Following the rooftop confrontation, Lila returns to work only to discover her space has been marked in silence—by a man who never asks, only claims. But this time, it's not Damien's gesture alone that haunts her. A stranger leaves a warning that suggests she isn't the first. That someone else wore the same thread. And didn't survive.
---
Last line from Part 5:
[ "You shouldn't be afraid of the watching, Lila. You should be afraid of what I see." ]
---
The storm had passed, but the air still felt charged.
Lila stepped into the lobby of Blackwell Tower, the scent of ozone clinging to her coat. The city was washed clean after last night's rain, but the tension wrapped around her shoulders like a second skin.
She crossed the lobby without glancing at the reception desk. The guards didn't stop her. They never did anymore. It was as if the building had accepted her—or swallowed her whole.
The elevator waited with its usual precision. As the doors whispered shut behind her, she caught her own reflection in the mirrored walls.
She looked different.
Not because of the clothes or the tired eyes. Something beneath that.
Something that Damien Blackwell had touched. Not physically. Not entirely. But in a way that still echoed in her bones.
The elevator rose.
Thirty-ninth floor.
The moment the doors opened, Lila felt it.
A pull.
Like a string.
---
The floor was quiet. Too quiet.
Her heels clicked across the slate-gray tiles like gunshots in a chapel.
The lights were dimmed again—not broken, just subdued. Intentional. It gave everything a silvery cast, as if the day hadn't fully decided whether to begin or vanish.
She walked past the empty desks. Past the one-way mirror.
Her own glass pod loomed at the end of the hall, gleaming like an aquarium cell.
It looked untouched.
Until she saw it.
A thin, crimson thread, looped once again around the armrest of her chair—tied in a perfect, symmetrical knot.
This wasn't a coincidence.
Not twice.
And this time… the thread wasn't alone.
Her pulse spiked as she moved closer.
There was a folded note tucked underneath the thread. Smaller than before. Thinner paper. Different handwriting.
Not Damien's.
That fact chilled her more than anything.
She reached down, breath caught in her chest.
The thread unfurled with the softness of something ceremonial.
She took the note in both hands, afraid it might dissolve in her fingers.
One line. Handwritten. Block letters. Unfamiliar.
> "She wore the thread too. She's gone."
The words hit her like ice water.
Lila froze.
Her eyes darted around the empty space, heart thudding.
The hallway behind her?
Empty.
The one-way mirror?
Black. Still.
But now it didn't just feel like observation.
It felt like hunting.
She backed up a step, breath tight.
Gone?
Who?
Was this real?
A joke?
A mind game?
Or a message left by someone who'd seen what happened when you didn't obey?
Lila turned the note over.
Blank.
No name. No instructions.
Just that warning.
Her stomach twisted.
Suddenly, the entire office felt like a mausoleum.
How many people had come before her?
How many wore the red thread?
And how many vanished?
---
She sat down—because she had to—but her body stayed tense.
The tablet powered on, but she didn't reach for it. Her hands hovered, eyes flicking back and forth across the walls. Glass. Reflection. Nowhere to hide.
He'd marked her again.
But someone else had intervened.
She wasn't alone in this story.
And that made it worse.
---
Thirty stories above, in a room without a name, Damien watched.
He hadn't placed the second note.
And that infuriated him.
On screen, Lila held it between two fingers like it was a dead thing. She looked different this morning—sharper. Edges defined. Not broken. Not yet.
His jaw tightened.
He turned to the archive console and keyed in a single word:
EVELYNE.
Nothing.
No file.
He tried again.
PROJECT: MUSE—REDACTED.
Still nothing.
Someone had scrubbed it.
Only two people could do that.
And he didn't authorize it.
He stared at the black glass.
"Rhys," he said softly.
From the shadows, Rhys appeared like smoke.
"She found something."
Damien's voice was even.
"She wasn't meant to find that."
Rhys didn't respond.
His silence was answer enough.
Damien turned to face the glass again.
"She's not her."
Rhys remained still.
"But she might be worse," Damien added, almost to himself. "She might actually survive."
---
Downstairs, Lila finally opened her tablet.
This time, there was no blank canvas.
No prompt.
Just an image waiting for her.
It was the same sketch from the day before.
Only now, the figure had eyes.
Drawn in delicate, inked detail.
Her eyes.
And they were staring directly at her.
Beneath them, in looping ink:
> "I see you now."
Her hand trembled.
She slammed the screen shut.
She looked again at the mirror.
And this time, she whispered—
"Good. Then watch me burn."