What Crawls in the Dark?
Darkness grips the suite. The night breaks with the spectral blue glow of a floating holographic sphere. The light spills over Marcus's face in shifting waves. It sharpens his features into something skeletal, hollow. He slouches in a chair, one foot propped on the table's edge, a whiskey glass balanced between loose fingers. The amber liquid inside catches the glow, turning the color of dying embers.
"Open the psychological profile: Rachel Marron."
The sphere obeys. A three-dimensional photograph of Rachel hovers to its left. Marcus moves past it like a man stepping over a puddle—aware, but uninterested. His voice, detached and surgical, cut through the stillness.
"Initial psychological assessment of Rachel Marron. Note: This dossier is for my personal use. An encrypted copy becomes forwarded to Vice Admiral Gaderian Marron. Target 1 presents herself as dismissive and distant in her emotions in public. She rejects any discussion about Finnian Devon (hereafter referred to as FD). Her persistent attempts to obtain information about FD. She sees the source in the forensic psychologist testing her contradict this attitude. She seeks information and pretends she doesn't care. This suggests emotional suppression and avoidance."
The suite remains cloaked in artificial twilight. The blue glow of the holosphere flickers a dying star refusing to fade. The room cast restless shadows that stretch and contract across the room. Haunting figures slither up the walls before dissolving into nothing.
"Target 1 jokes about her friend, Imani Vivienne Richardson (aka Ivy Reed). Once she realizes it's a defense mechanism, she shifts her behavior to protective. This suggests that Target 1 recognizes emotional pain in others. She struggles to apply the same understanding to herself. The target person spies on the testing psychologist. She wants to uncover his identity even when she knows she shouldn't. This suggests a control issue. While she seeks answers, she does so not under acceptable conditions. The target person seeks situations under her control."
Marcus swirls his drink. The ice clinks upon the Chalice—a sound lost in the room's heavy silence.
The city beyond his window sprawls in endless neon. It's a pulsing organism, alive with movement.
Rain streams down in silvery lines, distorting the view. The diplomat watches it for a moment, his gaze as unreadable as the profile he dictated.
The city hums around the singers' penthouse. Neon smears against rain-slicked glass. That casts electric streaks of blue and red across the lit space. The rain comes in sheets now. Tears of the sky rattled the towering windows, its rhythm steady, insistent. Inside, the air is still. All climate-controlled, crisp with a whisper of sandalwood and something floral. The room carries Rachel's signature even in her absence.
The soft chime of the penthouse AI greets her as she steps inside.
"Welcome home, Rachel."
The pop star doesn't answer. She moves like a specter, peeling off her coat with a sluggish motion, the fabric damp in her grip.
Ivy follows, more hesitant, her own coat sliding off in a weary gesture.
Edith lounges on the sleek leather couch, a goblet of something dark perched in her hand. But the moment Rachel enters, her expression tightens. The casual elegance crumbles. Her gaze sharpens, scanning Rachel's face.
"What happened?"
Rachel doesn't break stride. Her heels strike along the polished floor as she ghosts past, unreadable, untouchable. She reaches for nothing and acknowledges no one. The air shifts around her, thick with something unspoken.
Ivy, frowning, breaks the silence. "So-and-so," she mutters, rubbing at her wrist as if the tension has settled there. "We got in touch with the Brit. But then Wesley showed up with Kimberley."
She hesitates. Her eyes flick to Rachel, who refuses to meet them.
"And later, at the cinema? Something happened to Rach, but she won't tell me."
The rain intensifies, drumming harder across the glass. Thunder rumbles in the distance, low and guttural. The sound folds into the city's restless murmur.
Rachel stands by the window now. Her arms wrapped around herself, her reflection a faint outline on the crystal of the window. The night presses in, vast and indifferent. Her own silence, more heavier than the storm outside.
The room stays dark. Except for the spectral glow of the holosphere. It hovers like an artificial moon above Marcus's outstretched palm. The cold blue light fractures into the crystal tumbler in his other hand. It warps through the amber liquid, twisting its glow. Shadows curl along the walls, stretching over the furniture like restless specters.
"Target Person 1 convinces that she had a committed romantic relationship with FD. This suggests an unconscious need to control emotional narratives. She wasn't willing to let their bond remain undefined. When FD gifts her the opal gold ring, she interprets it as an engagement ring."
Marcus's voice sounds clinical, his enunciation precise. The words emerge in fluid script across the holographic display. It shudders as if uncertain whether it should exist. In here, silence reigns, broken by the rhythmic tap of his fingertips against the lens of the window.
"This indicates a profound desire for security and commitment. She doesn't think about it, but it requires self-deception. FD departs Dover."
The storm outside deepens, thickening the air with electric tension.
"She remains single for seven years. A response extreme enough to suggest a seared fear of perceived rejection. She didn't seek a stable relationship. More, she erases them, equating vulnerability with pain."
A whisper of rain upon the surface of the window. Then a steady drumming. The downpour intensifies, rattling the glass, impatient fingers demanding entry.
"The testing psychologist assumes Target Person 1 idealizes FD throughout this time. She transforms him into an unattainable figure. She begins dating when she learns FD is missing in action. His death she became confirmed by General Ordlaf of Astgill."
The whiskey burns down his throat. Its warmth spreads in slow tendrils through his chest. A dull rumble rolls through the distance. A thunder low and guttural, an ancient beast stirring from slumber.
His fingertips hover over the sphere. The next lines etch themselves into the glowing interface.
"What is striking is that she deviates as far as possible from her previous ideal. The men she chooses are become toxic, a downward spiral rather than a lesson learned."
Lightning slashes the sky, a brief, blinding dissection of the room. Marcus doesn't blink. The shadows snap back into place as the light fades.
"Target 2's father exhibits classic secondary psychopathy. Despite repeated warning signs, Target 1 refuses to separate from him. Instead, she alienated family and friends in the process. The issue was resolved. A covert operative smuggles contraband into Target 2's father's vehicle. (The SRR commando currently serves as Target 1's forensic psychologist.) NYPD, ever vigilant when given a well-placed tip, intercepts two kilograms of benzoylmethylecgonine. By colonial standards, that's 4.4 pounds. He remains in custody."
The rain lashes harder now, streaking down in erratic rivers. The whiskey glass wobbles in his grip, the liquid inside shivering.
"It doesn't matter whether exploitation, psychological and emotional manipulation. Even severe traumatic experiences fail. Target 1 replaces with Target 2's father one secondary psychopath with another. Her current partner, Wesley Black (hereinafter referred to as RN = Rachel's Nigger)."
A sharp crack of thunder. The momentary whiteout turns the suite into an interrogation room—stripped of illusion.
"At this point, her behavior remains difficult to quantify. It appears these relationships function as a form of emotional inversion. FD was once a stabilizing force in her life. The moment he vanishes, she collapses into an emotional void. What follows is an unconscious compulsion. Each new man reflected her dependence on FD, twisted in reverse. FD solved her problems. His absence dictates the trajectory of every relationship since."
Marcus takes a slow sip of whiskey. The Veil of mist, the lightning, the city beyond—all fades into irrelevance. His gaze lingers on the shifting holographic image of Rachel Marron. It's frozen mid-motion, her expression unreadable.
And then—
The city seethes outside, neon slicing through the rain like electric veins. Drops streak the towering glass. All their descent brokes by the pulsing reds and blues of distant signs. The penthouse AI chimes as Rachel steps inside.
"Welcome home, Rachel."
She ignores it. Ivy shadows Rachel, both shedding their coats with slow, practiced movements. The air is crisp, climate-controlled to her exact preferences. An odor of sandalwood, laced with something floral, subtle enough to feel natural. A façade of comfort.
Editha lounges on the sofa, her elegance intact until she sees Rachel's face. Her gaze sharpens, narrowing in scrutiny.
"What happened?"
Rachel moves like a shadow, her expression unreadable. Ivy frowns, muttering as she tosses her bag onto the couch.
"We met the Brit. But then Wesley showed up—with Kimberley."
Rachel exhales, her shoulders twitching. The weight of it presses against her ribs.
"And later, at the cinema? Something happened to Rach, but she won't tell me."
A flicker in Rachel's eyes. Something buried.
Outside, the storm grows. Inside, the walls hold their silence.
A drop of rain drifts in through the open patio door, cool against his forehead. It lingers, heavy with hesitation. Then rolls down the bridge of his nose, vanishing into the shadows beneath his cheekbone. The air hums with the restless city below. City lights pulse. It appears a fevered organism, a thousand tiny lives flickering against the void.
"FD's disappearance leaves a void that is never filled. Target 1 gravitates toward men who refuse to step into that space, men who take advantage instead. Note: Target 2 appears to reason on the same level but reframes reality into a fantasy world. Neverland, where danger softens by illusion. This helps her navigate an adult world that she perceives as surreal."
From Rachel's penthouse, chaos spills out like an open wound. Glass shatters. A scream rips through the air before becoming swallowed by the storm outside. The thudding bass of an old-school R&B track pulses through the walls. It's a love song made ironic by the scene unfolding.
Back in the suite. Marcus stares down at the city. The East River black mirrors slice through the electric sprawl. Lightning slashes across the sky. It illuminates bridges, roads, and rooftops like a haunted blueprint.
"This is compelling but requires further confirmation. Hypothesis: Target 1 expects to be rescued by a mythical creature. Target 2 seeks salvation for both herself and her mother. Both construct fantasies to endure reality. Target 1 transforms FD into a mythical hero. Later she tempts fate with abusers, as if waiting for him to reappear and save her. Target 2 grapples with danger and places the same hope in this imagined figure. Peter, a guardian against an incomprehensible world."
The rain drums harder now. Water sheets race down the windows, distorting the neon reflections. Lightning bathes the skyscrapers in bright fire. He recognizes for a moment the silhouettes of the bridges.
"Peter Pan is supposed to take Target 1 away, kidnap her like the others, make her a mother to the lost children. Target 2, shaped by commercial interpretations of Peter Pan, sees Target 1 as Wendy. But to me—with my knowledge and love of classic literature—she is more Maimie Mannering. Target 2 identifies herself as a lost child. Note: Warning. If this fixation stays ignored, Target 2 will form an obsessive attachment to Target 1. When reality proves inescapable, attempts to sever herself from it through chemical escape. She will repeat the pattern she learned from Target 1."
His reflection stares back at him from the whiskey glass, young, untouched by the years he should wear. The bluish glow of the holo-sphere hovers over his hand. A floating, artificial heart pulsing with data. Outside, sirens wail.
"As the testing psychologist, I now believe my initial approach to Target 2 was a mistake. I am forced to conclude that this entire operation is flawed. Target 1, wrecked by trauma and requires regular treatment, not psychological excavation. I have awakened something that should have remained dormant. I cannot provide the level of care necessary, nor can I undo what has been set in motion. I see no solutions now."
The wind shifts. The rain hurls at the windows in furious bursts. That sounds a rhythm erratic, an argument between unseen forces. A flash of light explodes, bleaching the room in white for a split second. Again darkness swallows it whole.
Marcus does not blink.
The holographic sphere pulses with an artificial rhythm. A slow mechanical heartbeat casts blue light onto Marcus Gallagher's face. The cloudfall slashes streaking the window like claw marks. Below, Manhattan glows beneath a liquid sheen. The streets stretch in luminous veins through the city's restless body.
"Target 2's second significant other is Editha Burrows. She is the lesser evil in the world of Targets 1 and 2. I must note that Target 2 became ridiculed at school for having two mothers. Miss Burrows acknowledged her lesbian lifestyle. Her a negative influence? She's the one who led Target 1 from a sheltered childhood to the use of psychotropic substances."
A crash. Glass shatters.
"She does not bear the blame alone. The brothers of Target 1 must also be considered. Two ballast existences who drain their sister. I will refer to them as Kunta Kinte."
Lightning splits the sky, illuminating the city for a fraction of a second. Manhattan itself, thrown into negative exposure. Marcus takes a slow sip of whiskey. The liquid warms his throat. It grounded him against the unnatural hum of the holo-sphere. Gotham beneath a shimmering layer of water. The city lights distort as if they were lying behind tears.
"Target 1 believes her secure point of reference became shattered beyond repair. She plunges into relationships with destructive patterns. As a means of controlling the pain? Intensity replaces emptiness. Disappointment and suffering confirm the hurt she expects."
The thunder rumbles a growl that slithers through the walls. It rattles the crystal on the sideboard. Somewhere below, a car alarm wails, before becoming silenced by the rain. In the distance, another siren rises and falls, cutting through the weight of the storm. The skyline shimmers in time with the lightning, as if for a fraction of a second it were a negative image of itself.
"She has avoided the available substitute—her parents. She intends to move to England with Target 2 at the end of the school year. The singer targets London, under significant circumstances. It keeps her on the periphery of the 'crime scene' of Dover."
The thunder rumbles, it creeps through the walls. Marcus hears a deep murmur, the floor vibrates.
"Target 1 was born in the USA. In one of that country's characteristic clusters of concrete, crime, and obesity. Newark, New Jersey."
Laughter spills through the penthouse, loose and unfocused. A glass clinks, then tip over, sending liquor spilling across the table. The bass-heavy rhythm of a slow, seductive track thrums through the walls. A thin haze of smoke curls in the low light, the scent of perfume and alcohol thick in the air. Rachel leans back, exhaling, her voice slurred yet sharp.
"He was watching us the whole time," Ivy mutters, pressing a finger against the rim of her glass. "That man... Marcus Gallagher."
Marcus watches the rain distort the city lights. Manhattan itself weeps. The pulse of the holo-sphere reflects in the glass, a cold shimmer against the night.
The whiskey rests in his palm, heavy and sluggish, as if it too understands the night will stretch on without end. Another tremor of thunder shakes the city. The rain continues its relentless assault. It hammers against the windows. Drowning out whatever.
The holo-sphere flickers, adjusting its data stream. Marcus exhales, the ghost of a sigh lost to the hum of machinery. The city breathes beneath him, restless and waiting.
The glass is cold against Marcus's forehead. Not more as a fleeting reprieve from the heat pooling beneath his skin. The rain strikes the window in frantic rhythms. Raindrops streaks downward in warped rivers. It blurs the city into a smear of neon and shadow, sealing him inside his own thoughts. A boundary. Between him and the world. Between him and her.
"There could be rational reasons for avoiding Dover, such as London's infrastructure. Whether psychological reasons play a role remains to be investigated. There is a sense that Dover evokes strong memories."
The tempest's sigh hums against the pane, a dull, insistent pressure. Lightning unzips the sky, splitting the blackness with a violent pulse. The storm tightens its grip on the city, its ozone tang pressing against Marcus's senses, sharp as a blade's edge.
His whiskey is warm in his palm, the glass heavy, an anchor in the weightless space of his suite. He rolls the liquid against his tongue. It's smoky aftertaste, laced with something metallic. The city exhales in sirens below, restless and ceaseless. The sky-weeping on the window acts like a barrier, a boundary between him and the world outside. Between him and her.
"In New York, she was in control: she chose to search for answers. Dover, connected to too many personal memories of FD. Unlike in New York, where she became confronted with new information. In Dover, she already knows the past too well."
A gust pushes the rain sideways, needling against the glass. The scent of leather and wood polish clings to the suite. The storm breathes something foreign into the room through the open patio door. Something raw, metallic, a whisper of decay beneath the freshness of storm's lullaby.
"Direct contact with the place could reopen old wounds."
A hint of ozone in the air. The harbinger of lightning strikes with a brutal discharge seconds later. Thunder grumbles through the air, rolling over the skyline like a slow-building threat. In the suite's reflection. Marcus catches his own silhouette, his features distorted in the wavering light.
"Her subconscious may associate the place with trauma and loss, causing her to avoid it. We won't find out until she visits Dover."
Another strike of lightning. In its brief illumination, the holographic projection of Rachel flickers to life. Her face is a fractured specter in the artificial glow. She is caught between memory and simulation. The sharp, smoky aftertaste of the whiskey on his tongue as he speaks.
"In New York, she wanted to clear things up. Dover might hold even deeper truths that she doesn't want to see or can't handle. For example, her memory of FD became idealized and thus distorted. Target 1 has an instinct for self-destruction through toxic relationships. As evidenced by her attachment to RN. She lurks in an in-between world (London). Still close enough to her parents (Dover). Not close enough to let her illusion become shattered. London offers Rachel distraction, independence, and distance."
Raindrops slither down the glass like slow-moving veins, their paths hesitant, seeking. Another boom of thunder rattles the suite. It shakes the crystal decanter on the sideboard.
"In Dover, she might overwhelmed by memories. London allows her to bury herself and control her emotions. It's also possible that Target 1 sees a discrepancy between her behavior in New York and that of Dover. An indication of unresolved trauma."
He exhales, the breath lost to the artificial hum of the holo-projection. Drops leave lazy trails on the window pane as if they were trying to make their way inside.
"With these men, like RN or Kunta Kinte, she becomes a savior, often at her own expense. There are other parasitic ballast existences that need to be rescued by the target. They only take and give nothing. Take a look at the target's captured dream. It suggests that the subconscious is aware of the exploitation."
Another flash, another flicker. The hologram shifts, distorting Rachel's features into something unrecognizable. Marcus watches the storm twist its reflection across the city. The rain carves restless patterns on the glass as if trying to force its way inside.
The whiskey scorches his lips, a slow burn that lingers. Not enough to stop the thought from forming: he never knew her. She never knew him.
"The dream suggests a fear of dying alone. To counteract it, she surrounds herself with people who need her. The baggage she collects keeps her from facing the truth—that no matter what she does, she will die alone."
Moonshower snakes down the windowpane in lazy, twisting paths. It turns the city into a blurred constellation of lights. The glass is cold against his fingertips. Another stark contrast to the warmth pooling in his palm from the whiskey tumbler.
"Finnian solved her problems once. It set a precedent—she doesn't seek out saviors anymore, but she still expects one to appear when things go wrong."
The suite smells of polished wood and old leather, an unshakable scent of permanence. His earpiece hums, bringing the outside world in.
A shift.
Rachel's penthouse breathes in color and motion. There, a muffled crackle of rain on the tall windows. Then the low bass of conversation, the sharp scent of cigarette smoke curling in the air.
Rachel's voice wavers—thin, reedy.
The singer leans forward, gaze pinning Editha and Ivy in place. The weight of it sends Rachel back a step. "I'm checking on Ashley." She turns, her footsteps hushed against the plush carpet and disappears down the hall.
Ashley's bedroom is a different world—warm pastels and soft light, untouched by the night's tension. The air smells of baby lotion and fresh linens. Ashley's tiny frame, swallowed by the bed, her breaths deep and even. Rach leans down. She presses her lips to her daughter's forehead, the warmth of her skin a fragile tether to something real. She smooths the blanket, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.
A pause. A moment of stillness.
Then she's gone, slipping back into the dim corridor, into the weight of the world waiting for her.
In the lodge, Ivy's voice lifts above the quiet murmur of conversation, animated, buzzing. "And Marky—yo, that man got tech straight outta a spy movie. He was listenin' in, talkin' to us without us even callin'. Ain't that some wild—"
Editha exhales a short laugh, shaking her head. "Girl, you talkin' like you already best friends with him."
The laughter doesn't last.
The singer steps back into the room, and the shift is instant. Warmth bleeds into silence. The air thickens—liquor, smoke, the residue of something unspoken. The city glows outside, distant, untouchable, a mirage behind the rain-streaked glass.
Ivy stretches her legs across the coffee table, rolling her chalice between her fingers. "I still don't get it," she says, eyes flicking to her friend. "One second, we vibin', next thing I know, you boltin' outta the cinema like your damn shoes on fire."
In Marcus's ear, the sound filters through—laughter. The clink of ice in a goblet. Rach's voice, quieter now, unreadable.
Then the faintest shift of air. A rustle.
The unmistakable sound of someone snorting using a rolled bill.
Marcus swirls the whiskey. He watches how the light fractures within the amber liquid, deep gold bleeding into shadow. The glass is cool against his fingers, grounding him in the dim stillness of the suite.
The data feed flickers. He slides two fingers across the holographic interface. The diplomat navigates the pop star's digital life. Appointments, messages, photos of her curated world. A locked vault cracked open without resistance.
Then, a disruption.
The penthouse security feed stutters. A flicker of static in the corner of the screen. Tampered with.
Marcus exhales, placing his drink down with a measured clink. He expands the hologram, layers of surveillance unfolding like window panes. The penthouse blinks into existence before him.
Rachel, draped over the couch, one arm slung over her stomach. Ivy, sprawl, her phone discarded at her side. Editha, loose-limbed, tapping out another line. A slow inhale, the quiet rush of powder dissolving into her bloodstream.
His jaw tightens.
In his periphery, the interface hums, raw data rolling across the screen. Audio feeds, message threads, encrypted signals. The women's voices filter amid the low murmur of Skyfall's lullaby.
Marcus watches, silent. His fingers tap against the rim of his beaker, slow, deliberate.
Rach stares into the middle distance, fingers curled around her glass. The cocaine should be lifting her, but she looks like she's slipping through the cracks instead. A dull shrug. "It was nothing."
Marcus exhales, slow and measured, then reaches for the control panel beside him. A flick of his fingers, and the suite's speakers crackle to life.
"Yo no fui. Aber die Version von Pedro Fernandez."
The music spills into the choked-lit room, syrupy and full of mischief, plucking at old ghosts. Banda sound with more speed and energy. A more ironic, macabre note. The cheerful, stomping banda rhythm stands in absurd contrast to the tragedy.
Marcus tilts his head, letting the rhythm slide within his spine. His body moves—not with joy, not with amusement. It's something colder, something closer to reflex. A slow shift of his shoulders. A languid roll of his neck. The glass in his hand sways with him, liquid lapping against the sides. A man dancing with no partner. A specter moving across an empty room.
Ivy frowns, tapping her temple as if shaking something loose. "Somebody whispered behind us. I didn't even clock it, but you—" She points at Rachel, narrowing her eyes. "You flipped."
The music icon blinks, slow. "He said: Are you all right, Liz?"
The words settle as if a stone drops in deep water.
Ivy lets out a confused laugh. "Okay? And?"
Silence stretches.
The AI's smooth, synthesized voice cuts through the low murmur of conversation.
"Rachel, your heart rate has increased. Would you like me to lower the lighting?"
The Queen of the Night endures it, staring at her glass. Her grip tightens.
Editha's smirk vanishes. Her drink hovers, forgotten. A slow, dawning recognition steals the color from her face.
Rachel's fingers tighten around the tumbler, trembling against the smooth surface.
Ivy, still half-laughing but uneasy, glances between them. "Yo, what? Why you look like that? Who the hell is Liz?"
A pause. Then the AI speaks again, its tone almost… gentle.
"You good, Rachel?"
The words slam into her like a fist to the chest. The drinking vessel slips from her fingers, shattering against the floor.
Rach's breath shudders, shallow and uneven. The room shifts—too bright, too sharp, too wrong. Her pulse slams into her ribs, rising in her throat, choking her. The sound of the heaven's weeping veil grows distant. A small, strangled noise escapes before she even realizes she's moving—
She lunges, grabbing Ivy's phone with both hands.
Presses it to her lips.
Her voice, a breaking scream. "No, I'm not all right!"
At the Waldorf Astoria, Markus stops dancing and turns off the music.
Ivy jerks back, startled. "Girl, what the—?"
Marcus watches.
Doesn't react.
The phone trembles in the Queen's grip, knuckles white against the glassy surface. She curls inward as if bracing under an unseen impact.
Editha watches her, choosing her words with care. "Finnian Devon called her that," she murmurs. "After her middle name. He didn't want to call her what the others do."
The silence stretches between them, heavy and uncertain.
Rachel's shoulders quake. No words come.
His gaze flickers to the biometric readings layered in the hologram. Celeb's pulse, oxygen levels, erratic neural activity. A free-fall. Extreme emotional destabilization. His fingers hover over the interface, tracing the cascading data.
"Trauma response." He murmurs it aloud, almost to himself. A past buried deep enough to shatter her composure in an instant. "Target Person 1's extreme reaction to 'Are you all right, Liz?' reveals buried trauma associated with FD."
The cloud tears in freefall and turns the city streets into a living thing. All asphalt ripples like black water, slick with fractured neon. Drops burst against the window, erratic, whispering like coded transmissions.
"The result is a complete loss of control over their emotions."
The hologram in his palm flickers. Blue light runs over his skin. It cast shadows that twist where they shouldn't exist.
Marcus's fingers hover in the cold light of the sphere. They skim its surface like a ghost within the crystal. The data feeds pulse beneath his touch. Everything, sterile, mechanical, and yet pulsing with something close to memory. Rach lives here. She appears pixelated and dissected, an echo of herself spread across shifting holograms.
"She reacts not as the usual strong celebrity Rachel Marron, but as something closer to her former ego."
The words float in the air, reflected back to him in sterile, algorithmic text. It doesn't sound like him. It sounds like an autopsy of something still breathing.
The celestial confetti turns Manhattan into a slow, melting glass kingdom, blurring the neon arteries of its streets. The whiskey in his hand tastes like burnt wood and old regrets. A bitter, smoldering thing that lingers in his throat. A drink itself tries to carve its own memory into him.
"I call this girl-next-door regression."
The phrase drifts from his lips, absorbed into the hum of the sphere. The sky outside flashes—lightning or something worse? A scream of tires skids through the night. It's a violent punctuation mark in the midnight maze's endless monologue.
In the holographic feed, Rachel turns. Her fragmented projection flickers, jagged, but for a fraction of a second, it feels like she's looking at him. Not the data. Him.
He swallows, sets the drink vessel down with deliberate care.
"The Liz trigger causes the target to pursue the trigger-giver in the cinema. She doesn't try to escape. This reaction indicates a deep, unresolved compulsion. She tries to find the source of her emotional turmoil."
The electric hive breathes, damp and metallic. Each drop of rain on the window carves a tiny, trembling river down the lights. That distorts the skyline, stretching faces into hollow smears.
A gunshot? No—thunder, splitting the sky like an open wound.
Marcus leans back, fingers tapping, slow, deliberate on the rim of his chalice. His voice remains clinical. Though the weight of the statement drags against his throat.
"Instead of shutting herself off or avoiding the pain, she pursues it. She became driven by a need for clarity or confrontation. This could suggest that, on some level, Rachel has always been searching for answers about FD. If so, she has never admitted it to herself."
The sphere processes his words, folding them into cold, data-woven conclusions. In the penthouse feed, Rachel tightens her grip on her goblet. The drug should be keeping her steady. Instead, she looks like she's unraveling.
The tortured screech of tires on wet concrete, a hoarse echo through the canyons.
The room around him is leather, glass, the artificial bite of air conditioning. A synthetic world meant to keep reality at bay, yet the rain refuses to ignore it. It seeps into everything, a whisper at the edges of his senses.
Rachel spins in the holographic projection. Her face fragmented. The flashes of lightning tear the city into negative reverse images for seconds. For a moment, it seems she's looking at him—not the profile, not the data, but at him.
A flash of lightning etched into the metallic silhouette of a skyscraper.
The beaker in his right hand is heavy. When he brings it to his lips, the whiskey burns along his veins, as if he needs to remind himself that he is still a body.
The hologram glitches, momentary static flickering across Rachel's image. He watches as she lunges, grabs Ivy's phone with trembling hands. Her breath is uneven, her pulse a frantic staccato against the silence of the penthouse.
Outside, the steel colossus shifts, restless beneath the storm. The neon reflections in the rain look like faces. Or ghosts.
"A combination of alcohol and cocaine. That indicates Target Person 1 is using substances to suppress emotions. She didn't enhance her experience. The Liz-trigger cuts pierce the numbing effects, reinforcing how deep-seated the trauma is."
Leather, cold glass, the sterile whiff of the air conditioning. The artificial smells fight against the relentless scent of moon-drunken drizzle. The city seeps into the room, whether he wants it or not.
The rain on the window transforms Manhattan into a liquid nightmare. Overall a place without definite contours. He blinks, and for a moment, it seems as if the drops transform into accusing faces. People, he's lost.
The sphere hums in response, feeding more data into his periphery. Numbers. Pulse rates. Audio transcriptions.
In the penthouse, Rachel's breath hitches. The tumbler slips from her fingers.
Shattering.
Marcus fingers move through the floating interface, the holosphere expanding under his touch. Streams of code flicker in spectral blue, casting shifting shadows across his face. The data leak pulses like a slow heartbeat. It whispers of an unseen listener siphoning audio from the penthouse.
The transmission ricochets, bouncing between encrypted tunnels—layered obfuscation designed to mislead. But Marcus is patient. He follows the trail, peeling back each layer until he isolates a fixed point. A brownstone below Fifth Avenue. Expensive, but not Gotham's elite. Someone is listening. Someone else.
Marcus stands at the window of his suite, whiskey glass resting in his palm, the weight grounding him. The holosphere's glow paints his skin in flickering blues. It shifts with each incoming fragment of data.
"Girl-Next-Door Regression. A psychological defense mechanism triggered by emotional overload. Target 1 reverts to an earlier developmental stage. That presents an idealized version of herself—one that FD perceived as a protector."
Rain hammers against the transparency. Water streaks downward in erratic rivers. It bends the neon skyline into something fluid, unreal. Drops explode upon the surface. The picture shatters into rivulets. It distorts the concrete labyrinth's lights into gold and cobalt phantoms.
"Under acute stress, Target 1 abandons adult coping mechanisms. Her emotional barriers collapse, revealing raw vulnerability. She becomes overwhelmed, reactive. Regression."
The voices in his earpiece dissolve into background noise. The holosphere feeds him more fragments. His face remains impassive. A machine cataloging emotion, parsing pain into clean, clinical conclusions.
Rachel's voice slashes through the data stream, hoarse, breaking apart.
The rain lashes against the glazing, trickling down in crooked streams as if the city were weeping. Drops burst on the surface. It blurs the lights of Manhattan into a kaleidoscope.
"No, I'm not all right!" The sphere repeats the recording.
Lightning detonates outside, a blade of white-hot brilliance splitting the sky. Her holographic image fractures, pieces of Rachel scatter across the projected data.
The voices in his ear fade into the background as the sphere flickers, feeding him more details. No reaction crosses his face. No hint of concern, amusement, or frustration. He files it away.
He exhales, forehead pressing against the glass. His breath ghosts across the cold surface, vanishing in seconds.
"Target 1 exhibits an acute affective shift—rage, distress, helplessness. She screams at Miss Richardson's cell phone. She uses the phone as a surrogate. The Liz trigger renders her unable to respond."
He tilts his head, resting his forehead against the cold window. His breath leaves a pale, short-lived ghost on the glass.
Outside, the storm rages. Thunder rolls through the city, deep, guttural. It rattles the windowpane, reverberating in his bones.
"Target 1 cannot direct her emotions at the primary source (FD). Nor can she do it at the secondary source (Marcus Gallagher). She has no direct recipient for her aggression. Instead, she takes it out on an inanimate object. That means Miss Richardson's phone, the only tether to what she perceives as the truth."
A figure in the window stares back at him. His reflection, exhausted, hollowed out, by knowing too much and feeling too little. A ghost framed by lightning.
Thunder follows, deep and furious. The vibrations travel across the ground. Into his sternum, an echo in his skull.
Thunder crashes through the city, a restless behemoth rousing beneath the streets. Its growl rattles the glass towers. The storm tightens its grip on New York. Electric veins split the night sky. It illuminates the rain-slick skyline in bursts of haunted white.
"She can't confront the secondary source. Her pent-up pain over FD erupts in this desperate scream. The cell phone becomes symbolic. It stands in for the testing psychologist because she assumes he might be listening. Minutes before, in her drug-altered reality, she agreed with her friends. She said the testing psychologist wasn't listening. They believed he wasn't communicating because he wasn't available to them."
Marcus tips his whiskey glass. The liquid hits his tongue with a burn that struggles to register. Outside, the rain batters the windows, thick and relentless. A living membrane separates him from the storm—warmth on one side, chaos on the other. He exhales, breath misting against the pane before vanishing.
A scream fractures the air.
"One would have to assume that legal and illegal drugs influence both conditions. These substances bring about their effects. It makes sense to think about, that serves as a catalyst for their emotional state."
Lightning flashes, carving the penthouse into stark relief. Rachel clutches the phone, her knuckles white, her chest heaving. Editha lingers nearby, silent, knowing there's nothing to say. The echoes of Rachel's voice still pulse through the space. The city holds its breath.
Marcus watches the holosphere flicker, data streaming like digital rain. The glow coats his skin, an artificial specter against the dark. His fingers twitch amid the projections. The data stream pulls up timelines, cross-referencing reactions, isolating moments of fracture.
"Defying expectations, their behavior resists conforming to usual patterns. Target Person 1 fails to confront the trigger in the cinema. Afterward, she enters a phase of apathy under the influence of a small amount of ethanol. Under the influence of stimulants (benzoylmethylecgonine), Target Person 1's thinking sharpens. Their thoughts become structured and commanding. His thoughts follow a clear and controlled pattern. The testing psychologist does not respond. Target Person 1 no longer asks about FD. She assumes the testing psychologist is otherwise engaged. Target Person 1 loses interest in FD."
The storm presses its weight upon the windows, a force waiting to break through. Marcus leans into the cool glass, forehead against its surface. His reflection stares back, eyes hollowed by blue light. Beneath it all, the faintest trace of perfume lingers in the suite's upholstery. Waldorf Astoria. Rachel. A ghost of a memory, a specter woven into the fabric of his existence.
The sky rips apart. Light lances between the skyscrapers. That turns the city into a cathedral of fire and shadow.
"She faces the Liz trigger once again. This time, Miss Richardson and Miss Burrows induce it. Target Person 1 suffers an emotional breakdown. Not even the euphoric effect of benzoylmethylecgonine can prevent it. She then lunges into impulsive, regressive behavior."
Rachel presses her forehead to the cool marble of the penthouse counter. The weight of the night crashes over her. The phone, forgotten, slips from her grip, landing with a dull clatter.
A faint hint of perfume, trap in the suite's upholstery. Rachel? Or a memory of the Waldorf Astoria when he collided with her?
Marcus exhales, fingers flicking through the holosphere. Data streams collapse. The transmission ends. Silence.
"Ethanol and benzoylmethylecgonine are present in her system. This suggests she turns to substances to suppress her emotions. She seeks numbness rather than an intensified experience. Researchers must determine if psychoactive substances help regulate emotions. They need to examine how these substances influence emotional control. Researchers must determine if the trigger causes a deeper attitude of avoidance. They must assess whether this avoidance is present."
Outside, the storm rages.
The static charge in the air presses against Marcus's skin. An invisible force coils tight, waiting for release. The air hums with potential, a storm brewing in the bones of the city. The holoscreen flickers, casting fractured light across the darkened hotel suite. Rain smears over the glass, warping the skyline into something unreal.
"The Liz trigger breaks past the numbing effect and underscores how deep the trauma is. She dominates in public but becomes pierced by unresolved pain. Her reaction to FD's name suggests an unprocessed loss or betrayal. She has locked it away, refusing to face it. The target person performs strength. In reality, she is vulnerable."
Rachel's projected face hovers in the air before him. The shimmer of the hologram gives her an almost knowing expression as if she's aware of his gaze. Lightning pulses through the sky, white-hot veins splitting the night.
Marcus leans forward, fingers grazing the rim of his whiskey glass. The ice shifts, a slow crack echoing in the stillness.
"In closing, I urge against dropping information on Target Person 1 about FD. Scattering breadcrumbs would be more effective. This allows Target Person 1 to reach their own eventful moment. I insist on using the term 'eventful moment' rather than 'moment of success.' Either way, Target Person 1 will experience a shock when their illusion collapses. Target Person 1 idealizes FD to an extreme degree. This idealization stems from a deep emotional deficiency. FD represents everything she wants from a relationship. She has never received those things. This corresponds to a form of 'unresolved attachment'—a bond never broken. For Target Person 1, FD is not a real person but a symbol of security and unconditional love. She remains shackled to a past that never claimed her. She summons men like RN, who provide the opposite of what she desires. FD remains an unattainable ideal. RN becomes a distorted reality she accepts, convinced she has no other choice."
A jagged bolt of lightning slashes across the sky. For a heartbeat, the entire city illuminates in stark, unnatural clarity. Marcus catches his own reflection in the window. It merges with Rachel's flickering projection. Two ghosts staring at each other across a storm.
"Personal note to Vice Admiral Marron and Miss M: I have complied with their request up to this point. Now, it's a mistake. I am betting that Target 1 will take Target 2 to school tomorrow. She believes Peter Pan lives in her elevator. I will enforce contact with official matters. The fact that she found me in New York should never have happened. I will avoid all unnecessary interaction and devote myself to my mission. RN is the exception. I will investigate further, but only because it pertains to the operation."
The whiskey burns down his throat, a slow warmth against the cold unease creeping into his gut. He exhales. Across the city, Rachel does not sleep well that night.
The door creaks.
Rachel stirs, limbs heavy, as if her body is sinking into the mattress. The sheets cling to her damp skin, suffocating in their weight. The room is thick with shadows, the dim light through the curtains bleeding a sickly gray.
A figure stands in the doorway.
Wesley.
His silhouette looms, motionless. His face is unreadable, the contours swallowed by darkness. He speaks, but the words slur, thick and distorted, as if pulled from the bottom of a deep well.
She tries to sit up, but her body resists, leaden and sluggish. A wave of nausea grips her, the air pressing in too tight. The room warps, the walls bend at unnatural angles. The furniture twists like living things.
Wesley steps forward, slow, deliberate.
His hands glisten. Wet. Red.
A metallic scent crawls into her nostrils—sharp, pungent, unmistakable.
Blood.
It drips from his fingers, pooling onto the pristine floor. The droplets pulse in time with her own heartbeat, rhythmic, insistent. Her breath catches in her throat.
He smiles.
A razor-thin curve of teeth, too many, too white. His eyes, dark voids, drink in the dim light, soulless and vast.
Rachel's pulse hammers. She pushes against the bed, desperate to move, to break free from the paralysis gripping her limbs.
The walls shrink inward. The ceiling collapses lower. The air thickens, clogging her throat. Wesley raises a hand, red-streaked, reaching for her.
She opens her mouth to scream—
The storm crashes into the city with a violent crack of thunder.
Rachel jolts upright, gasping. The sheets tangle around her, sweat chilling against her skin. The room is empty.
But the door is open.
Rachel hears muffled voices, distant, warbled, as if underwater.
Wesley stands in the doorway. Silent. Expression, unreadable. His lips move, but the words don't reach her. He lifts a hand, points toward the window. Walks over. Looks out.
Then he leaves.
Rachel blinks. A weight drags at her skull, thick and syrupy, dulling thought.
The door creaks.
Wesley is there. The same vacant stare. The same noiseless words dissolve before they reach her ears. He points. He goes to the window. He vanishes.
It happens again.
And again.
And again.
Rachel tries to speak, but her throat tightens, locked shut like a fist. She isn't even sure she's breathing.
Then—
A sound.
Sharp, wet, electric. A crackling hiss, like something burning alive.
Rachel jolts, but the room is gone. No dim glow, no Wesley, thick, seething darkness pressing from all sides.
She isn't in her bed.
She is on the floor, on a thin, stained mattress shoved into the corner. The air stinks of sweat, mildew, rot. Her limbs refuse to move, pinned beneath an unseen weight.
A presence stirs.
Black on black, shifting in the thick air.
A shadow leaps toward the half-open door, writhing, thrashing.
The crackling comes from it.
Rachel strains to rise, but a force pushes down, invisible hands crushing her ribs. The shadow moves, twitching, spasming—alive and dead all at once.
A cat.
A black cat, its fur bristling, caught in some unseen battle. It twists, claws slashing, hissing at nothing.
The pressure on Rachel's chest intensifies, squeezing, pressing.
Her pulse stutters.
Her vision tunnels.
Then—
She wakes.
Or thinks she does.
The cat crouches near the wall, tail lashing. It lifts a paw, the pads slick with viscous grime. A wet sound drips into the silence.
A smell hits her.
Not urine. Worse.
Rot.
Rachel gags. The cat's back arches, its eyes locked on a presence she cannot see.
A flicker—
A black plastic bag, weightless yet violent, rises from the floor as if lifted by unseen hands.
It rushes forward.
No—
It rushes toward her.
Rachel gasps, but the bag stretches, wider, wider—an open mouth swallowing light. It engulfs her face.
She can't breathe.
She claws at it, but the plastic grips back.
Tighter.
Suffocating.
She rips at it, fingers sinking into the smooth, clinging surface. The darkness swallows her whole.
Then—
Silence.
The cat is gone.
Rachel staggers upright, chest heaving, ears ringing.
A faint glow seeps through the hallway door. She moves toward it, drawn by the promise of light, of escape.
Ashley stands in the corridor, eyes wide, candlelight flickering against her pale face. Behind her, Shelley clutches a candle, the flame shivering. Shadows stretch across the walls, long and wrong.
Shelley whispers, "Don't go into the kitchen."
Her voice clings to existence.
Rachel frowns. "Why?"
Shelley doesn't blink. "Prayers won't work there."
The words are cold.
Rachel steps forward anyway.
The kitchen shifts, stretches. The air thickens, curdling.
Stone replaces plaster. Soot-blackened beams loom overhead. Iron pots hang in rows, slick with old grease. The walls breathe, pulling inward. The floor twists beneath her feet.
A vast medieval kitchen unfolds, ancient and endless, swallowing her whole.
Ashley and Shelley sit at a rough wooden table, silent, eyes hollow.
Rachel opens her mouth to speak, to scream—to pray.
Nothing comes out.
Her throat closes.
The candlelight sputters.
A rope ladder uncoils from the shadows above.
A shadow moves on it.
Coming down.
Coming for her.
A figure descends. Step by step. At first, Rachel thinks it's a monk—shaved head, loose robe, the eerie reverence of a relic sacred.
Then she sees the tail.
Not human.
The thing clambers down the ladder, moving too fast, too light. The tonsured head bobs, but the eyes—wide, unblinking—burn with manic hunger. A grin splits its face, too many teeth packed inside a too-small mouth.
It crouches on the table, perching like a vulture waiting for the final breath. Then it shifts, weightless, slithering onto the back of the bench. The tail coils, thick as rope, bristling at the tip.
Rachel tries to pray. The words shrivel in her throat, dry and useless.
The monk flickers—
Now a woman. Chalk-white skin, smeared rouge too bright, too red. A circus performer, mask painted into a fixed grin. The same sickly hunger in the eyes. The same coil twitches behind her, split at the end like a serpent's tongue.
Laughter bubbles up, hollow and wrong. The woman cocks her head, waiting for Rachel to scream.
Rachel refuses.
She lunges, grabbing for the woman's ankle.
The skin writhes beneath her grip—slick, shifting, eel-like. The body twists, boneless, recoiling from her grasp. The limb unravels, snapping forward, wrapping tight around Rachel's wrists.
The woman's face is too close now. The mask, the painted grin. No breath, no warmth. The laughter still spills, untouched by lungs or voice.
Rachel gasps, struggling to break free. The appendage squeezes tighter than rope, yanking her arms apart. The woman watches, waiting. Then, slow and deliberate, she lifts her hand.
A pair of scissors gleams between her fingers.
Rach's breath turns shallow. Her heartbeat pounds in her throat.
The woman grins.
The blades open—
They snap shut.
Rachel jerks awake, a scream tearing from her throat. The darkness of her bedroom swallows the sound. Silence crashes in.
Her body tangles in damp sheets, skin slick with cold sweat. Her chest heaves. The dream clings like cobwebs, thick, suffocating.
The demon. The tendril. The plastic bag. The cat. The monk—
Something is in her nose.
Rachel freezes.
Her right hand is near her face, fingers splayed—nowhere near her nostrils.
And yet—
A warmth. A weight. A foreign pressure fills her left nostril.
The Queen's breath locks in her chest. She wrenches her hand up, pinches, and pulls.
She frees her own finger from her nose. Since when does she have this strange habit of sticking her index finger up there?
She twists, scrambling back against the headboard, eyes darting, scanning—
But the room is empty.
The bedroom door closes. The penthouse is silent.
Her nostril still tingles.
Her stomach churns.
But something was here.
She knows it. She feels it.
The dream. The monk. The whip. The scissors. The suffocating plastic.
And now this.
Someone stuck a finger up her nose.
And she has no idea who.
A rustle beside her. A presence she forgot.
Rachel whips around.
Editha.
Lying next to her on the bed, still in her dressing gown, she squinted at the pop star's wild-eyed panic.
Rachel stares. Confused.
"…Did you sleep here?"
Edi hesitates. "Yes!"
The door creaks open. Light feet pad across the floor.
Ashley.
She rushes in, bright-eyed and cheerful. Then she stops short, confused, looking between Rachel and her friend.
Rachel exhales, shaking her head, rubbing her face.
Then turns to her personal manager, irritation creeping in. "Why here?" She stabs a finger at the bed. "There's a whole empty bedroom."
Editha shifts, uneasy. "You weren't in a good mood last night. I thought you might need some help."
Rachel presses her fingers to her temple.
Help.
With what?
Rachel's gaze lands on Ashley. The girl glares at her, irritated. With a smile, Rachel says, "You know what, Ash? Today, Mommy is taking you to school." This makes her daughter beam.