The sterile scent of antiseptic struck Elias the moment he entered the hospital's corridor. The lights buzzed faintly above, casting a cold, bluish glow across polished linoleum floors that looked too clean for a city like Duskmoor. The hallway was quiet — too quiet — the kind of quiet that clung to you like static. Somewhere down the wing, a distant intercom crackled to life before falling silent again.
He kept his coat close, rain still dripping from the hem, and made his way toward the psychiatric wing. He hadn't set foot in Saint Aldwyn's in years. Not since the last time they'd brought in someone claiming to have seen the Revenant's eyes in their sleep.
This place never changed. Still felt like it was holding its breath.
Dr. Soren Vale's office was tucked into a forgotten corner of the third floor. The door stood slightly ajar, the frosted glass glowing softly from the light within. Elias pushed it open.
The room was small, lined with overfilled bookshelves and the faint hum of a space heater working overtime. Psychology texts sat beside dusty case files. On the wall hung a black-and-white photo of the old city, Duskmoor before the towers, before the smog, when it still believed in the sun.
Vale sat behind his desk, his salt-and-pepper beard trimmed, his grey eyes unreadable. The man hadn't aged so much as hardened, like clay left out in the elements too long.
"Elias," he said softly. "You came."
Elias shut the door behind him. "You said it was urgent."
"It is."
Vale gestured to the chair opposite him. Elias hesitated only a second before sitting. The doctor slid a manila envelope across the desk. Inside were photographs. Some were blurred — motion caught mid-frame — others disturbingly sharp. Close-ups of flesh. Wounds. A girl's lifeless eyes staring up from beneath river weeds.
Elias's throat tightened.
"These aren't public," he said.
"No," Vale replied. "And they won't be."
Another folder followed — thinner, but heavier in implication. Notes. Scribbled lines on wrinkled sheets. The handwriting was jagged, frantic, as though the words had been dragged from the page by shaking hands.
"What is this?" Elias asked.
"They were found yesterday," Vale said, voice low. "At the scene. Inside a locked drawer… of your old apartment. The one you haven't been to in years."
Elias didn't answer. He flipped through the notes, his eyes catching phrases that chilled him:
> "The mirror is not a window. It's a door."
"He remembers what I forget."
"You can't bury what never died."
The final page was the worst. A sketch. The Revenant's symbol — the same sigil carved into the victim's chest. But this one was drawn with unnerving precision. Familiar strokes. Fluid. Practiced.
His hand.
"No," Elias whispered, almost to himself.
Vale leaned forward. "Do you remember writing them?"
Elias looked up. "You think this is a confession?"
"I think it's a message. From someone who knows you well. Or… someone who is you."
Elias stood abruptly. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"That psych-voodoo twist. You know damn well I'm not—"
"Then tell me who is, Elias," Vale said, voice sharpened. "Because these patterns, this timing — it's not random. The latest victim? Her name was Mira Vance."
Elias blinked. The name punched through his thoughts like ice water.
"You knew her," Vale said. "Three years ago. She came to you. Said she was afraid of someone following her. Said she saw things in mirrors."
Elias remembered. Vaguely. A quiet girl with frightened eyes. He hadn't taken her seriously. Had filed her fears under stress and delusion. Told her to avoid dark alleys and get some sleep.
Now she was dead.
"How did she die?" he asked, voice low.
"Same as the others. Drowned. Marked. But there was no sign of struggle, and no water in her lungs. Elias—she didn't drown. She was placed in the river. Already gone."
Elias sat again, slower this time.
He reached into his coat and retrieved a cigarette, but Vale raised a hand. "Hospital."
He pocketed it with a sigh. "I need answers, Vale. Not riddles. Not accusations."
"I'm not accusing you," the doctor said, his voice softening. "I'm trying to help you."
Elias looked at the notes again, his fingers tightening around the edges.
"There are… gaps," he admitted. "Pieces I don't remember. Minutes. Hours, sometimes. But I thought it was just—grief. Fatigue."
"Or something deeper," Vale said. "Something fractured."
Elias didn't reply.
Vale studied him for a long moment. "Have you ever had a blackout, Elias? One where you weren't sure what you did? Where you found yourself in a place you couldn't explain?"
Elias looked up sharply. "What are you getting at?"
Vale hesitated. Then he opened a drawer and slid a small mirror across the desk.
"Tell me what you see."
Elias stared at the reflection. For a moment, he just saw himself — tired, gaunt, drenched from the rain.
Then — a flicker.
His reflection blinked after he did.
He pushed the mirror away with a jolt, his breath quickening.
"I need air."
He stood, grabbing the folder and shoving it into his bag.
Vale didn't stop him. "Elias," he said, voice low. "If the Revenant is still out there… and if these notes are from you — we don't have time. Whoever's doing this knows you. And if it is you… you're running out of space to hide."
Elias paused at the door.
"I don't know what I saw in that alley last night," he said without turning. "But that boy… he said I was coming back."
"And maybe you are," Vale said softly. "The question is — which part of you?"
Elias left without another word.
Outside, the wind howled through the alleyways, tugging at his coat like fingers from a dream.
Far above, in the reflective glass of the hospital's top-floor windows…
His reflection lingered a second too long.
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