Siren Project

I don’t remember killing him. But the blood under my nails said I did. Maybe I started shaking before I dragged the body across the cold marble floor. Maybe it was when I looked down and saw his blood soaking into my gloves. Or maybe it was the moment I stared into his lifeless eyes and realized— I didn’t remember doing any of it. But he was dead. That much was certain. And now, I was here. At the edge of Blackwater Bridge. With a corpse in my trunk... and a head full of static. I killed him. I think. The wind howled like a warning—cold and feral—dragging strands of my blood-matted hair across my face. I shoved it back with trembling hands. My gloves were torn at the seams. Useless. I'd have to burn them. No traces. No mistakes. The body was wrapped in three layers of plastic. Duct-taped. Weighted with iron like luggage. I hadn’t flinched while doing it. Like muscle memory. Like I’d done this before. The thought chilled me more than the wind ever could. I glanced behind me—empty highway, silent bridge. My father’s men wouldn’t think to look here. Not yet. Not until the sun rose and the scent of blood turned undeniable. With a grunt, I heaved the body over the railing. It took only a second—maybe two—before it hit the river with a wet, final slap. The sound echoed louder than it should have. I froze. Listening. Watching. Waiting. Nothing. Just the rippling dark, swallowing another secret whole. Good. I stepped back, heels clicking softly on pavement. My knees ached. My chest was tight—like I hadn’t taken a full breath in hours. That’s when the panic finally crept in. Late. Always late. Too late to stop me. Just in time to tear me apart. What did I do? What am I becoming? A week ago, I was delivering speeches in the Rose Garden. The perfect royal daughter. Composed. Controlled. Cold. Now I was dumping a body into a river like it was routine. And the worst part? It felt like it was. I opened the passenger door and pulled out the black duffel bag. Gloves. Bleach. Acid packs. Burn kit. My hands moved on instinct. Wipe the latch. Spray the steering wheel. Burn the ID he was carrying. I paused, staring down at the fake leather wallet. Who was he? He’d called me Eve when I answered the door. He knew me. And yet, I couldn’t remember his name. I couldn’t remember stabbing him. Just flashes. Red. Screams. His voice—urgent, broken. Something about a file. My name. My father’s name. A warning. Then— Blank. And blood. I struck the match and dropped it onto the ID. His picture curled into ash. A man with soft eyes. A scar down his cheek. Gone. “Focus, Evelyn,” I muttered, wiping sweat from my temple. “Don’t fall apart now.” I slammed the trunk shut and stood still in the cold. Far below, the city lights shimmered—beautiful and oblivious. Somewhere down there, my father was awake. Planning. Hunting. Commander Ardan Ravencroft doesn’t sleep when there’s a killer on the loose. And the killer he wanted? Was me. Or… the version of me that existed when they took control. Because I could feel it now—under my skin. That echo. That pressure in the back of my skull. Like someone had reached in and rewired my thoughts. Like my mind wasn’t always mine. Then I heard it—gravel crunching. Tires slowing. Headlights slicing through the dark. I turned. A black SUV rolled to a stop twenty feet away. No plates. Tinted windows. Engine humming. My phone buzzed in my pocket. UNKNOWN You did well, Siren. Cleanup complete. Step into the vehicle. My throat went dry. The name on the screen burned into my mind: Siren. I’d seen it before. In dreams. In flashes. On a file I wasn’t meant to read. Project Siren. I wasn’t just Evelyn anymore. I was something they’d made. Something deadly. Something obedient. A ghost wearing a crown. And the scariest part? I had no idea how deep it went.