The night was quiet; too quiet for Jennifer's liking. She sat on the couch, the laptop still shut, the encrypted files clawing at her thoughts like ghosts. Amir's voice lingered in her head, every word a warning she couldn't ignore. If Silas comes back... he'll take what matters most to me. He'll take you.

Her phone buzzed, shattering the silence. A text from Zarielle:

"Meet me at the studio. Urgent."

Jennifer frowned. Zarielle never used the word urgent unless something was truly wrong. She grabbed her keys and headed out, the velvet box catching her eye as she passed the dresser. For a moment, she hesitated—then slipped the ring onto her finger. It felt heavier than she remembered, like it carried the weight of every choice she'd ever made.

The studio was dark when she arrived, the glass door cracked open. Jennifer pushed inside, her heels clicking against the polished floor. "Zarielle?" she called, her voice echoing through the empty space.

No answer.

She moved deeper, the shadows thickening around her. Then she saw it: a smear of crimson across the wall, stark against the white paint. Her blood ran cold. "Zarielle?" she whispered again, panic clawing at her throat.

A sound came from the far corner; a low scrape, like metal against concrete. Jennifer turned slowly, her pulse pounding. A figure stood in the shadows, masked and silent, a blade glinting in one hand. The mask wasn't porcelain like the Phantom's; it was crude, jagged, painted black. And the eyes behind it burned with something feral.

Jennifer froze. The figure stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until the light caught the edge of the blade. Then, without a word, it lunged.

She stumbled back, her scream tearing through the silence. The blade slashed the air where her throat had been a second ago. Jennifer ran, her heels skidding on the floor, her heart a drumbeat of terror. She burst through the door and into the night, the rain slick against her skin.

Behind her, the masked figure didn't follow. It just stood in the doorway, watching, breathing like a predator savoring the chase. And then it was gone—swallowed by the dark.

She looked around, and by the same window of the orphanage, the young man sat, watching everything. Biting a piece of bread, he lifted his hand and waved at her.

Jennifer looked away in terror and didn't stop running until she reached her apartment. She slammed the door, locked it, and pressed her back against the wall, her chest heaving. Her gaze fell to her hand; the ring gleaming under the dim light, a silent promise she hadn't meant to keep.

When she finally looked up, her blood ran cold. On the windowsill, where the feather had been, lay something new.

A single word scrawled in ink:

"Next."