Sarah finally looks up, and for the first time, I see the genuine flicker of unease in her eyes.
"Not on the slab, no. But... have you heard from Bryan this morning?"
I freeze, my hand hovering over the badge scanner. Bryan. He’s always there when I leave late. Charming, a bit too bold, always ready with a joke or a paper cup of terrible coffee to make me smile after a long shift. I completely forget about him since Deimos forced himself into my life.
"No," I say, my heart giving a sudden, uncomfortable lurch.
"Why? Is he late?"
"He left all of his things here after his shift ended," Sarah whispers, leaning over the desk.
"His car is still in the parking lot. His phone is going straight to voicemail. The Chief is already talking to the police. They found his flashlight and his radio in the stairwell, but Bryan... he’s just gone."
A cold sweat breaks out across my neck. I think of the cameras Deimos said he would never turn off. I think of the white-hot rage I saw in his eyes when I told him I was leaving.
The hallway feels narrower, the fluorescent lights suddenly too bright. Bryan was a flirt. He was a distraction. He was a piece of my "normal" life that Deimos watched through a lens.
"He’s probably just... sick," I lie, my voice trembling.
"His locker was open, Madeline," Sarah adds, her voice dropping to a terrified breath.
"And someone wrote something on the inside of the door. The police won't let us near it."
I walk past her, my legs feeling like they belong to someone else. I head toward the security office, my breath hitching in my chest. If Deimos did this... if he took the one person who represented my safety just to prove a point...
The hallway air feels unnervingly cold, the smell of industrial cleaner mixing with the metallic tang of my own fear. I see a Detective standing by the security office, his back to me as he talks into his radio.
The yellow crime scene tape is already being stretched across the entrance to the locker room. A plastic barrier between my life and the nightmare I tried to leave behind in that vault.
I don't call Deimos. I can't. If I hear his voice right now, I’m afraid I’ll hear the monster Charles claimed he was.
Instead, I slip into the side maintenance corridor. I know these vents and service doors better than anyone; I've spent two years walking them at three in the morning.
I reach the rear entrance to the staff locker room, my fingers trembling as I swipe my keycard. The light blinks green with a soft, mocking chirp.
I edge inside, the shadows stretching long across the tiled floor. Bryan’s locker, number 114, is standing wide open, swinging slightly on its hinges. His gym bag is still there. His spare uniform is neatly folded. It looks like he just stepped away for a second.
Then I see it.
The inside of the metal door has been scratched, the grey paint gouged away with something sharp, a blade or an industrial tool. The letters are erratic, as if written by someone who had lost the ability to feel anything but rage.
I don’t need a detective’s degree to translate the scratches. The handwriting is violent. Deep, gouged strokes that look like they were carved with a scalpel. There’s no name, no signature, just a chillingly impersonal observation:
"HE WAS WATCHING YOU. I WAS WATCHING HIM. NEGLIGENCE IS A TERMINAL ILLNESS."
It’s a clinical insult. A mockery of Bryan’s job, his flirting, and his very existence. To Deimos, Bryan wasn't a person; he was asecurity flaw. A distraction that dared to look at the sun while the eclipse was already happening.
"Negligence is a terminal illness?"
The detective mutters, rubbing his jaw. I flinch at his voice.
"What kind of psychopath writes like a medical textbook? Have you ever seen this phrase in any of your psych-evals, Doc?"
I swallow hard, the bile rising in my throat. I know that voice. It’s the cold, detached logic Deimos uses when he’s decided someone is redundant.
"No," I lie, my voice sounding thin and brittle.
"I... I’ve never seen it."
