"Go, go!"

"Quick, into the van!"

We bolted from the shack and dove into Thompson's van, hearts racing. We had to go to Portland, as soon as possible.

"Does anyone know how to drive?!"

"I'll drive," Wendy said, taking the wheel with grim determination.

We piled in, panting and terrified. The situation was spiraling out of control. So wrong—so much worse than I ever imagined.

Why didn't I think this through? Why didn't I see it?

This was never about Mary imitating others. That wasn't the point at all. She… she didn't have a real identity from the start. There was never a 'her' to begin with.

"Guess who?"

The man, a middle-aged father, was heading home from work, lost in thoughts of his family, when two cold hands suddenly covered his eyes.

"…?" He froze, startled by the unexpected touch. His heart skipped as he instinctively tried to pull away, but the grip was unnervingly firm.

"Excuse me…?" he muttered, voice shaking.

"Guess."

The voice was light, high-pitched—clearly that of a young woman, maybe a student.

"I… I don't know. Really."

He searched his memory. Maybe his daughter's friend? A distant relative? No one came to mind. Slowly, the hands lifted from his face.

"Turn around."

He did as told. Standing there was a teenage girl, dressed casually with a school badge on her backpack, her face lit up with an innocent smile. But there was no recognition—he had never seen her before in his life.

"…Huh?" He blinked, confused. "I don't—excuse me, but do I know you?"

"You don't know who I am?"

The moment he leaned in, squinting to get a better look, a sharp blade slashed across his throat. He didn't even have time to process the pain before she stabbed him again—this time in the stomach.

"Ack—! Ugh—"

As he staggered, clutching at his throat, trying to keep himself alive, the girl wiped the blood splattered on her face, her smile unbroken.

"Shame. Neither do I."

Then, with terrifying precision, she drove the knife into him again. And again. And again, until the man was no more than a mangled heap of flesh.

"Is this the Portland Police Bureau? There's a terrorist attack—no, this isn't a joke! You have to listen to— Damn it!" Valentino slammed his phone shut, frustration boiling over.

The cops didn't believe us—just thought we were pranksters. Tambry was glued to her phone, eyes darting across the screen. No luck there either. We were teenagers; no one was taking us seriously.

"…Guys, look at this."

Tambry shoved her phone toward us. She'd found something on the Portland High School community page. It was exactly what we feared.

[tyruld wury: Stay away from the station, there's some psycho stabbing people!]

[WY yulit: This crazy girl's killing everyone, here's a pic]

The image was blurry, but it was clear—blood splattered everywhere, the chaotic blur of someone moving violently in the center.

Wendy caught a glimpse in the rearview mirror, her face hardening. "Mary…"

"Tambry, can you locate where this is happening? What station are they talking about?" I asked, urgency rising in my voice.

"I—I don't know! I don't want to do this anymore… this is—"

"The faster we find her, the sooner we stop this! Got it?" My voice was harsher than I intended, but we didn't have time. Tambry's fear was justified, but we had to act. Lives were at stake, and beyond that… the Pines twins. If word got out that this was tied to the Mystery Shack, they might have to go back home. That would ruin everything. They were my only shot at stopping Bill…

"I've got it! It's… Portland Union Station!" Tambry yelled, eyes widening in realization.

I fumbled with my phone, quickly punching in the address. The GPS lit up—twenty minutes away, and we were already pushing the speed limit.

"…Wendy, we need to go faster."

"Hold on." Wendy pressed the accelerator harder, and the van lurched forward, picking up speed—maybe too much speed. It was reckless, but we had no choice.

Then it hit me. "…You have a license, right?"

"…."

"Wendy… you do have a license, right?"

The chaos in Portland Union Station had already begun to spiral out of control long before Mary arrived. Word had spread like wildfire—rumors of a girl, an unhinged teenage girl, killing people indiscriminately, with no apparent motive. The atmosphere was suffocating, the weight of collective fear thickening the air. People huddled together, whispering, praying, hoping they would be spared. But that fear… it began to twist.

It started as a sense of foreboding, then panic. Soon, reality itself seemed to bend under the pressure of that overwhelming terror. Reality, shaped by fear, began to unravel.

Mary emerged from the shadows, moving with unnatural precision, a knife gleaming in her hand. Her face—eerily calm, almost serene—was smeared with blood from earlier victims, her eyes devoid of any trace of humanity. She walked forward with purpose, slicing through the crowd like a force of nature.

Screams erupted as people began to run, but there was nowhere to go. Union Station, once a bustling hub of transit, had turned into a labyrinth of nightmares. People shoved, pushed, and trampled each other in their mad scramble for safety, but there was no safety here. Not with her among them.

A crowded bus was still at the platform, packed to the brim with terrified commuters. Inside, people banged against the windows, screaming at the driver not to open the doors.

"Don't! Don't open it! She's out there!"

"Please! For God's sake, just go! Get us out of here!"

But the fear in the bus was so strong that it seemed to manifest its own twisted reality. Without anyone touching the controls, the doors slid open. The passengers froze in horror, eyes wide as Mary stepped in, her knife dripping with fresh blood.

"No… No!" one of the passengers screamed, clinging to the seat.

But there was no escape. She lunged, her blade cutting through flesh with the ease of someone long past the point of remorse. Blood sprayed across the bus, staining the windows as bodies slumped to the floor, lifeless.

The driver tried to bolt for the door, but Mary was faster. With one quick slash, his throat opened, and he collapsed onto the steering wheel. The horn blared as his body slumped, blood pooling beneath him.

Outside the bus, the police arrived in full force, their squad cars screeching to a halt as they poured out, guns drawn. But they weren't prepared for her. How could they be? She wasn't just another disturbed teenager. She had become something more—something far worse.

The fear they felt, the anxiety that rippled through their ranks, only strengthened her. Their fear gave her power. The air around her seemed to shimmer with dark energy, her presence distorting the very fabric of reality.

"Drop the knife!" an officer shouted, his voice trembling, trying to maintain composure.

But Mary didn't listen. Instead, she smiled—a soft, almost affectionate smile. She tilted her head, as if contemplating something, and then, without a word, she moved. Faster than they could react.

She dove into the line of police officers, her blade flashing. In seconds, blood spattered across the pavement. The officers fell one by one, their screams cutting through the air, their bodies collapsing in gruesome heaps. The station was now a warzone—civilians running, officers dead or dying, blood everywhere.

Somewhere, a mother screamed, clutching her child as they tried to hide behind a pillar. Others huddled under benches or behind kiosks, but it didn't matter. Mary seemed to know exactly where they were. Their fear made them visible to her, like beacons in the dark. She was drawn to it, feeding off it, growing stronger with every scream, every sob.

Another group of officers rushed in, firing their weapons, but even bullets didn't seem to stop her. Each shot that should have connected with flesh seemed to bend, missing her by inches, as if reality itself was warping around her. She laughed—an eerie, detached sound—and ran toward them.

The massacre unfolded in brutal detail. No one was spared. Mary moved through the station like a force of pure malevolence, her knife slashing and stabbing with precision. She left a trail of bodies in her wake, the ground slick with blood. The walls were splattered with crimson, the air heavy with the metallic scent of death.

People huddled in corners, too terrified to move, whispering prayers and curses under their breath. But their fear—deep, primal—only fed her. They watched in helpless horror as their worst nightmares became reality.

A small child, crying in his mother's arms, whimpered for help. Mary turned, her eyes locking onto them. The mother's heart stopped. She tried to shield her child, but it was useless. The mother screamed, pulling her child closer, but Mary was already there. A single swift movement silenced them both.

It wasn't just the killing—it was the way she seemed to enjoy it, her face never betraying emotion beyond that same eerie calm. As if this was her sole purpose.

"We're here, let's go!"

Wendy slammed the brakes just outside the station. The scene was chaos—blood smeared across the streets, cars engulfed in flames, and screams echoing from every corner.

I had encountered plenty of anomalies before, but nothing like this. This destruction, all caused by Mary alone, was on a scale I had only ever seen from Bill. It was becoming more and more obvious: Mary's power wasn't about mimicking others. No, it was something far worse. She was reflecting what people believed her to be. We had painted her as a psychotic monster with our rumors, and now the public's fear had turned her into something unstoppable. The more terrified they became, the stronger she grew.

"This is... bad. Really bad. I don't wanna be here," Valentino stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. Fear was written all over his face. Tambry was silent, visibly shaken, while Wendy, though trying to appear calm, had a storm of emotions in her eyes.

Out of all of us, I was probably the only one holding it together. I had faced death more times than I cared to remember, and had felt it in every possible way during the curse. If anyone had to do this, it was me.

"Valentino, stay in the van—Tambry, Wendy—you too. If you're afraid, turn back now. I can't let Mary feed off your fear and grow even more dangerous."

"I'm going with you," Wendy said firmly, her voice steady despite everything. Valentino looked at her like she'd lost her mind.

"Babe, what? No! This place is nuts! You'll get yourself killed!" he pleaded.

"I have to go. I need to face this," she insisted, looking at me for backup.

"...Alright, let's move. We have no time to lose."

"Wait! Wendy!" Valentino's voice was lost as we sprinted toward the station, weaving through the carnage. Bodies lay everywhere—innocent people cut down with brutal precision. Buses were overturned, and corpses littered the ground like discarded trash. The smell of burning metal and charred flesh mixed with the sickly scent of blood.

A shrill scream cut through the air, coming from the east. Instinctively, we ran toward it, fighting our way through the fleeing crowd. Thousands of people were running in terror, a sea of fear, desperately trying to escape whatever was hunting them. We pushed forward, deeper into the heart of the chaos.

"Where is she?" Wendy asked, her voice tight.

"Keep your eyes open. She has to be nearby," I said, scanning the streets.

Everything was drenched in blood. Storefronts were shattered, their windows displaying grotesque scenes of mutilation. Cars lay in twisted heaps, burning wreckage littering the streets.

Then we heard it—another scream. This time, it was coming from a nearby McDonald's. People were stumbling out, covered in blood, their faces frozen in terror.

"Go! Go!" I yelled as we vaulted over bodies and debris, forcing our way inside the building. The stench of grease and death hit us immediately, the floor slick with spilled drinks and blood. Trays and food were scattered everywhere, evidence of the panic that had erupted here.

"Help… someone… please…"

A weak voice came from the kitchen. We crouched down, trying to stay hidden.

A man crawled out, dragging himself across the floor. One of his legs had been severed, his uniform soaked in blood.

"Inside…help... inside..." he gasped before collapsing, unconscious.

From inside the kitchen, we heard the unmistakable sound of something being thrown around violently.

"Let's move quietly," I whispered, gesturing for Wendy to follow.

We slipped into the kitchen, our movements slow and deliberate. The place was a mess—shelves overturned, blood smeared across the stainless steel counters. But the real horror was just beyond the kitchen, in the staff room. The door was ajar, and from behind it came agonized, high-pitched screams.

[STAFF ROOM]

"I'm going in. Wait here," Wendy said, her voice low but resolute.

"Wendy, no!" I grabbed her arm, but she shook her head.

"Trust me," she said, giving me a sad, almost resigned smile. "I have to do this. And if I fail... you can still save me, right?"

To me, Mary was just another anomaly—another threat disrupting my life. But for Wendy, she was more than that. She was real. Wendy had known her, cared about her, and made choices that, in the end, played a part in the downfall of the human Mary.

Mary was a tragic figure. A lonely girl, probably friendless, whose life had always been dictated by others. She was always on the outside, wanting to understand the world but never truly given a chance. Society labeled her a monster, a psychopath, but in reality, she wasn't. She was just a girl with mental struggles, crushed under the weight of expectations and the cruelty of those around her. All the violence, all the horror—it wasn't born from her but from the society that never saw her for what she was.

When Bill brought her back as an anomaly, meant to cause chaos in our lives, something inside her remained unchanged. Despite the madness and the manipulation, three things endured: her name, the memory of being someone's closest friend, and the simple fact that she had once transferred to our school.

Those were the last fragments of her identity, still clinging to her amidst the darkness.

"...I'll leave it to you, Wendy."

"Thanks."

I was worried, yes. But...if all those three things were the last 'identity' Mary remembered...Wendy's role might be very important here.

Wendy stepped toward the staff room, her boots splashing through the blood on the floor.

"Wait here. Don't open the door," she said, locking eyes with me one last time before she disappeared inside.

The door clicked shut.

"No…no…please…"

A part-time worker cowered inside the staff room's cramped changing area, his hand clutching a deep wound in his arm. He could hear her—she was close. Too close. The blade of her knife slid through the gap in the door, a deadly whisper.

The man gasped, stumbling back, trying to press himself further into the corner. But the door gave way, and she was there, climbing over the walls like some grotesque spider, her body moving with unnatural ease.

"No! Don't! Please!" he begged, his voice shaking.

"What? Why should I?" Mary laughed, her voice cold and detached, as if this was all a joke to her. "You didn't care when I needed help."

With a sudden, brutal motion, she lunged at him, her knife plunging into his chest. The man's scream was cut short as the blade sliced through muscle and bone, over and over again. The walls of the tiny room echoed with the sickening sounds of flesh being torn apart, blood splattering in every direction.

The violence was interrupted by a soft creak—someone had entered the room.

Mary paused, her head snapping toward the door. Through the gap in the changing room, she saw a silhouette—tall, strong, with a head of fiery red hair.

Wendy stood there, staring right at her.

"...Mary."

The name hung in the air, fragile and full of regret.