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Ella returned to Vinci’s apartment in daylight, pretending it was for closure.
In truth, she was looking for evidence.
She found it in a locked drawer, behind his old anatomy books.
A leather-bound journal.
No title.
Just the first page:
“I told him to stop drawing her. But he won’t listen. She’s inside him now.”
She read faster.
Page after page—obsessions, memories, fragmented thoughts.
They weren’t Vinci’s voice.
They were Eon’s.
“She smells like blood and safety. I don’t know if I want to bury her or become her.”
“She lied. She said she’d stay. But I saw her suitcase. I’ll carve a better version of her from someone else if I have to.”
Ella’s breath caught.
The entries weren’t just delusions. They were predictions.
Sketches matched murders that hadn’t hit the news yet. Dates. Methods. Names.
And at the bottom of one page:
“When she sees this, it’s already too late.”
Behind her, the door creaked open.
“Ella?”
It was Vinci’s voice.
But she didn’t know who was wearing it anymore.
ns216.73.217.22da2
and then Add to home screen.