"𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕧𝕚𝕝 𝕚𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕒𝕤 𝕓𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝕒𝕤 𝕙𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕕." ― 𝔻𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕖 𝔸𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕚𝕖𝕣𝕚, 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕖 ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕕𝕪: 𝕀𝕟𝕗𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕠 - ℙ𝕦𝕣𝕘𝕒𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕠 - ℙ𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕠
Dean always began his mornings with precision.
The soft click of his journal opening was the day's first confession. Pages veined with scribbled thoughts and restless dreams. Half-coherent dialogue that never saw the light of day, but lived faithfully beneath his lamp. His room was a study in textures: cracked leather, cold brushed metal, warm aged wood. The walls swallowed the light in a dark gray hush. The bookshelf, his only riot of color, held not only his favorite reads but also the fragments of himself he never dared speak aloud.
As dawn curled through the slats of his blinds, Dean reached for his pill organizer. One blue tablet. One white. No hesitation. He swallowed them dry, eyes never leaving the black-tiled bathroom ahead. There, he stepped onto the scale and exhaled slowly, as if his breath carried weight too.
The hum of the electric razor was the only sound. Clinical. Almost meditative. Each stroke along his jawline was surgical, deliberate. Inside the cabinet: one toothbrush. Mint-green. One pair of house slippers neatly aligned. He lived alone. Not out of consequence. Out of choice. Detachment was cleaner that way.
In the kitchen, the faucet ran before he touched anything. Always wash first.
The ritual of breakfast was theatrical. He diced with obsessive uniformity—bell peppers, red onions, sharp cheddar. Roasted tomatoes lay like open hearts beside torn basil. He sautéed asparagus, halved an avocado with surgical grace, arranged pea shoots and crumbled goat cheese with a curator's eye. He washed his hands in between each ingredient.
Again. And again.
"Thoroughly. Nice and neatly... nice and slow," he murmured, hands under the stream like a priest cleansing before absolution. His voice was even, as if reading from a prayer book written by guilt.
When it came time to sprinkle fresh parsley and chives, it was less of a garnish, more of a benediction.
He drank his coffee black. No sugar. No softness. That's how you stay awake in this world, he once wrote in the margins of a half-dream. "Stay bitter so nothing sticks."
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A sigh escaped, barely audible above the soft hum of the monitor. Fingers hovered just above the keyboard, caught between impulse and embarrassment. The cursor blinked, unbothered. His search history, however, had begun unraveling like thread from a fraying cuff.
"Dating tips for men over 30." Backspace.
"How to make a woman fall for you?" Delete. Too desperate. Too obvious.
He leaned back in his chair, the creak of worn leather echoing through the stillness.
He cracked his knuckles with the flair of someone about to write a masterpiece... then typed: "What to do when your houseplant is thriving more than your love life." Scratch that. Maybe too honest.
"Aaargh,"
He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. He was supposed to be focusing—researching his next novel, Echoes of the Departed, the much-anticipated third book in his Afterlife series.
Instead, he was spiraling into an existential rabbit hole.
"How to date a psycho?"
Wait—was there actually an article about this?
Dean's eyes flicked to the bottom of the page.
"How to date a killer?"
His breath caught, the absurdity of the phrase knocking him off balance.
The cursor blinked, taunting him. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"Okay, my mind is playing tricks on me. This clickbait nonsense actually tells you how not to date a killer."
Still, something unsettled him—something he couldn't quite name.
Then—
Ding!
A notification popped up.
Her Lies and Lewis liked your post.
Ding!
Her Lies and Lewis sent you a message.
Dean's pulse quickened. Her Lies and Lewis.
The mysterious young woman he had been messaging for months.
She was sharp. Thoughtful. A perfect conversationalist.
And if he was being completely honest—too perfect.
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On the other side.
Alice sat before her laptop, the cursor blinking against the emptiness of an unfinished draft.
She flexed her fingers, letting the tension settle deep into her bones.
She needed the words to be right.
"Death is an art," she typed.
Delete. Rewrite.
"Death is a story."
Still wrong.
Her pulse thrummed against her skin.
"I write stories. But sometimes, stories must be lived."
The silence in her apartment stretched long and unrelenting.
She closed the laptop with a quiet click.
Outside, the window's reflection stared back at her.
A woman looked back—but something about her wasn't Alice.
The glow of Alice's screen flickered against her face, pulling her back to reality as the notification slid across her phone.
ANNOUNCEMENT: A Literary Comeback Worth Whispering About!
She sat up, eyes narrowing in anticipation as she read.
"The afterlife is calling... and the whispers in the shadows are louder than ever!"
A.D.—the elusive author of the Afterlife series—was finally releasing his much-anticipated third book: Echoes of the Departed.
Alice let the words sink in, the description unraveling before her.
"Fans of the series can expect a chilling unraveling of who killed who, how they did it, and why—woven into a hauntingly beautiful journey filled with unexpected twists, forbidden knowledge, and voices from realms unknown."
A slow smile curled against her lips. A reckoning was near.
The last question stirred something within her.. Will fate succumb to the whispers of the departed, or will the living silence their call?
She forwarded the announcement to her fellow avid-fan, fingers moving swiftly over her keyboard -@DarkSentinel.
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Dean hesitated, staring at his Nyx app (The app of choice for secretive social interactions.)
Another message.
Her Lies and Lewis' latest words hovered in the dim glow of his screen.
"Tell me, my trusty Sentinel—do you believe a writer can exist without a name?"
Dean's pulse quickened.
@DarkSentinel: "A name defines the writer."
Her Lies and Lewis replied almost instantly.
"No. A name is a disguise."
Dean swallowed hard.
She always spoke in riddles.
But this one felt heavier.
As if there was something beneath the words, clawing its way to the surface.
Her Lies and Lewis: "You ever notice how words have their own way of haunting us?"
Dean read her message, exhaling slowly.
"You write them down, polish them, set them free—and yet, they never truly belong to you. They take on lives of their own."
He frowned, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
@DarkSentinel: "That's an interesting way to put it... Are you saying your words have ghosts too?"
She answered almost instantly.
"That's the thing about ghostwriters. We live between the lines. We exist in stories without faces."
Dean paused, remembering something she had casually mentioned weeks ago—how she ghostwrote for others, how she sought advice on finishing her own book, how she had asked him for insight on refining her words.
Had she been testing him?
Or simply revealing herself?
Dean hesitated before typing.
"Oh, by the way—there's a poetry reading and writer's retreat event this Saturday. Would you like for us to finally meet up?"
A moment of hesitation.
He debated unsending the message.
Then—
Her Lies and Lewis replied immediately.
"Meet me at Nightfall Café—tucked neatly between an alley, a bookstore and coffee shop in one. I'll be there by 2 PM. You surely won't miss me; I'll be bringing my copy of Beyond the Grave."
Dean stared at the screen, his chest tightening.
Something inside him whispered—
This would be more than a simple meeting.
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Nightfall Café
The rain had softened into a steady drizzle, mist curling through the streets as the city blurred into muted grays. Dean stood outside Nightfall Café, gripping the strap of his bag, his pulse a quiet hammer against his ribs.
He had imagined this moment countless times—wondered what she would look like, how she would sound, how the air between them would shift once they finally met.
The café was small, intimate—a place where voices disappeared into the hum of steaming espresso and quiet conversation. Yet, as Dean stepped inside, he felt something heavier in the air.
Something watching.
He scanned the room, his gaze flicking past clusters of book lovers nursing their coffee, past the dimly lit shelves stacked with forgotten stories. Then—he saw her.
Alice aka Her Lies and Lewis.
She sat in the farthest corner, cloaked in shadow, a copy of Beyond the Grave resting beside a cup of untouched coffee. Her fingers traced the rim absentmindedly, her posture unnervingly still—waiting.
For him.
Dean inhaled slowly and moved toward her, each step oddly deafening against the café's warmth.
She looked up, finally meeting his gaze.
And for a moment, he froze.
She was not what he expected.
Alice sat with an easy confidence, dressed in a sunny yellow floral dress, her dark-rimmed sunglasses resting comfortably on her nose despite the storm outside. Her presence was striking—not the brooding, enigmatic woman he had imagined, but something utterly effortless. Soft yet certain. Lovely yet unapologetic.
Dean thought of Alice as sexy, alluring, mysterious—the kind of woman who would wear dark clothes to match the mischief in her mind. But this? This was not what he had pictured.
She smiled, her lips curving into something unreadable.
"You made it," she murmured, voice barely louder than the rain tapping against the window.
Dean sat across from her, shaking off his thoughts.
"Of course," he answered, forcing steadiness into his tone.
Alice tilted her head, studying him.
"You're not what I expected," Dean admitted, watching her carefully.
She chuckled, folding her hands beneath her chin.
"What did you expect?"
Dean hesitated, gaze flicking over her dress, the way she held herself—straightforward, confident, perfect.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "Something... darker?"
Alice smirked but said nothing.
Then, without hesitation, she reached into her bag and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief.
"Here, let me help you," she said, offering it to him.
Dean blinked, startled by the simple gesture.
The rain still dripped from his hair, his white button-down shirt clinging to his skin. He had dressed carefully for today—a crisp yet understated well-fitted pair of trousers, sleeves rolled up, polished leather shoes, a simple watch, classic round-frame glasses.
He thought the day would be sunny.
But it wasn't.
Maybe, neither was Alice.
Dean took the handkerchief, his fingers brushing against hers for the briefest second.
She was warm.
He should never have come here.
Maybe they wouldn't click.
But as the minutes stretched, their conversation flowed effortlessly. Alice was one hell of a writer, her ideas sharp, her thoughts fascinating.
And suddenly—
Dean couldn't wait to see more of her.
She had become an obsession.
A madness he never believed in.
And yet—here he was, falling.
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He hadn't expected that.
Back when their conversations were confined to chats and grainy profile photos, she'd come across like a femme fatale sketched from noir fiction—witty, razor-sharp, her every message laced with effortless flirtation. Even her selfies played the part: the tilt of her chin, the mischief in her eyes, blood-red nails curled around a coffee cup like evidence at a crime scene. He'd built her from fragments—lipstick like warpaint, a voice that could wound, and a story threaded with danger.
But standing here now, Alice was... contradictory.
The first detail that unstitched him was her shoes. Not the style, but the tiny doodled hearts inked just above the soles—careless, sweet, like a secret she'd forgotten to erase. It clashed with the persona he'd imagined. She looked less like a siren, more like the kind of girl who journaled her dreams in scented ink and still believed in the magic of birthdays.
And yet—
"You know," she said while stirring her coffee, "I read somewhere that if you hold an ice pick just right, it slides in without resistance."
She smiled. It was a sunny, dimpled kind of smile. The kind you'd expect from someone offering you a muffin, not murder tips.
Dean blinked, unsure whether to laugh or check under the table.
There was something about the way she delivered those lines. Like sharing trivia over brunch. No menace. No warning. Just mischief dressed in sincerity. She'd lean in, voice all honey, and say the most unnerving things—like complimenting a houseplant while casually referencing poison. Then she'd tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, really listen to his reply, offer him the last piece of chocolate like she hadn't just compared human bones to porcelain.
That tension—between her light and her shadows—was magnetic. Her contradictions didn't confuse him—they compelled him.
Dean avoided her gaze at first. His eyes remained fixed on the spoon in his cup or the scuff on the tabletop. His face betrayed nothing. Flat. Controlled. But inside, he was quietly unraveling, thread by thread.
Because the truth was this: she wasn't just charming. She was chaos in a sunhat. And he was starting to like the way she tilted his world off balance.
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The warm hum of conversation filled the café, blending with the soft crackling of rain against the windows. Dim candlelight flickered atop the table, casting elongated shadows across Alice's face as she leaned in, her wide smile lighting up the space between them.
"The thing is, we've been talking for hours, but I haven't properly introduced myself." Alice smiled, leaning in slightly. "I'm Alice Deus-Bishop. And you are?"
Dean chuckled, shaking his head. "Funny how that happens, isn't it? Hours of conversation, yet we forget the basics."
He met her gaze, watching her for a moment with a knowing glint in his eyes, fingers lazily tracing the rim of his coffee cup before answering.
"Dean Buenaventura."
Alice's eyes lit up at the name, a flicker of excitement crossing her face.
"That's a strong name. Have you always been into books, Dean?"
Dean smirked, setting his cup down with a quiet clink.
"I read a lot, yeah."
Alice nodded enthusiastically.
"I grew up idolizing A.D. I love his work, but his Afterlife series truly hooked me. No one has ever seen his face, but if he ever showed up to a book signing, I'd do anything to meet him."
She absently traced the rim of her coffee mug, her voice tinged with admiration.
"A.D. is like an enigma. Nobody knows what he—or she—looks like. No age, no identity. Just brilliant work suddenly appearing, delivered straight to the publisher like a ghost leaving behind unfinished business.
Dean responded with a measured tone, his gaze steady.
"They say he might be a psycho, or even a killer on the loose. The way he writes is too convincing, too detailed—almost as if he lived the crimes he describes."
Alice laughed, the sound light and unguarded, oblivious to how Dean's fingers tightened around his cup.
"We'll never know, right?" she mused.
Dean chuckled, shaking his head as if the idea amused him. "People love mysteries."
Alice tilted her head, her voice laced with curiosity.
"I wonder what A.D. stands for. Maybe Angel of Death?"
Dean exhaled slowly, masking the smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
"Maybe," he said simply.
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After a quick search online, Dean discovered something intriguing about this bookstore—a tradition, almost a secret ritual. Visitors were encouraged to leave handwritten notes or annotations inside random books, waiting for an unsuspecting future reader to stumble upon them. He turned to Alice, eyes alight with curiosity.
"Did you know about this?" Dean asked, his voice laced with excitement.
Alice shook her head. "No, not at all. That sounds really cool."
Dean's lips curved into a mischievous grin. "Why don't you pick a book and write something?" His challenge carried weight—not just an ordinary message, but one designed to alter a stranger's perception of the story.
Alice hesitated for a moment, then grabbed a book from the nearest shelf. Flipping to a random page, she scribbled her message in delicate script:
"Hear this rhyme, steal my time, and now ask me—is it a crime? My oh dear, wanted most, yet now lost. Scars may mend, sorrows may end. Vicious sheath—a breath of death."
Later, as she wandered deeper into the aisles, she discovered another note—this time, penned in Dean's unmistakable handwriting. It rested within the pages of a different book, cryptic yet intimate, as if meant for her alone.
"Echoes linger where time has frayed, a fleeting thought now unmade. What was stolen, may yet return—if hands dare to trace what burns. Ask not of loss, nor of regret. Some wounds remember, some souls forget."
Her fingers lingered over the ink, an unspoken conversation unfolding between them across the pages.
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Far below, the city glowed—restless, golden, like a living constellation. But up here on the rooftop, it was only Alice and the wind. Midnight had draped itself across her shoulders like a shawl of smoke, and in her ears, Hello darkness, my old friend spilled like a whispered confession.
Her fingers hovered above the page, ink pooling at the tip of her pen, dancing to the rhythm of a thought just beginning to take shape. The only light came from a weathered lantern beside her, throwing gold against the sharp edges of night.
Then—thunder. Sudden. Cracking the sky open like a secret too long withheld.
Alice startled. The inkwell shuddered, then toppled, its contents bleeding into the paper like spilled memory. Letters dissolved into smears, ideas drowned in blackness. She sat still, breath thin, as though afraid the ink could stain more than just the page.
She didn't notice the object at first. It had been tucked beneath the manuscripts—innocuous, forgettable. A fountain pen. Not new—vintage. Heavy. With a tiny engraving almost worn smooth: Pour écrire ce qu'on ne peut dire—To write what cannot be said. The nib is gold, but when Alice picks it up, the ink inside is already flowing. She doesn't remember filling it.
But when she touched it, a strange vertigo licked at her spine, and her vision swam in violet arcs.
That's when the blackouts began.
She woke the next morning to find her typewriter warm, keys smudged with fingerprints that didn't feel like hers. Pages scattered across the floor—her cadence, her punctuation... but the voice was alien. The manuscript pulsed with something raw and sensual, laced with violence, like a scream written in cursive.
Alice couldn't remember a single word.
She kissed him not to awaken him, but to bury the last of his silence.
Her mouth pressed to his like a blade drawn slow—each touch a eulogy wrapped in skin.
Each kiss was a shroud—deliberate, deadly. And he welcomed it like a man begging the gallows to tighten.
She told herself it meant nothing. She would brush it off. Pretend it hadn't happened.
For now.