I don’t sleep.

Not after Cassian’s words.

Not after seeing that sketch.

Someone else is watching you.

What was that supposed to mean?

A part of me wants to scream. Another wants to run. But I do neither. I sit in the guest room and listen.

The house is too still.

Every creak, every gust of wind outside feels like it carries meaning.

At sunrise, I leave.

Cassian doesn’t try to stop me.

He watches from the front door, hands in his pockets.

“There’s more you need to know,” he says.

I don’t respond.

Because I’m done listening for now.

---

I return to my apartment, expecting silence.

Instead, I find someone waiting.

Not Cassian.

Not Talia.

A stranger.

He stands near my door, wearing a faded grey hoodie, head bowed like he’s reading something on his phone.

When he looks up, his eyes catch mine.

Something about his face feels familiar.

Too familiar.

“Amira Dalen?”

My steps are slow.

He smiles gently. “Sorry to scare you. My name is Isaac.”

I stare at him. “Do I know you?”

He shakes his head. “No. But I know you.”

My pulse quickens.

He holds up a small card. Freelance journalist – The Chronicle.

“I’ve been following your recent gallery debut,” he says. “And some… inconsistencies.”

I fold my arms. “Like what?”

He lowers his voice. “Like how you disappeared for almost a year, then reappeared with a sponsor no one can trace. Or how your earlier art is mysteriously gone from every archive. Even college submissions.”

He glances at my building. “Mind if we talk?”

I hesitate.

But then I nod.

Inside, I pour us both coffee. My hands still shake.

Isaac settles into the armchair like he’s done this a hundred times.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he says, “but there are things about Cassian Vale you need to know.”

My chest tightens.

“Go on.”

Isaac pulls out a folder from his bag. Inside are photos.

Cassian at different ages. Cassian at the gallery. Cassian outside my building two weeks ago.

“I ran facial recognition on some surveillance footage,” Isaac says. “He was near you on multiple occasions in the past six years.”

I look closer.

A park. A subway. A lecture hall.

I barely remember any of them.

“You think he’s been following me that long?”

Isaac nods. “Longer. His company sponsored an art competition at your old university. One where your application mysteriously vanished.”

I feel sick.

“He’s not just obsessed, Amira. He’s erasing your past and rewriting your story.”

I whisper, “Why me?”

Isaac studies me. “Maybe because you saw something. Maybe because you forgot something he didn’t want you to remember.”

I think of the locked room.

The tapes.

The sketch I supposedly made in my sleep.

“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” I whisper.

Isaac leans forward. “That’s exactly what he wants.”

---

We spend hours reviewing the files.

Each piece Isaac presents is another crack in the story Cassian told.

Photos of the estate from five years ago, marked with private security logs.

Patient records—doctored.

Statements from staff at the hospital, all signed under Vale Holdings.

It’s not care.

It’s control.

“He built a life around you,” Isaac says. “One where you had no choice but to rely on him.”

I sit still, barely breathing.

And then Isaac asks the question I’ve been avoiding:

“Amira, do you trust your memories?”

I don’t answer.

Because the truth is—no.

I don’t.

---

That night, I dream again.

The woods. The cabin. The faceless man.

This time, I followed him.

He doesn’t run. He leads.

And when we reach the clearing, he points to the sky.

A flare of light. A scream.

And then—

I wake up gasping.

There’s movement outside my window.

I rush forward.

But there’s no one there.

Only a small package, wrapped in brown paper, resting on my windowsill.

I unwrap it slowly.

Inside: a flash drive.

And a note:

Watch alone. Trust no one.

---

Isaac left hours ago. I lock every door, draw the curtains, and plug in the flash drive.

A video loads.

Black and white. Grainy.

It’s me.

Tied to a bed.

Eyes closed.

Cassian’s voice off-camera: “She’s resisting again. Increase the dosage.”

Another man responds: “She’s painting in her sleep now. Whatever’s inside her—it’s coming out.”

I cover my mouth.

There’s another file. A clip from the woods. Date-stamped two days before my “accident.”

Cassian dragging a large bag toward the trees.

He glances at the camera—like he knows it’s watching.

Like he knows I’m watching.

My heart pounds so loud I can barely think.

And then the screen cuts to black.

One line appears:

He’s not the only one who remembers what happened that night.

---

I turn off everything.

My apartment feels smaller now.

Like someone—or something—is still inside.

I grab my phone.

Talia.

I need Talia.

I called twice. No answer.

I text: Please. I need to see you. Now.

No reply.

And then—

A knock on my door.

Not Isaac.

Not Talia.

Cassian.

He stands in the hallway, calm as ever.

“I know you’ve seen it,” he says.

I don’t move.

“I can explain everything,” he says.

And then:

“But first, you need to come with me. Now.”

His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them.

And in his hand—

He’s holding my sketchbook.

The one I burned a year ago.

-