblade in one hand and a wine glass in the other.
The mirror stared back at her like a second set of eyes.
The new one.
Clean. Untouched.
Except it wasn’t.
It had hidden a camera once.
And she had no reason to believe it wasn’t hiding another.
So she sat.
And waited.
---
Archer had wanted to stay.
So had Julian.
Even Damien, after showing up uninvited at her brother’s house with that photo, had offered to “protect” her.
She said no to all of them.
If she couldn’t face this alone, she had no business playing this game.
She had no business surviving it.
So she turned off the lights. Left her door unlocked. And waited.
For them to come to her.
---
It happened at 3:12 a.m.
The softest creak of floorboards.
The hiss of breath not her own.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Not even when she saw the reflection in the mirror.
A shadow.
Tall. Lean. Confident.
Damien.
She’d know that walk anywhere.
He stood behind her.
Close.
Too close.
He said nothing.
Neither did she.
Not until he reached for her shoulder.
Then—
She moved.
Blade up.
Spun around, slicing the air between them.
He caught her wrist—barely.
“Camille!” he hissed.
She pressed the blade closer. “Don’t. Lie.”
“I’m not here to hurt you—”
“Then why are you in my apartment at three in the damn morning?”
“I saw the mirror was replaced. I checked the footage.”
Her heart slammed.
“There’s more?”
“There’s always more,” Damien said darkly.
She shoved him back.
He let her.
But his eyes never left hers.
“There are things you don’t understand,” he said.
“Then explain.”
He glanced toward the window. Then the closet.
Then back at her.
“Not here.”
“No. Here. Now. Or I swear to God I’ll gut you where you stand.”
He believed her.
For a second, she almost believed herself.
---
Damien ran a hand through his hair. The mask he always wore was cracking.
“There’s someone else,” he said finally.
“I know.”
“You don’t. Not really.”
She folded her arms. “Then enlighten me.”
“You ever heard of The Keepers?”
She frowned. “The what?”
“The three of us—me, Julian, Archer—we were part of a group. Back when we were younger. Right after your brother… left town.”
She remembered.
Marcus had vanished for nearly a year after a brutal breakup and some kind of “incident” they never talked about.
When he came back, he was colder. Smarter. But more closed off.
Damien went on. “The Keepers weren’t a gang. More like a pact. We protected each other. From the world. From ourselves. From… people who wanted to hurt us.”
“Like who?”
“Like the one watching you now.”
Camille’s mouth went dry.
“There’s a fourth.”
Damien nodded.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. That’s the problem. One of us broke the pact. Went rogue. Started watching. Recording. Manipulating.”
“And you think it’s one of you.”
“I know it is.”
“Then why haven’t you stopped them?”
Damien stepped closer.
“Because I don’t know which of us it is.”
---
That night, Camille let him stay.
Not because she trusted him.
But because she finally understood just how deep this rabbit hole went.
---
By morning, she had a plan.
If the watcher was one of the three, she needed to flush them out.
And to do that, she needed bait.
Herself.
---
She texted Julian first.
Told him she needed a quiet day. A place to hide.
He offered his studio.
She accepted.
Archer texted five minutes later.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
She didn’t reply.
Then Damien slipped a note into her pocket when he left.
It read:
“If you feel eyes on you, don’t look. They want to be seen.”
---
Julian’s studio was tucked above a bookstore downtown. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A massive canvas in the center. Shelves of art supplies and sketches.
It was a sanctuary.
Until it wasn’t.
Camille settled into a corner and pretended to doze.
She’d set up her own camera.
A tiny lens, hidden inside a sculpture across the room.
If someone came…
She’d know.
---
It took four hours.
At 2:09 p.m., the door creaked open.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
But her heart screamed.
The steps were quiet.
Soft.
But wrong.
Not Julian’s gait. Not Damien’s. Not Archer’s.
Lighter.
Feminine.
She risked a glance.
And saw her.
A woman.
Mid-thirties.
Black gloves.
Dark glasses.
Long braid.
Stranger.
Not one of them.
---
The woman moved like a ghost.
She scanned the room.
Checked under the canvas.
Then walked straight to the sculpture.
Camille’s sculpture.
The one hiding the camera.
The woman reached inside.
Took something out.
Then… left.
Like nothing had happened.
---
Camille waited ten full minutes.
Then bolted for the sculpture.
The camera was gone.
But in its place?
A single item.
A red wax seal.
Pressed into a coin.
The same symbol from the mirror.
The same from her dreams.
A serpent.
Eating its own tail.
---
Camille didn’t go home.
Didn’t call anyone.
She took a cab to an old motel outside the city. Paid in cash. No name.
Then opened her laptop and pulled the footage from the backup drive.
She paused the moment the woman looked directly into the sculpture.
She zoomed.
Enhanced.
And froze.
She knew that face.
Or at least—
The eyes.
The woman looked like her.
But older.
Sharper.
Twisted.
Like a broken reflection.
---
The message became clear.
This wasn’t just a game.
It was a warning.
A mirror.
A threat.
And now Camille had to ask the real question—
What if the person watching her… was made by her?
What if she had created her own monster?
---
She opened a drawer.
Inside was the old photo Marcus had given her.
The one Damien left behind.
Her sleeping face, half-lit by shadows.
She studied it.
Then flipped it over.
Two words scrawled on the back in red ink:
“You started this.”
Her hands trembled.
Not with fear.
But with fury.
---
She called Marcus.
He didn’t answer.
She called Archer.
Voicemail.
Julian.
Nothing.
Damien.
Straight to disconnect.
They were gone.
Or someone had made sure they couldn’t help her now.
---
She sat on the motel bed.
Alone.
Holding the red wax coin.
And finally, she understood.
The trap had worked.
But not on them.
On her.
And the only way out…
Was to stop playing by their rules.
And make her own.
- Writer
