Aria's POV
"Mrs. Cross, you need to let go of his hand."
The nurse's voice felt far away. I stared at Damien lying in the hospital bed, tubes running from his arm, machines beeping steadily. His shoulder was bandaged, his face too pale, but he was breathing. Alive.
I tightened my grip on his hand. "No."
"Ma'am, we need to take him for surgery—"
"I said no!" My voice cracked. Everyone in the emergency room turned to look at me—the crazy woman covered in blood and seawater, refusing to let go.
A warm hand touched my shoulder. Detective Torres stood beside me, his expression kind but firm. "Aria. Let them help him. He's going to be okay."
"You don't know that." Tears blurred my vision. "Marcus always wins. What if this is just another one of his games? What if—"
"Marcus is dead." Torres said it gently but clearly. "We found his body at the base of the cliff twenty minutes ago. He's gone, Aria. He can't hurt you anymore."
The words should have made me feel safe. Free. Instead, they made my stomach twist with doubt.
Because I'd seen that figure on the cliff. Heard that laugh.
But I let go of Damien's hand anyway. Watched them wheel him away through double doors that swung shut between us.
Torres guided me to a chair. "Now. Tell me what happened. Everything."
So I did. The lighthouse, the catwalk breaking, Marcus shooting at us, Kira surviving. As I talked, nurses came and cleaned the cuts on my hands and face, but I barely felt it.
"Where's Kira?" I asked when I finished. "Is she okay?"
Torres's expression changed. Became careful. "That's what I need to ask you about. You said Kira Walsh was there. That she called us from the lighthouse phone."
"Yes! She saved us. She—" I stopped. Something in his tone made my blood run cold. "What's wrong?"
"Aria." He pulled up a chair, sitting so close our knees almost touched. "There was no one at the lighthouse when our team arrived. No Kira. No phone call registered from that location. Just you, Damien, and Marcus."
The world tilted. "That's impossible. She was there. I saw her. We both saw her!"
"Damien was barely conscious from blood loss. You'd nearly drowned and were in shock." Torres pulled out his phone, showing me a photo. "This is security footage from Pine haven Psychiatric Facility from three hours ago. That's Kira Walsh in her room, asleep. She never left the facility."
I stared at the photo. It was definitely Kira—red hair, same face, same scar. Tucked into bed, a nurse checking her vitals.
"But I talked to her," I whispered. "She told me about Marcus drugging me. About the fire. She was bleeding from her throat where she cut herself—"
"There's no blood at the lighthouse except yours, Damien's, and Marcus's." Torres's voice was gentle but unyielding. "Aria, I think you experienced a trauma-induced hallucination. Your mind created what you needed to see—your best friend, alive and helping you—to get through an impossible situation."
"No." I stood up so fast the chair fell backward. "I'm not crazy! She was real!"
"I'm not saying you're crazy. Trauma does strange things to the brain—"
"Then who called you?!" I shouted. "How did you know to come if Kira didn't call?!"
Torres hesitated. "We got an anonymous tip from a burner phone. Male voice. He said there was trouble at the old lighthouse and gave us the exact location."
Male voice.
Not Kira.
Then who?
Before I could ask, my phone—dried out and miraculously still working—buzzed in my pocket. A text from an unknown number:
"You saw what I wanted you to see. Now look closer. The real game is just beginning. - M"
M.
Marcus.
But Marcus was dead. Torres just said they found his body.
Unless...
"Show me the body," I demanded. "Show me Marcus's body right now."
Torres looked uncomfortable. "Aria, you don't need to see that—"
"SHOW ME!"
He sighed and pulled up another photo on his phone. A body on the rocks, face-down, wearing Marcus's clothes. Blood everywhere.
But I couldn't see the face.
"Turn him over," I said. "You turned him over to identify him, right?"
Torres's silence was answer enough.
"You didn't identify him yet," I breathed. "You just assumed it was Marcus because of the clothes and the fall and—oh God. Oh God, what if it's not him?"
"Aria, you're in shock. You need to rest—"
"What if he staged this?" My mind raced, pieces clicking together. "What if he pushed someone else over the cliff wearing his clothes? What if this whole thing was planned to make us think he's dead so we'd let our guard down?"
"That's—" Torres started to say impossible, but stopped. Because we both knew Marcus. Knew what he was capable of.
Torres stood, already dialing his phone. "I'll have the medical examiner fast-track the autopsy. Fingerprints, dental records, everything. If there's any doubt—"
The lights went out.
The entire hospital plunged into darkness. Emergency lights flickered on after a moment, casting everything in eerie red.
An announcement crackled over the speakers: "Code Silver. Code Silver. All personnel to emergency protocols."
Code Silver. Active threat in the hospital.
Torres's radio exploded with chatter. "—intruder in the surgical wing—" "—male suspect, armed—" "—heading toward operating room three—"
Operating room three.
Where they took Damien.
I ran.
Torres shouted behind me, but I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. My wet shoes squeaked on the linoleum as I sprinted down hallways, following the signs to surgery.
Staff rushed past me, evacuating patients. Alarms shrieked. Someone screamed.
I burst through the surgical wing doors—and froze.
A man stood outside operating room three, his back to me. He wore scrubs and a surgical cap, but something about his stance was familiar. Too familiar.
He turned around.
My heart stopped.
Marcus.
Alive. Unharmed. Smiling that terrible smile I knew so well.
"Hello, darling," he said calmly, like we'd just met for coffee. "Did you really think it would be that easy?"
"You're dead," I whispered. "We saw you fall—"
"You saw someone fall. Important difference." He tilted his head, studying me like I was a bug under glass. "His name was David. A homeless man I paid to wear my clothes and stand on a cliff. Sad, really. But necessary."
Behind him, through the operating room window, I could see doctors working frantically on Damien. He was still unconscious, vulnerable, completely helpless.
"Here's what's going to happen," Marcus continued, pulling a syringe from his pocket. "You're going to come with me quietly. If you scream, if you run, if you do anything except exactly what I say, I walk into that room and inject this into his IV. It's potassium chloride. His heart will stop in thirty seconds."
"Why?" The word ripped out of me. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you're mine, Aria. You've always been mine." He stepped closer, and I saw the madness burning in his eyes. "I built you. I broke you. I own every piece of you. And if I can't have you—" He looked toward the operating room. "—I'll make sure nobody else can either."
Torres and hospital security were coming. I could hear their footsteps, their shouts. They'd be here in seconds.
But seconds might be too late.
Marcus saw my calculation and smiled. "Choose fast, darling. Your freedom or his life. Clock's ticking."
I looked at Damien through the window. The man who'd promised never to leave me. Who'd taken a bullet meant for me. Who'd loved me even when I was too broken to love myself.
Then I looked at Marcus. The monster who'd stolen five years of my life.
"Okay," I said quietly. "I'll come with you."
"Smart girl." Marcus grabbed my arm, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Now walk."
He started pulling me toward the stairwell exit, away from the approaching security.
I went with him.
But as we reached the door, I did something Marcus never expected.
I remembered what Damien taught me during our weeks together. How to fight back. How to be strong.
I twisted, driving my elbow into Marcus's throat.
He gasped and stumbled. The syringe fell from his hand.
I dove for it, my fingers closing around the plastic just as Marcus recovered and lunged at me.
We hit the floor hard. He was stronger, heavier, pinning me down. His hands wrapped around my throat, squeezing.
"Stupid," he hissed in my face. "So stupid. Now you both die."
Black spots danced in my vision. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't fight.
The syringe was still in my hand.
With the last of my strength, I swung it up and jammed it into Marcus's neck, pressing the plunger.
His eyes went wide. Shocked. Disbelieving.
He released my throat, stumbling backward, pulling the empty syringe from his neck.
"What did you—" His words slurred. He looked at the syringe, at me, understanding dawning. "No. No, that was supposed to be for—"
His heart was already racing, I could see it in the frantic pulse at his throat. Too fast. Too hard.
Potassium chloride. Lethal in seconds when injected directly.
Marcus collapsed, clutching his chest.
Security burst through the doors, guns drawn. Torres was there, yelling orders.
But I just sat there on the floor, staring at Marcus as his breathing became shallow, then stopped.
This time, it was real.
This time, he was really dead.
Torres knelt beside me. "Aria. Are you hurt?"
I couldn't answer. Couldn't speak. Could only stare at my hands—hands that had just killed a man.
Even if that man was a monster.
Even if he deserved it.
The operating room doors opened. A doctor emerged, pulling off her mask. "The patient in three is stable. Surgery was successful."
Damien would live.
We'd both live.
But as paramedics covered Marcus's body with a sheet, my phone buzzed one more time.
Another text from an unknown number:
"Well done, Aria. You passed the test. But Marcus wasn't working alone. Sweet dreams. - K"
K.
Kira.
But Kira was locked in a psychiatric facility. Torres showed me proof.
Unless that was a lie too.
Unless everything—every single thing—was part of a bigger game I didn't understand yet.
I looked up at Torres, my voice hollow. "It's not over, is it?"
His grim expression told me everything I needed to know.
The real nightmare was just beginning.