(Lyra’s POV)

The precinct smelled the same as it always did—burnt coffee, paper, and the faint mix of too many perfumes and colognes drifting from the people rushing through the halls. I paused at the entrance for a moment, clutching my bag tighter, almost as if the familiar smell could steady me.

Work. This was supposed to be my anchor.

I’d told myself that all morning. After what happened at the club, after the dizziness, the confusion, the waking up in a stranger’s bed I didn’t understand, I needed something stable. Something that wouldn’t shift under my feet.

For me, that was my work.

Being a forensic psychologist wasn’t just a job—it was survival. It was a way to take my own pain and use it for good. I worked with victims who couldn’t remember what had happened to them—trauma so deep their minds had buried it like a locked box. My job was to help them unlock it safely, carefully, without breaking them in the process.

Sometimes I felt like a thief, sneaking into places the human mind didn’t want me to go. But when the pieces came together, when someone looked at me with clear eyes after years of shadows, I knew it was worth it.

I greeted the officers I knew with a polite nod, a half-smile that never reached my eyes. They saw the professional version of me: calm, steady, confident. They didn’t see the version of me that still flinched when someone raised their voice too quickly, the version that remembered screams that had nothing to do with my patients.

My office was on the second floor, tucked into a corner where the noise from the city below softened. I settled into my chair, letting the leather embrace me like a silent confidant. Files stacked neatly on the corner of my desk awaited my attention—each one a life fractured, a mind warped by circumstances no one should ever endure. I leaned back and closed my eyes for a moment, letting the familiar hum of the fluorescent lights wash over me. I could do this. I had to do this.

And yet, even here, even surrounded by science, logic, and evidence, the memories whispered.

A man’s face flickered behind my eyelids—familiar, but impossible. I blinked it away, telling myself it was fatigue, imagination, nothing more. I’ve learned to manage these things, to push them to the edges of consciousness. But sometimes they slip, like shadows at the edge of a candle’s light, and for a moment, I’m back in that house, hearing the noises that shouldn’t exist, feeling the fear that never truly leaves.

For a while, I let myself sink into the rhythm—organizing notes from the Hawkins case, reviewing progress reports, sipping coffee that had already gone lukewarm. The Hawkins girl had been just sixteen, her memories of what happened blurred by shock. I’d helped her piece together the truth bit by bit, gently guiding her back to the night she had tried so hard to forget. It had been messy, painful, but she’d come out stronger.

The memory made me exhale slowly. At least in that case, I had done something right.

That’s when Soren Hale, my mentor and one of the few people whose opinion I still trust, steps into my office. Tall, composed, with that quiet authority that has a way of both comforting and unnerving me, he surveys the room briefly before his gaze lands on me.

“Lyra,” he says, voice ,low, serious, measured. “I need to speak with you about a case.”

I glance up, curious. “Of course.” My voice is steady, but a faint tightness curls in my stomach.

Soren takes a step closer, his eyes locking onto mine. “There’s a client. High profile. Billionaire. Cassian Veyra. He’s… complicated.” His pause is deliberate. “Missing decade. Discrepancies in memory. We need someone precise, careful… someone who won’t be intimidated by wealth, influence, or secrets.”

I froze, my coffee cup halfway to my lips. My heart thumped in a way it hadn’t in years.

“I… I don’t know, Soren,” I said carefully, choosing my words. “High-profile means media, scrutiny… and his past—if there’s anything dangerous in it, I’m not sure I can handle—”

He stepped closer, placing a hand on my shoulder, firm but not gentle. “Lyra, I know you can. I’ve seen how you handle delicate minds, fractured minds. You’re cautious, precise, empathetic. You’re perfect for this. I wouldn’t ask if I thought otherwise.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to say no, to retreat into the sanctuary of my controlled life. But I couldn’t. There was something about the way Soren looked at me, the weight of expectation in his eyes, that made the refusal impossible.

“Yes,” I whispered, though my voice sounded uncertain even to me. “I’ll… I’ll do it.”

Soren’s expression softened slightly, but I could still see the edge of concern lingering. “Good. But Lyra… be careful. This one isn’t like the others. He’s… complicated. Dangerous, even, if his past isn’t handled correctly.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. My stomach churned. Dangerous. Billionaire. Missing decade. Memory gaps. Every instinct screamed that I should run, that this wasn’t just another case. But the professional in me—the part I clung to for stability—told me to follow the procedure, trust my skills, and step into the unknown carefully.

After Soren left, I sat at my desk, staring at the neatly stacked files, trying to calm the whirl of thoughts racing through my mind. Cassian Veyra. I had no idea what I was stepping into, no idea whose secrets I would uncover or whose lives I might touch—or endanger. And yet, against my better judgment, a small spark of curiosity flickered inside me.

The afternoon passed in a haze of research and preparation. I combed through case histories, past psychological evaluations, and the report on Cassian Veyra. He was an enigma—a billionaire recluse with a past shrouded in secrecy, a man whose wealth and influence made him untouchable in most circles. Yet even in the sterile pages of reports, I could sense instability, fractures, gaps that begged for careful attention.

Still, every time I tried to focus, the memories whispered—fragments of something I had long buried. Faces,the stranger,places and moments from my childhood that had been locked away surfaced like shadows in peripheral vision. I tried to push them back, to focus on the task ahead, but Soren’s words echoed in my mind: He’s complicated. Dangerous. Step carefully.

By evening, I found myself staring at my reflection in the darkened window, the city lights behind me blurring into streaks of orange and white. Who was I to take on such a case? My life was built on control and detachment, yet here I was, preparing to step into the unknown. My fingers traced the edge of the desk as if the solid wood could anchor me, and I realized with a pang of vulnerability that I hadn’t felt this uncertain in years.

Sleep that night was shallow and fragmented. I dreamed of the stranger at the club,long corridors,and faces I couldn’t quite recognize—faces that felt frighteningly familiar. I woke gasping, clutching the sheets to my chest, and for a long time, I lay in the dark, listening to the hum of the city outside, trying to convince myself that the past would remain buried, that the shadows weren’t following me into the present.

I