Happy New Year, everyone!
As we step into 2025, we wanted to take a moment to wish all of you a year filled with joy, health, and plenty of stories to keep your imaginations alive! Thank you for your incredible support, your thoughtful comments, and for sharing this journey with us.
We're so excited to kick off the year with a brand-new chapter and can't wait to hear what you think. Here's to another year of adventures, twists, and unforgettable moments!
Cheers to 2025 and happy reading!
Maya stares at the ceiling, unmoving, her body heavy as lead while her mind churns like a stormy sea. Waves of nausea crash over her, so intense she feels every beat of her heart throbbing in her throat. The voices are finally silent, but they leave behind a dull echo, an insidious sense of urgency and danger clinging to her like a malevolent shadow.
Fred's face leans over her, his features tight with concern. His white mask, pushed up to his forehead, creates the unsettling impression of two faces watching her. Maya shivers, unable to look away. The memory of the dark man crashes back into her mind, oppressive and brutal, like an icy hand squeezing her heart. She shakes her head, trying to dispel the image, but the sensation lingers.
Fred gently places a reassuring hand on her shoulder, a gesture almost paternal.
"It's all right, Maya," he murmurs in a calm tone. "You passed out."
He helps her sit up slowly. Her muscles protest, taut like bowstrings, and she winces. Around them, the electricity has partially returned, likely from an emergency backup system. Only small auxiliary lamps cast a flickering light, barely keeping the oppressive darkness of the estate at bay.
Ashford, standing a few meters away, is speaking with her two assistants. She looks focused, her movements precise, her tone pragmatic. Maya watches her face, searching for the unsettling smile she swore she saw earlier. But there's nothing. Just a serious, professional expression. Did she imagine it?
Not far off, Harriet and Elias are supporting Camille, whose legs are shaking. The young girl trembles like a leaf, her wide eyes staring at the others with an almost animalistic terror. She seems caught between two worlds, as if she's just awakened from a nightmare—or is still trapped in it.
Simon, meanwhile, sits on the floor with his knees bent, his face oddly blank, drained of emotion. He holds his mask loosely in one hand, like an object that now feels foreign to him. Maya watches him for a moment before rubbing her temples.
"What happened?" she asks.
Fred glances toward Ashford with a cautious expression before replying.
"Electrical issue… Probably the snowstorm. Are you sure you're okay? You look like you just came back from the dead."
Maya looks at him, but she's searching for something else. Her gaze slips past Fred, scanning the space behind him, looking for the shadow that had been there just moments earlier. There's nothing. Only emptiness. A hesitation rises within her.
"Did you… see anything…" she begins.
She doesn't finish, unable to clearly put into words the question haunting her. She feels like she's losing her mind. Suddenly, Simon jumps to his feet, throwing his mask across the room with unexpected violence. His shoulders shake under the weight of uncontrollable sobs, tears streaming freely as his hands tremble with rage.
"This therapy is bullshit!" he shouts. "You're all insane! Every one of you!"
Ashford steps toward him, her hands raised in a calming gesture.
"Simon… It's okay. Don't worry. This is part of the therapy. Sometimes emotions come out very strongly, but that's normal. You're going to…"
"Therapy, my ass!" he spits, his eyes bloodshot. "You… you've done something to us. Something unnatural! I'm leaving! Now!"
Ashford tilts her head slightly, her eyes hardening just for a moment before she turns to an assistant.
"Robert, please escort Simon to his room. He needs some rest. And don't forget to collect his mask."
She sweeps her gaze over the rest of the group, her tone returning to a neutral, almost encouraging warmth.
"Please return to your rooms. We'll sort out this electricity issue and come get you for dinner. I'll use this to call you."
She pulls a small bell from her pocket and shakes it, making a clear but surprisingly powerful ringing sound.
"In the meantime, keep your masks with you—it's very important. Thank you all."
Maya stares at Ashford, trying to read something beneath her flawless facade. Is there a smile hidden in the shadow of her lips? A tension in her eyes? She can't be sure, but her instincts scream at her to stay on guard.
Fred steps quietly beside her, offering an arm to help her walk. He keeps a respectful distance, not touching her directly.
"Come on… You still seem a bit shaken."
They leave the room and head down the hallway toward the bedrooms. As soon as they're out of earshot, Fred lowers his voice, his tone urgent.
"Did you drink the tea quickly?"
Maya nods, her heart racing.
"Good. I'll walk you back to your room, and I want you to lock yourself inside. Don't open the door for anyone except me. If Ashford comes, pretend you're not there. If you think she's going to come in, hide."
They reach the landing, but Maya stops abruptly, turning to face him. Her eyes bore into his with sharp intensity.
"You know something," she says, her voice cold and steady.
Fred hesitates, but the urgency in his expression confirms the weight of the situation.
"I'll explain everything later. Right now, I just need to make sure you're safe."
Maya steps back, anger rising within her.
"You've never met Jimmy Hall, have you? You've never set foot in the Sea View Hotel. You probably don't even have a wife. You knew about the tea—you haven't touched it once. And that ritual with the masks… You've been suspicious from the start."
Fred remains silent, his expression hardening. Maya presses further, her voice firm.
"Who are you?"
Fred glances quickly around them, checking to ensure they aren't being watched. Then he pulls something from his pocket and holds it out to her—a shiny, official badge.
"Detective Inspector Frederick Jenks. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you sooner, but it was necessary. We can't talk here."
Maya stares at him, her suspicion undiminished. A cop? It doesn't make her feel any safer. She's trusted one before, with disastrous results. Fred quickly tucks the badge away as voices echo from the bottom of the stairs.
"Keep moving," he urges in a low whisper. "I'll explain, but not here."
Maya follows him to her room, her mind racing with questions. Once inside, she closes the door behind them and fixes him with a demanding gaze.
"Why are you here?"
Jenks hesitates, his eyes darting briefly toward the door as though every second spent here is a risk. Finally, he leans slightly closer to her, his expression grave and urgent.
"About ten years ago, I led an investigation in the village of Edenton after the suicide of a university student, Kate Vine. That case led me to an organization called Atlas. Do you remember me mentioning it to you?"
Maya nods faintly, her heart already pounding in her chest.
"Atlas presented itself as a revolutionary program, an organization designed to help people overcome their fears and unlock their potential, both personally and professionally. They used psychological techniques... workshops to break through their participants' mental barriers. You know the type: masks, dolls, 'leave the past behind,' 'get rid of your guilt.' Their CEO, Ryan Rand, was really into it. Does it remind you of anything?"
She furrows her brow, an almost tangible connection forming in her mind.
"You think Phoenix IS Atlas?"
"An extension or a new branch. They evolve, reinvent themselves. What I discovered is that Ashford and her two goons attended an Atlas seminar years ago. They were among the first. Back then, it had nothing to do with medicine—it was business people, bankers, financiers. Then Ashford found herself a... new passion. Psychiatry."
Maya slowly shakes her head, trying to piece together these fragments of a complex puzzle.
"But why are they interested in us?"
"That's the question I came to solve by infiltrating this seminar," he admits. "I've been playing the role of Fred, the grieving widower, for months. But what struck me is this common link between you and the other participants: you all have a connection to Jimmy Hall and the Sea View Hotel."
Maya feels her stomach twist at the mention of the name, ringing in her mind like an alarm bell.
"Jimmy is dead," she says firmly. "He died in the fire at the hotel."
Jenks looks at Maya, and in his eyes, she sees a mixture of doubt and certainty. He glances quickly toward the door, checking that they are still alone, then leans in closer, placing his hands on her shoulders with an intensity that unsettles her.
"Would you swear on it, Maya?" he breathes. "Are you absolutely sure Jimmy Hall is dead? No body was ever found."
His words hit her like a punch to the gut. She steps back, pulling away from his grip.
"He's dead," she repeats, but this time her voice trembles. "It can't be otherwise. I... I need to leave here. Now."
"We can't," he says quickly, his voice growing even more urgent. "I tried to get to the gate, but it's blocked by snow. We'd have to clear a path to get out, and Ashford won't let us do that. Walking out isn't an option either: the nearest village is miles away, and with this storm, we'd freeze to death."
Maya feels panic rising in her like a black tide.
"So what? We stay here and wait for it to get worse?!"
"I'll take care of it. I'm going to call for backup. In the meantime, listen carefully: lock yourself in your room, block the door with anything you can. Pretend to be sick, stay away from Ashford. Do you understand, Maya? Stay low."
Maya nods, trembling but resolute. Despite her doubts, Jenks seems genuinely concerned for her.
"I'll come back for you," he promises. "When it's me, I'll knock like this."
He taps the door seven times, following a precise rhythm. Maya memorizes the sound as an anchor to hold onto.
"You'll know it's me. Okay?"
"Okay," she whispers.
Fred nods sharply before leaving. The door handle gently clicks into place, the sound barely audible in the tense silence of the room. Maya stands still, staring at the door as if she can still catch a glimpse of Jenks' figure through the wood. Her hands are pressed against her chest, feeling the disordered beats of her heart. The nausea rises again, an acidic wave twisting her stomach. She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to calm the dizziness.
Then, in a sudden burst of clarity, she grabs the chair near the desk and wedges it against the door, her hands trembling. This simple act gives her a brief respite, a semblance of security. She inhales deeply, but the feeling of suffocation remains. None of this makes sense. Everything feels absurd, unreal. And yet, Fred—no, Inspector Jenks—just confirmed her worst fears. This seminar is a lie. But why? And, more troubling, what did the visions in the lounge mean?
Maya shudders as she recalls them. Those ghostly silhouettes—they were real, standing behind each participant. Dark, heavy presences. She's never seen anything like it before. Was it the tea? Ashford's ritual? Or something much older, much more terrifying?
She feels a cold sweat trickling down the back of her neck. Gripped by a sudden urge to flee, she rushes to the window. She opens it wide, letting the icy air slap her face. The snow stretches below, thick and pristine. She gauges the height. First floor. A fall here could break her leg, or worse. She looks at the bed's sheets, considering tying them into a makeshift rope, like in the stories she read as a child. But a clumsy attempt could send her crashing into the snow, and there would be no one to help her up.
She clenches her jaw, refusing to give up on the idea. Maybe later, if it's her last resort. She closes the window with a shiver and begins to search the room frantically. At least the towel is still hanging by the mirror. Her hands open and close drawers, turn over the bed, explore every corner. The dull sound of her own actions feels distant, muffled by a fog thickening in her mind. She finally understands why: the tea. She's still under its influence!
"Focus..." she mutters softly, a prayer to herself.
But the tea keeps working, creeping through her system like an insidious drug. Several times, she opens the same drawers, unable to remember she's already searched them. Her thoughts scatter like leaves carried by the wind, and her body feels alien, heavy. She still manages to find a small flashlight in the nightstand. A meager prize. Her trembling fingers clutch it as though it could illuminate more than just the physical darkness.
She sits on the bed, the flashlight in her hands, struggling to keep her eyes open. Her head spins, her temples throb painfully. She tries to remember Jenks' words, the precise rhythm of his knocks on the door, but everything blurs.
Trembling, she gets up and stumbles to the bathroom. The thought strikes her like a flash of clarity: cold water. Maybe it will help. She turns on the shower, setting the water to the coldest possible temperature. Without thinking further, she strips off her clothes, leaving only her underwear, and steps under the biting stream. The shock of cold takes her breath away, and for a brief moment, she believes it's working. The sensation of cold almost brings her back to herself.
But quickly, darkness takes over again, a lurking shadow seeping into every corner of her mind. Maya slides down the tiled wall, her knees curling up to her chest. The icy water pounds on her body, but she can hardly feel it anymore. She fights desperately, shaking her head as if trying to wake up from a nightmare.
Then, slowly, inexorably, she sinks.
Maya floats in an uncertain space.
The biting cold slowly fades. Then a strange warmth arrives, tepid, almost comforting. She can't open her eyes. Her eyelids are heavy. They refuse to let her escape the fog.
Something brushes against her cold skin. Gently, a hand moves, drying her legs, her stomach, her arms, her face, with an infinitely distant tenderness, cruelly close. Her hair is softly wrung out. Each movement slow, almost solemn.
She frowns. Her body refuses to respond. She wants to move, to speak. She shudders. Her mother sometimes treated her this way after her father's death. That warmth given with a silent sorrow, that excessive care, filled with guilt.
A faint, subtle scent wraps around her. She doesn't know if she recognizes it, if she's smelled it before. She tries to focus. There are cries, very near, muffled sobs. Someone is trying not to wake her. But those cries... An infinite, deep pain. A suffering she can't comprehend.
Her body is slid into a soft, warm garment. She's lifted, carried, as if she has no weight. She's placed on something plush. The warmth gradually returns, to her toes, to her fingers. The cold that paralyzed her fades. She's tucked in. Sheets glide around her. A careful movement. A precaution... A fear.
The crying persists, broken, accompanied by murmurs. No, those aren't murmurs... they're moans. Everything is blurry, confused, muffled. Maybe it's just a dream. It's a dream. She's sure of it, but... a sensation on her hand, a pain in that voice, it's all too real. Jenks? No, the door is closed. But then who? Something's wrong.
She can't move. She focuses on her eyelids. With infinite slowness, she tries to open her eyes. A fraction of space. A glimmer. A room. Her room... Memories assault her brutally. Blackmere Estate. She's still trapped.
The crying. It's still there, near her, at the foot of the bed. She wants to turn her head, but she can't. Her body is too heavy, too frozen. But her eyes move. Slowly. She directs them toward the figure. There. Someone is there, kneeling at the foot of the bed. A form curled in on itself, its head resting on its hand, like a prayer. A trembling breath shakes its shoulders. The light flickers, reflecting off tears streaming down.
It's him.
No, no… It can't be him.
Jimmy.
Maya furrows her brow, her heart beating painfully. She tries to scream. No sound comes out. He lifts his head. His eyes... He's staring at her. An abyss of sadness, regret, despair. He opens his mouth, and his voice trembles, broken by pain.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry... I never wanted all this. Forgive me, please. I tried to stop it. I tried... but it's my fault. It's all my fault. It's always been my fault."
Maya feels a freezing cold in her gut. No. This can't be happening. He's dead. He's supposed to be dead. But his voice... She's crying.
Jimmy raises a trembling hand. His palm moves toward her face, as if to wipe away her tears. But his eyes meet hers. He stops. Something in his gaze shatters him even more. He curls in on himself, sobbing harder.
"I'm sorry, so sorry... forgive me, please…"
His hand finds hers, holding it with infinite tenderness. He presses it to his forehead, an almost sacred gesture. Then, his lips brush her skin, kissing the back of her hand. The touch is too soft. Too real. Too intimate.
"Run, Maya. Get away from here... and don't look back."
Maya blinks. Once. Twice. The world wavers. Her eyelids close, then open again. Everything is empty.
The room is empty. Darkness swallows her.
Maya jolts awake, gasping for breath, as though emerging from a suffocating nightmare. Her body still feels heavy, mired in the lingering effects of the tea, but already she senses she's regained control. Her limbs, though tired, finally respond to her commands. She sits up quickly, panic still vivid in her mind, and rushes toward the door.
Her hands grasp the chair she had placed under the doorknob, checking that it hasn't moved. Nothing has changed. She lets out a sigh of relief. The chair is still there. The door is still locked. No one could have entered.
But then…?
Her gaze drops, drawn to a strange sensation of fabric against her skin. She realizes she's wrapped in a thick, fluffy robe, her underwear still cold beneath. Her breath quickens. Her damp hair hangs around her face, but it's not soaked like it should have been after a cold shower. She hesitantly runs a hand through her wet strands, as if to convince herself it's real. Then she looks down at the bed. The sheets are slightly rumpled where she woke up, but impeccably tucked. She had definitely been lying there.
"No…" she whispers softly, her voice cracked with disbelief.
She tries to reason. Yes, that's it. She must have been delirious. She must have left the shower, put on this robe, and slipped under the covers without remembering. The effects of the tea… yes, that tea was far too potent. Her thoughts drift to the tear-streaked face she thought she saw, the sound of sobs, and those words full of regret.
No. It's impossible. It was delirium, a nightmare fueled by Ashford's absurdities about guilt and the past. Nothing more. Jimmy is dead. He can't be here. It was all just a dream… wasn't it?
But as she tries to convince herself, something catches her attention. An almost imperceptible sensation on her right hand. She slowly raises it, turning it to examine the back of her hand. Her eyes squint as she sees a faint, shining mark under the light of the nightstand lamp.
The same mark a kiss would leave.