Sitting quietly in his car, Mark Jefferson waited for the drop to arrive. It was difficult to stay calm, despite the windows being heavily tinted and his 1990 Chrysler looking completely unremarkable beside the other parked cars on the street. It was a chore to remind himself to breathe through the rising summer heat.

The sun was creeping higher in the sky, causing him to sweat. But he dared not crack a window open, not at the risk of a passerby recognizing him. It was Wednesday, only a week since he'd been forced to leave Blackwell, and the allegations against him would still be fresh on people's minds. Now and again, his eyes would creep to the rearview mirror, looking for a police car to come crawling around the corner, red and blues flashing. But none came.

"C'mon, c'mon," he muttered, gazing at the road leading to the school. It was his first drop since he moved back and he badly needed it—food, toiletries, bottled water, supplies to last him for the next three days. Nothing eye-catching, of course. Nothing that would draw attention to a young student shopping at the local convenience store.

There! Rounding the corner was the familiar red bomber jacket over the buttoned-up vest. Nathan brisk walked down the street, his eyes front and his mouth turned down, trying to look inconspicuous and failing at it. Still, he had done his job—he carried two full paper bags full of groceries. Jefferson's chest loosened.

It had been an enormous gamble, doing this. He had taken the risk that Nathan was still his to control and that Sean hadn't discovered the burner phone in Nathan's dorm. Thankfully, the gamble had paid off. It took only one call to get Nathan back on his side, to explain that his father had been as cruel to them both. He pleaded with the boy for help—they were in this together, weren't they?

And thankfully, Nathan believed him. The boy was a hopeless, spineless incompetent most days, but he could at least get this one task right.

Nathan approached the trash can and started looking around. Jefferson cursed under his breath. Just put the fucking bags down and walk away, you little shitstain. Seeming to hear him, the boy set the paper bags next to the trash can. Nathan gazed about morosely, searching the line of cars along the sidewalk, but eventually gave up and, shoulders slumped, trudged back the way he came.

Jefferson took no risks. He waited ten minutes to ensure no one was following Nathan, then he finally started the car. Parking beside the trash can, he swiftly got out, grabbed the bags, threw them into the backseat, and drove off.

It had been a harrowing seven days since he was dropped from Blackwell, and he had spent the first three of them on the run, driving as far south as he could before abandoning his car. He shaved off his beard, threw away his thick glasses, and traded his suit for a denim jacket, jeans, and a baseball cap, aiming for the penniless fisherman look that was common all over town. Then he paid in cash for a drab-looking Chrysler and snuck back into Arcadia Bay.

He could no longer return to the barn, of course. He needed a new Dark Room, a place to hide so he could take one final desperate act for survival—to capture the Incarnate and trade her for Dionysus's favor. The only question was—could he actually do it?

It isn't a very constructive question, is it? If I don't do it, it's only a matter of what kills me first: life on the run or Prescott's goons. And if Prescott managed somehow to become a full-fledged member of Dionysus? The Twins would find me within a week.

Every time he thought of that, his legs turned to water and his mind blanked. How could it turn out like this? Just a few months ago, he was the absolute god of his world, pursued by fashion magazines and universities alike, free to pick and choose where he wanted to work next and with whom. He wished with all his might for that life to return. Now only Dionysus has the power to give it back.

On a whim, he turned the corner and drove down to his former home. It was a stupid thing to do; the police or some nosy neighbor could be watching for him. Still, he couldn't help it—he ached to see something that still belonged to him. It was, after all, the site of his first real victory.

The house came into view and he slowed the car down to look. For one dreadful moment, he expected it to be covered in birds again, but the white roof and windows were clear. However, several windows had been shattered, and someone had spray-painted obscenities on his mailbox.

It pained him to see it. He had lived in that house all his life before leaving Arcadia Bay. And despite the horrific memories, he never could let go of the place. Some absurd, suicidal part of him even wanted to get out of the car, go into the house, and make himself a cup of coffee.

But what if the birds are in there, Mark? asked a voice in his head. What if they're all waiting for you to come in?

He shuddered. The voice sounded an awful lot like his mother, the way she would terrify him with such stories to force him to behave. If the birds weren't lying in wait for him in there, the memory of her would be. Shaking himself, he pressed on the gas and sped toward the edge of town.

He thought about how much he hated coming back to this place, having to live in that house again. This tiny seaside town would slowly choke the life out of anyone with even a figment of a dream. And yet—and yet! He owed this place so much of what he was now. Even as it had strangled him, it had nourished him. Just like his mother—almost every memory he had of her was as educational as it was cruel.

When he was a boy, he never had anything he could call his own. After his father had disappeared, his mother Nora took control of every aspect of his life, telling him what to wear, how much to spend, what part-time job he should take. Jealous of his time, interested only in saving every penny she could possibly get, she dissuaded him from making friends or going out. She made him live by her tenet: if you wanted nothing, life could never disappoint you.

Except young Mark did want something. He wanted to be seen.

Blackwell High had a Photography Club, and every season their works were showcased in the main hallway. Every time he walked down the corridor to class, Mark could see their works, a few slivers of reality caught on photo paper. Birds, the beach, people playing chess in the sunset. He would stop and stare at each one, tracing every line of every black-and-white image until he'd committed each to memory.

The head of the Photography Club was a senior girl, Isabelle McKenna, a tall, green-eyed girl with brunette locks that curled their way down her shoulders. She smiled at him when he stuttered his request to join. "Tell you what," she said, "if you can get a camera and show us some of your work, I'll consider it." Then she winked. "Show me what you got."

From then on, Isabelle's face would float before him each time he lay in bed at night. The delicate bow of her lips would leave him hanging on the verge of sleep. He wanted nothing more than to take her picture.

He knew he couldn't possibly scrape together enough money to buy a camera, nor could he hope to borrow one—he had no real friends, and bullies made a habit of taking whatever money he could spare.

So he took the only available option. He spent a few weekends at the Baywalk, waiting and watching at the picnic tables. When a tourist left his Nikon camera unattended, Mark walked by, swiped it into his bag, and ran off. He'd fully expected to be caught, but he made it out of the docks Scott-free.

He then spent the last bit of his allowance buying film and developing fluid. It left him skipping lunches every other day, but he managed. He knew his mother would be livid if she found out, so he chose the attic for his dark room since she never went up there.

For weeks, he copied what he thought would be good shots based on the photos in the gallery. His first attempts were neither good nor bad, but he couldn't afford to be mediocre. Each time he thought he had a good enough photo, he imagined the bow of Isabelle's lips turning down, and he would start over.

"Why do you keep going into the attic?" Nora once asked him as they sat down for dinner.

"Nothing," he mumbled. "Thought I heard rats, or maybe raccoons nesting up there." And to his relief, she never brought the subject up again.

Every spare time he had from his chores and part-time job, he would go out and take pictures. Each one was, to his mind, completely banal and forgettable, nothing like the graceful photos on display in Blackwell. But he figured he was getting better, even if only little by little. If he just kept working, eventually he would have something worth showing.

In his daydreams, he would imagine Isabelle smiling at him as she looked through his portfolio. She would ask if she could model for him, to immortalize her with his art. The image of her pure, innocent face made him tremble with desire.

One morning, he woke up early and, as was his habit, reached beneath his bed to get his camera. It wasn't there.

Heart almost bursting, he leaped out of bed and searched his room. The camera was nowhere in sight. He climbed the stairs to the attic to look. All his photographs were gone. His bottles of development fluids were also missing.

Finally, we went downstairs to find his mother waiting for him in the kitchen. She called him over, looking at him sternly. "You've been lying to me, Mark."

"What?"

"I know about your little hobby. Are you going to tell me the truth, or are we doing this the hard way?"

Through the haze of panic, he said, "What are you talking about, Ma?"

Her mouth hardened. She grabbed his arm and pulled him to their backyard. In the middle of the grass was his father's old barbecue grill, on which were stacked his month's worth of photos. Beside the grill was a wooden stool. On it was his Nikon and a claw hammer.

"Pick it up," she said, pointing at the hammer.

"No, Ma! Please! I'm not hurting anyone with it—"

"You spent the money I gave you—my hard-earned money—on frivolous things. It ends today." She jabbed at the stool with her finger. "Pick it up. I won't ask again."

Weeping, he grasped the wooden handle and held it before him like a crucifix. "Please," he whimpered.

She ignored him. "Destroy it," she said, pointing at the camera.

Mark had no choice. He raised the hammer overhead and brought it down on the Nikon. There was a tinkle of glass as the lens cracked. It felt like he had shattered his own heart.

"Again."

He imagined his mother's hand on the stool instead of his beloved Nikon, and the hammer came crashing down. Glass and bits of metal flew in every direction. He bellowed and swung again, and again, till there was nothing left of the camera but bits of plastic and dented metal.

"Now..." His mother pulled out a can of lighter fluid from her apron. She sprayed the pile of photos before handing him a matchbox. "You know what to do."

"Ma," he whispered, pushing his words past the tears. "Not that."

Her meaty hand closed around his shoulder, louder than any command. He pulled out a match, lit it, then threw it onto the pile. It burst into a bright flame that gave up a plume of black, acrid smoke. The noxious scent of burning chemicals hit his nose; he thought he was going to faint.

Through the haze in his head, his mother leaned in and said, "That's a good boy. Mama loves you very much. But don't waste my fucking money ever again."

Jefferson blinked. The old dirt road he had been following led him through a copse of trees on the outskirts of town. Sunlight dappled the grass and the roadside wildflowers. Close by, a train rattled past.

He checked his rearview mirror to be sure he wasn't followed. Satisfied, he maneuvered the Chrysler behind the trees, out of sight from the dirt road. After covering it with a tarp, he picked up his groceries and made his way up a small mound, past a rusted chain link fence. Checking once more to ensure he was alone, he reached down to the cunningly-made fake grass, grasped the metal rung there, and pulled. The camouflaged trapdoor lifted up from the ground, revealing a short flight of concrete steps that ended at a metal door with a keypad beside it. He followed the stairs into the darkness, closing the entrance behind him.

By now, he had gotten used to the place long enough to punch in the key code in the dark. He let himself into his new Dark Room, hitting the light switch as he went.

He owed Nathan for this new hideaway. The boy had told him of how his grandfather had seeded the town with storm shelters, hoping to break into a new market for preppers, only to have himself blasted to Kingdom Come by a lightning storm. With the exception of the one in the Prescott barn, his network of shelters had been left unfinished. Just a bunch of identical concrete bunkers empty of supplies or furniture. This one, at least, had working electricity.

He set the groceries down on the only desk in the main room and looked around. The room was bare bones: no paintings adorning the walls, no giant printer, no studio equipment, not even a proper bed. Just a table, a single wooden chair beneath a fluorescent bulb, a bag of sedatives, a handgun, and a roll of duct tape.

It was not a lot, but it was all he needed for his plan.

For an instant, he envisioned the Caulfield girl trussed up in that chair, caught halfway between sleep and terror, staring at him with those doe eyes set in that pale, delicate face. The perfect ingenue. But if he was right—no, not if—it HAD to be her. Had to be. It had come down to her and Rachel, and Max was the one with the damn cigarettes.

Sighing, he picked up the glasses on his desk and put them on. Then he reached for the desk's drawer and pulled out a folder from the top of the pile. It contained all the information he had gathered on Rachel and her associates. It had taken weeks of work to gather it all, and in the end, she turned out not to be the one. Still, he could use this info to trap his quarry. If he could grab Rachel and take her phone, he could bring Max to him.

Be careful. That quiet mouse of a girl has the powers of a god. One wrong move and I'll end up a smear or a smoking pound of cooked flesh.

He snapped the folder shut, frowning in thought. Max was not omniscient, at least. She was a young girl who trusted too much in her friends. He'd already spent some weekends observing her, watching her spend the night either in the dorms or in the Price house. All he needed was to find a chink in her armor. One careless moment was all he needed; one quick jab of a needle while she was waiting for the bus.

He just needed another chance. One more stroke of luck.

After all, it had been luck—not strategy, not wit—that let him get rid of his mother. It had been the most important lesson of his young life.

One afternoon, when he had just turned twenty, he opened the front door to hear an almighty crash coming from within the house. Dropping his work bag onto the floor, he sprinted through the kitchen and down the short hall to find the basement door open. Peering through the dim light emanating from a single hanging bulb, he saw that the stairway had almost completely collapsed—only a portion of the wooden stairs dangled loosely from the concrete wall.

Lying on the basement floor among the shattered remains of the stairs was Nora.

"Ma!" Filled with terror, he grabbed the handrail and lowered himself to the basement. He nearly hurt himself picking his way through the shattered pieces of wood and rusty nails. As he reached his mother, something crunched beneath his foot. He looked down to see a syringe at the edge of the swinging bulb's light, along with a length of plastic tubing.

"Ma?" He got to his knees close to his mother. She lay face down, covered in dust, blood pouring out of one ear, her neck bent nearly 90 degrees. He was afraid to touch her, lest he made her injuries worse. "Ma!"

The faintest breath stirred from her mouth. "M-Mark?" she whispered. "Get help."

He sprung to his feet to do as she asked, only to find he couldn't move. The terror that had seized him was ebbing away. As he stared down at her broken form, at how the blood was forming a dark halo around her head, he began to smile.

There was something about the darkness of this place, the enveloping silence broken only by his mother's labored breathing, and how her eye swiveled up to question, to plead, that filled him with a sense of power. Here was the woman who'd strangled him all his life, brought to ruin by a rotten staircase. Her life was in his hands.

He watched as understanding and horror crept across her face. He listened to her agonized wheezing as she struggled to speak. He waited as her blood coagulated on the wood and stone, as her lips turned blue, and her labored breathing slackened. It was as if her life was draining into his own body. He had never felt so in control. If only he could take a picture.

After he was sure she had taken her last breath, he backed away and pulled himself out of the dark basement. His hands still shook with glee as he reached for the phone to dial 911.

And so he had gotten his final revenge with no effort at all. He was worried that the police would question him, but they found more syringes in the basement and ruled that her death was accidental. He became the sole owner of her house, and after he cashed in her life insurance policy, he had enough money to do as he wished. The plan came swiftly: rent out this home, study at the Chicago Academy for the Arts, and become the photographer he'd always longed to be.

He could barely sleep the night he was set to leave town. He had spent all day with his head in the clouds, dreaming of everything he would do when got to Chicago. But mostly, he savored the glorious feeling of standing over someone helpless, of having complete power over their life. He imagined sweet Isabelle lying on the floor of his dark room, passed out from the contents of the syringe in his hand, and his guts rumbled with excitement.

Eventually, he nodded off. When he woke up again, it was in the middle of the night in an ice-cold room, despite it being the height of summer. He tried to sit up but it was as if a heavy stone was on his chest. As he struggled to breathe, his eyes fell on the door to his bedroom. It creaked open, revealing a shadowy form with its neck bent like a broken matchstick. It was Nora.

Every pore on his flesh puckered. His heart stopped and his breath steamed in the freezing air. His mother raised a pale arm and pointed at him, her black eyes round as could be, and her voice seemed to come from beneath the ground.

"You'll never see your dreams bear fruit. You'll be food for the raven and the carrion crow."

He woke up dripping in sweat, gulping down one breath after another. He didn't wait; he grabbed his suitcases, vacated his home, and waited four hours in the bitter night air for his bus to arrive. And in the next few years, he proceeded to bury that nightmare under his work.

For a time, life was good. He dreamed new dreams. His star rose above all the others; his name was in all the papers. And he kept on dreaming until the day he crossed paths with Sean Prescott.

A noise woke Jefferson from his reverie. Blinking, he put the folder down on the desk and listened. There was some scuffling coming from the bunker entrance. Did he only imagine it? Or were those actual footsteps?

Frowning, he pushed himself off the desk and headed for the entrance. As he was turning into the corridor, a BANG echoed through the walls as the steel door rattle against its hinges. Jefferson froze, barely believing his eyes as dust cascaded from the frame. Then another blow struck the door and cracks appeared on the concrete where it was bolted.

He backpedaled into the main room then sprinted to his desk. Pulling open a drawer, he grabbed his handgun and pushed the safety off. His hand shook as he did so; he knew exactly what was behind that door.

The entire room shook as the steel door slammed open. Jefferson spun around, gun in hand, barely holding in a scream. Footsteps echoed down the hall, slow and deliberate.

Two figures appeared in the doorway, one a stone-faced giant, the other a slim woman wearing dark glasses. He'd seen them before and knew precisely who they were. If they were here, it meant his end.

"Hello there!" Maja gave a small wave. "Mark Jefferson, ja? Sorry to barge in, but we're in a bit of a rush."

He raised the gun. "Get back!" he shouted.

Maja stepped behind Alrik. "Please don't shoot my brother. You'll only ruin his shirt and piss him off."

When Alrik lowered his head to step through the doorway, Jefferson pulled the trigger. Two shots rang out like a cannon in the concrete room. Two black holes appeared on the giant's wide chest. Alrik didn't even flinch.

He reached Jefferson in three long strides. One slap from his left hand knocked the gun from Jefferson's hand. The returning backhand smacked him across the face like a sledgehammer. His neck snapped to the right. His ears caught the crunch of breaking plastic as his glasses went flying. His vision grayed, and the next thing he knew, he was rag-dolled on the floor on the far side of the room.

Groaning, he struggled to his elbows, running his tongue around to count his molars. Blood dripped from his lips and his skull split with pain. Focusing his gaze, he realized Alrik was towering over him and raised a warding hand. But the giant merely pulled him onto his knees, one hand clamped around his shoulder to hold him still.

"H-how...?" Jefferson whimpered.

Maja crouched before him, grinning. Her sunglasses were of pink plastic with unicorns at the sides—probably from a souvenir shop. "I know you thought you were being clever, Mr. Jefferson, but you weren't that hard to find. Our files on you stated you were close to Nathan Prescott. So we tailed him, and sure enough..." She sniffed as she looked around. "Though as far as hideouts go, this is the pig's ass.

"Well, to business, shall we? You won't believe the trouble we went through these past two days, so I don't really want to waste any more time. I have two questions: who is the Incarnate, and where is the stolen laptop?"

"I'll cooperate," Jefferson gasped. "Please, don't put me under—"

"Being honest, your cooperation doesn't really come into it. Alrik, if you please."

"NO!" But Alrik's enormous hands grabbed the sides of his head, holding him like a vice. Jefferson shut his eyes, but Alrik's fingers pried them open.

"Before we start," Maja said, removing her shades. "I just want to say—I really admire your pictures."

There were no whites in her eyes—they looked like black marble, or pits drilled deep into the earth. At the center of each dark orb was a tiny formless iris of sickly yellow. As Jefferson watched, the yellow spread outward like a growing amoeba. A wild array of colors emanated from them, and he was staring into a prismatic sun.

"That's it. Give in to me."

The adrenaline was fading now, replaced by a feeling of serenity. He was being silly; there was no danger here. He was in trusted company. A tentative smile crossed his lips. All he wanted to do now was give her what she wanted, to say the name. Max Caulfield.

NO! I didn't come this far to end like this! He clamped his mouth shut and fought for his last tether of reality. If he gave what they wanted, they would kill him for sure.

The colors faded somewhat, but Maja's voice came back, ringing in his head. "Your will is strong, but not stronger than mine. Don't struggle. I own you now."

To his horror, a second set of irises appeared beneath the first. Alien colors radiated from them, filling his mind with dazzling light. There was no resisting it; his will was melting away like shadows at dawn. There was nothing to do but to tell her—

Just say it. Say it. Max Caulfield. Max Caulfield. MAX CAULFIELD.

He opened his mouth to speak, then the colors all vanished.

Jefferson gasped, blinking away tears. Once more, the only light in the room was the overhead lamp above.

An incoherent scream grabbed his attention. Before him, Maja was curled on the ground, clutching at her eyes. Alrik knelt next to her with his hand on her shoulder.

What just happened?

"THAT BITCH!" howled Maja. "SHE DID SOMETHING TO ME!" Still clutching at her face, she managed to pull herself together enough to sit up, Alrik cradling her in his arms. When she pulled her hands away, Jefferson couldn't help but stare. She was weeping blood.

"You fucking little weasel," she snarled and pulled a handgun from her coat. Jefferson ducked his head as she pointed it at him. "You WILL talk. And I would choose my next words very, very carefully, Mr. Jefferson. There are still many ways for you to die. You may have heard that my control power is a one-time deal—once you break out, I can't bring you under again. But you don't want to know what else will happen if I gaze at you a second time. I guarantee you'll wish I used this gun instead."

"Okay, okay." Jefferson raised his hands in surrender. "You don't have to hurt me. I'll tell you everything I know." Sweat broke out all along his forehead as he forced himself to think. If he let these monsters claim the credit, he was done for.

Then, a flash of inspiration. He pointed to the desk. "That folder over there."

Maja nodded to Alrik. "I'm alright. Just get it for me." She kept the gun on Jefferson as Alrik picked up the folder from the desk and handed it to her. She opened it and they read it together.

"Rachel Amber," Maja muttered, ebony eyes gleaming. "Excellent work, Mr. Jefferson. And the laptop?"

"I don't know where it is," he admitted. "Prescott's men were working that case."

"Then I suppose this is goodbye." Maja aimed her gun at his chest. The barrel looked like another eye, blacker than the ones in her head.

"Wait!" cried Jefferson. "I know someone who might know! And I can tell you more!" He swallowed hard. "I can help you capture the Incarnate. I know her weaknesses. If you let me live, I can show you how to get to her. You'll even solve problems for me and Prescott. It's three birds with one stone!"

Maja considered him for a moment. Then she grabbed the nearby chair and sat astride it, propping her hands and chin on the backrest. "Alright," she said, slipping her shades back on. "Two minutes."

Jefferson's chest loosened. He knelt in front of her like a man before a guillotine. Like he told himself earlier, he had come much too far to die now.

He started talking—haltingly at first, then faster as the words came surer, the ideas spinning out from the dark loom of his thoughts.

When he finished, out of breath, sweat staining his whole shirt, he sat back on his heels and watched Maja's face. She remained still, expressionless. Beside her, her twin flexed his fingers; the joints of his knuckles cracked and popped.

Then Maja smiled. "He's got imagination, Alrik," she said. "Let's keep him a bit longer."