Withering Reflection

CHAPTER II - LOST TIME

The sound of running water pulled Eve out of sleep.

Her eyes snapped open, heart racing, body frozen in a cold sweat. She blinked into the darkness—deep, suffocating, all-encompassing. Her chest felt tight, as though the air had thickened around her. Her breathing came fast, uneven, like she’d just sprinted for miles.

She wasn’t in bed.

She was sitting up—on the cold, unforgiving floor.

For a moment, Eve didn’t move, only listened. The sound was soft, steady—almost… soothing, if not for the growing panic creeping up her throat.

A faucet.

The running water hit her ears like a distant drumbeat, slow and deliberate. The realization hit her stomach with the force of a punch.

She hadn’t turned it on.

Her pulse quickened as the oppressive silence of the room seemed to press in on her. She felt the tightness in her throat and the weight of the shadows hanging around her.

What the hell happened?

She struggled to her feet, legs unsteady beneath her, as if she hadn’t moved in hours, maybe longer. The soft thud of her palms against the tile echoed in the room. She pushed herself up, leaning against the sink to steady her breath. The fluorescent light above her buzzed, faint but persistent, flickering in the shadows like a warning.

The mirror in front of her wasn’t much better. She could barely recognize herself—her hair a tangled mess, eyes bloodshot and hollow from lack of sleep, skin sickly under the harsh light. The woman staring back at her seemed like a stranger.

She turned off the faucet with trembling fingers, the water still running in soft spurts for a moment, the droplets clinging to the sink's edge in defiance.

Pink.

Her breath hitched as she leaned closer, her reflection blurred in the edges of the sink. The color—it wasn’t rust. She knew what rust looked like. She knew what aging pipes looked like. This was different. This was—

Blood.

Her hand shot out involuntarily, fingers tracing the edge of the porcelain. The pale, sticky residue wasn’t rust or anything else that could be explained away. Her mind couldn’t process it, but her gut screamed.

Her nails—darkened, stained. She recoiled, stumbling back as a cold sweat broke out over her body. The knot in her stomach twisted violently, a sickness clawing up her throat.

No, no, no.

Her breath became shallow as she pulled her hand back, her thoughts scrambling, trying to grab onto something—anything—but it was like she was slipping away from herself. The room seemed to tilt as memories dissolved before she could hold onto them.

She sucked in a shaky breath, trying to steady herself, her reflection still haunting her. She was in control, wasn’t she? She hadn’t done this. She hadn’t—

She couldn’t remember.

Her last memory.

The crime scene. The body in the alley. The smell of blood in the air. Victor’s voice, soft and cold like a snake, pulling at her insides.

After that?

Nothing.

It was like a wall had dropped over her, cutting off the memories, shrouding her in a fog that didn’t belong. She had to remember. She had to.

Her phone buzzed somewhere in the next room, breaking through the haze of panic clouding her mind.

The only thing she could focus on.

Eve stumbled to the bedroom, her legs stiff, like they belonged to someone else. Her hand reached out for the phone, and she grabbed it, eyes still hazy with confusion.

3:47 AM

Missed Call – Jonah (2)

New Message – Victor Hale

Her fingers hesitated over the screen as she unlocked it. She stared at the message first, the timestamp sending a jolt through her chest.

Victor Hale [3:42 AM]: Did you sleep well?

Her heart pounded in her ears.

Did you sleep well?

She hadn’t told him she was going to sleep. She hadn’t told him anything about her state. Her stomach churned as she stared at the words, a crawling sensation starting in the back of her neck. Something wasn’t right. She wasn’t ready to open it.

Before she could set the phone down, a sharp knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

Her blood ran cold, the room suddenly too small, the walls closing in around her. Her heart was hammering now, panic bubbling up in her chest, desperate to claw its way out. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

The knock came again. Firm. Unhurried.

Her breath hitched as she stood frozen. She stared at the door, her fingers twitching, almost afraid to move.

Then—

The whisper.

So faint. So quiet, it could have been the wind, or the house settling. But it wasn’t. It came from the other side of the door, curling around her like smoke.

Her heart thudded in her chest, each beat a loud warning in her ears.

Her stomach twisted in knots, and the sound of her pulse drowned everything else in her head.

She knew—she knew—that she should stay still. Not move. Not open the door.

But something inside her, something she didn’t understand, urged her to take that step. She couldn’t resist.

A long pause. Silence stretched too thin.

Then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate.

Each step rang out with purposeful intent. Her legs were frozen, her breath shallow as she stood in place, unable to move.

They grew quieter, receding into the distance. But Eve didn’t budge. Not for a long time. She listened for the sound of movement, for anything that would tell her who was out there.

Nothing.

Eventually, she moved to the peephole, heart still racing.

The hallway outside was empty.

The air felt colder now, heavier, like the room itself was holding its breath. She stood there, staring through the peephole, but there was nothing. No sign of anyone.

Morning came too quickly.

The office felt like a different world. The fluorescent lights buzzed in the cold silence of the room as Eve sat at her desk, staring at her case notes. The words blurred before her, tangled together, the edges curling and warping like a twisted dream.

The phone was still there—silent now. Jonah’s call history. Two missed calls.

"Looks like hell," Jonah’s voice cut through her reverie, jarring her back to the present. He stood next to her desk, coffee in hand, his brow furrowed with concern.

She blinked, barely registering the coffee, the quiet chatter in the background. “Didn’t sleep.”

Jonah raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on her before he sat on the edge of her desk. “Something’s off with you. I called last night. Twice.”

“I saw,” she muttered, trying to calm the tremor in her voice. “Sorry.”

His frown deepened as he leaned forward, eyes narrowing with concern. “You okay?”

The question hung between them, but Eve couldn’t answer. She wasn’t sure anymore.

Instead, she flipped through her notes—anything to ground herself, to stop the swirling thoughts. Then, her fingers froze on the page.

The outline of The Veil’s weapon wasn’t just a sketch anymore.

It was a detailed description.

Her handwriting.

The curvature of the blade. The handle's weight. The way the metal felt when it sank into flesh.

Eve’s stomach lurched, her breath caught in her throat. She had never held that knife before. She had only seen the crime scene photos.

But here it was—her hand, writing down the exact feeling, the texture, the precise movements.

How did she know this? How?

Her hands trembled as she closed the notebook, a cold sweat breaking out over her fo

rehead.

The nausea wouldn’t stop. The fear was suffocating.

Eve swallowed hard.

The truth was clawing at her.

She was running out of time.