Lucie Tremblay swipes her magnetic card across the reader, and the locker room door unlocks with a small mechanical click. 6:38 a.m. A little early.

  She sets her bag down on the bench, removes her coat, her gloves, her wet boots.

  The fine morning rain has stuck a few brown strands of hair to her cheeks. She brushes them away with an automatic gesture. Behind her, another white coat is already coming in. They exchange a nod, a polite smile. Routine.

  She slips into her work shoes, her compression stockings, her tunic. Badge around her neck. Stethoscope in the left pocket. Notepad, black pen.

  Twenty-four years… Always this building. Always the same gestures.

  A voice in the hallway:

  — “Morning, Lucie. You see the storm coming on Friday?”

  — “Yeah. Hope we don’t get a power outage. We’ve got two patients under continuous monitoring.”

  She smiles. A real smile. Tired, but real.

  Corridor 2B. Shiny floor. The smell of disinfectant, overheated coffee, plastic warmed by the neon lights. Lucie grabs a file as she passes, signs two reports, checks a box on a medication chart. No one speaks loudly. It’s the calmest hour of the hospital, the one when everything is still holding together.

  Room 209. Martin Geller, 62 years old. Generalized anxiety disorder, chronic insomnia. Former literature professor. Lucie enters without knocking. The man is sitting in his bed, turned toward the window. The gray morning light cuts his profile.

  — “Good morning, Martin. Sleep well?”

  — “Not really. But I dreamed about Victor Hugo. That’s better than dreaming about my ex-wife.”

  Lucie smiles. She steps closer. Checks the vitals. Nothing alarming. She takes the blood pressure cuff, wraps it around Martin’s thin arm. Adjusts the Velcro. A precise gesture. Professional.

  — “You should have a quiet day today. I hear the head of the department is working remotely.”

  — “A miracle, then.”

  He smiles. She does too.

  She presses the button. The cuff inflates. The machine beeps softly.

  Martin keeps talking.

  — “You know, sometimes I tell myself that if I’d had someone like you earlier… maybe I would have—”

  Lucie doesn’t answer. She remains still. Her smile is still there. But something has frozen in it. Like an image paused too long on a screen.

  The machine’s beep grows louder. More insistent.

  Lucie doesn’t blink. There is a hesitation.

  A fraction of a second where nothing happens, where the world is exactly where it should be,

  but where something no longer follows.

  Lucie lowers her head slightly. Not toward Martin. Toward herself. As if she were listening… not to a voice, but to an impulse.

  She slips her hand into the pocket of her tunic.

  Martin frowns slightly.

  — “Lucie?”

  She pulls out the medical scissors.

  And, without momentum, without a cry, without anger, she drives them in with a sharp thrust into the side of his neck. The air leaves Martin’s lungs with a wet sound. His hands jerk upward, clutching the sheet.

  Blood erupts. Not in a trickle. In thick, hot, uncontrollable surges.

  Lucie pulls the scissors out. Martin tries to inhale. A horrible gurgling fills the room.

  He chokes. His lips part, drawing blood instead of air.

  He tries to speak. One word. Anything. Nothing comes out.

  Lucie strikes again. Once. Twice. Then she stops.

  Martin does not die immediately. He suffocates. His legs twitch weakly. His eyes search for something — someone.

  Blood runs down his throat. He coughs. Chokes. Clots.

  Each breath becomes a fight already lost.

  Lucie watches him. Calmly. Without haste. Without disgust.

  The way one watches a mechanism run all the way to the end of its course.

  When at last the body stops struggling, when the gurgling turns into a wet silence, she slips the scissors back into her pocket.

  She straightens the sheet. Disconnects the machine. Wipes her hand on the fabric.

  Then she draws the curtains.

  Before leaving, she casts one last look at the bed.

  A neutral look. Almost attentive.

  As if she were assessing a job well done.

  And she leaves the room.

  Something pulses. A dull beat. Then nothing.

  Martin opens his eyes. Or thinks he does. There is nothing to see. Only white. Thick.

  Milky. Opaque. Silky. A substance that is neither solid nor liquid, but yields without ever tearing.

  He is contained. Wrapped. Suspended. Glued inside a soft, yielding chamber, like a cocoon.

  He moves an arm. The surface around him deforms, elastic, like skin stretched too tight.

  He pushes. The substance resists, gives way, then regains its shape.

  He tries again. Harder. The walls give slightly under his fingers, but do not tear. He strikes. It is like hitting damp cotton.

  He stops. Breathes. His breath comes back, but he does not know where he is. There is no smell, no cold, no heat.

  He tries to think.

  “I am called…”

  Nothing. The name does not come.

  He searches for something else. A memory. A place. A gesture repeated a thousand times. Something fixed. But his memory is flat, smooth, without any rough edge. Like a sheet of paper rubbed too much.

  “Yesterday… what did I do yesterday?”

  He does not know. He only knows that he existed. That this is not a dream. That this sensation of confinement is real. He tries to speak.

  — “Is there anyone there?”

  The sound comes out badly. It strikes the walls, comes back to him, muffled. He waits.

  Nothing.

  Then… a sound.

  Very faint. Almost nothing.

  Martin freezes.

  Was it real? Or an illusion born of silence grown too dense?

  He holds his breath.

  Silence.

  He begins to relax, when the sound returns.

  A movement. A discreet friction. Something drawing closer. He doesn’t dare move.

  — “…Hey?”

  His voice trembles slightly. No answer.

  He wonders if he is going mad. If confinement creates sounds. Presences.

  Then he feels something. Not an impact. Not pressure. A brush. As if the outer surface of the cocoon had been grazed. A vibration barely perceptible.

  He tenses.

  The contact vanishes.

  He closes his eyes, even though he doesn’t know if they are truly open.

  “You’re imagining it,” he tells himself.

  “You’re making it up.”

  The contact returns.

  Slower. Longer. Something slides along the surface. Explores his shape. Martin cannot identify what it is.

  A hand? A snout? A mouth? He has no point of comparison. He retreats as much as he can, but the cocoon follows his movement. There is nowhere to flee.

  Then come the sounds. Not words. Breaths. Whispers too low to be understood. Like a nursery rhyme murmured backward.

  Martin feels his heart race.

  — “Who’s there?”

  Silence. Then, at last, a voice. Young. Clear. Almost amused.

  — “You really don’t know anything, do you?”

  He startles.

  — “Who… who are you?”

  A small laugh. Not mean. Not quite.

  — “You’re searching very hard. It’s cute.”

  She circles around him. He feels it. The pressure shifts slightly as she moves.

  — “You want to know, is that it?”

  — “Yes.”

  He doesn’t think.

  — “Please.”

  She doesn’t answer right away.

  Then:

  — “You’re going to regret it.”

  — “Why?”

  — “Because some answers hurt. Very badly.”

  Martin swallows.

  — “I’d rather know.”

  Silence.

  She moves closer. He feels something press against the surface, right in front of his face.

  — “Are you sure?”

  — “Yes.”

  She sighs.

  Then her voice changes. It is no longer playful.

  — “You are dead.”

  And the world explodes.

  The images return without order. Without filter.

  The pain. The tearing. The heat in his throat. The air that no longer passes. The blood rising. The panic. The suffocation. The atrocious feeling of being unable to breathe.

  Martin screams.

  But no sound comes out. He thrashes inside the cocoon, suffocates again, reliving his death, over and over. Then everything stops.

  He remains there, broken, trembling, unable to think.

  — “Are you okay?”

  The voice is gentle now. Almost worried.

  — “I… I think so.”

  — “See? I warned you.”

  Martin closes his eyes. Then:

  — “Help me. Let me out.”

  She hesitates.

  — “You’re going to regret it again.”

  — “It’s not a problem.”

  Silence. A long silence. Martin panics.

  — “Hey…? Are you there?”

  Nothing.

  He feels abandoned. Rejected into the white.

  Then suddenly, a burst of laughter.

  — “I’m here… Don’t worry…”

  She savors each word.

  — “But you’re right. It’s not a problem.”

  One step closer.

  — “And besides… it’s not going to last very long.”

  The cocoon’s substance tightens. A soft crack. Something pierces the wall.

  Fingers. Thin. Too long. They part the membrane effortlessly.

  The outside light bursts in. Martin finally sees.

  A little girl. She smiles.

  He smiles too. Relieved.

  — “You’re… a child…”

  She tilts her head.

  — “It’s not going to last very long.”

  A hand reaches out. And without waiting, she plunges her claws into his chest.

  His Ichor bursts forth. He screams.

  She tears him open. Empties him. Drinks him.

  She plunges her hand into his memories. The images flee. The words fade. His voice comes apart.

  Martin feels his existence dissolve. Not into oblivion, but into the mouth of a monster.

  He no longer understands anything. No longer feels anything. Only the pain of being devoured.

  And the pleasure of the other, chewing on his soul.

  _________________________________________________

  Anon wakes with a start.

  A dry, cutting cold pierces his gut. His hands clench. His eyes search the darkness. But the Ichoreon never answers.

  He pants, as if someone had just suffocated in his place.

  His throat burns. His temples pound. A sharp, foreign pain has just gone out inside him.

  — “What was that…?”

  He straightens up. Staggers through the twisting corridor of the asylum.

  He saw no images. No visions. Just that discharge. That reflux of Ichor. Like a shockwave coming from elsewhere.

  And suddenly, the voice returns in his head. That voice as old as silence. Always ironic. Always there.

  — “You felt it too…”

  A light, dry laugh.

  — “A taste of iron. A taste of childhood.”

  Anon frowns.

  — “Who’s speaking? What was that?”

  Silence. Then:

  — “Nothing important. Just… a little feast.”

  Anon sways.

  The world around him seems heavier, denser, redder.

  The floor seeps. The walls breathe. Something has changed.

  And in his palm, the scar pulses once more.

  _________________________________________________

  Lucie reviews the files at the nurses’ station. She doesn’t read everything. She skims. A quick glance is enough.

  Name.

  Age.

  Reason for admission.

  Medical history.

  She flips through the pages without hesitation, until something catches.

  Room 314.

  élodie Randall.

  28 years old.

  Suicide attempt six months ago.

  Major depressive disorder.

  Refuses all therapeutic outings.

  In the margin, a recent note:

  “Intense fear of dying. Recurrent nightmare: being buried alive.”

  Lucie stops. Her finger remains resting on the page. Then she checks a box. She adjusts the wall schedule. Swaps two time slots. Delays a medication round. Notes a fake cleaning pass in corridor 3A.

  No one notices anything.

  She has always been reliable.

  _________________________________________________

  Room 314.

  élodie hasn’t slept. She has been staring at the ceiling for two hours, without moving. The bluish light from the TV screen casts shifting shadows on the walls, but she isn’t watching. She never watches screens anymore. She listens.

  She listens for footsteps in the corridor. For the handle to move. For the heating to make a strange noise. For the wall to breathe.

  This morning again, she refused breakfast. She can no longer stand eating while lying down.

  Not since the first time she had that dream.

  She mentioned it to the psychiatrist. Just two words: “Buried alive.”

  That was all she could say. The rest, she kept to herself. What the psychiatrist doesn’t know — what no one knows — is that this dream is more than a dream.

  It is a memory.

  Not a clear image. Not a complete scene. A return of sensations.

  The darkness, first. A thick darkness, clinging to her eyelids even when they are open.

  Then the smell. Damp earth. Moldy wood. The cold creeping up her legs.

  She is small. She knows it without knowing how old she is. Her knees are drawn up against her chest. Her shoulders touch the walls. There is not enough room to move.

  Something slams. A door. A heavy wooden panel. Then the bolt. A sharp sound. Final. She strikes it. Her fists start to hurt almost immediately.

  So she scratches. Her nails rake the wood. They break. They bleed.

  But the wood does not give.

  She screams.

  Her scream ricochets off the narrow walls. It comes back to her, warped, muffled, as if it had nowhere to go.

  She screams again.

  Her lungs burn. The air is too hot. Too scarce. She breathes too fast. Chokes. Thinks she is going to die there.

  And over all of it, his voice.

  Not very close. Not quite far. A man’s voice. Calm. Almost amused.

  — “You’d better be quiet, élodie. Otherwise I’ll leave you there longer.”

  She doesn’t know how long it lasts. Minutes turn into hours. Or the other way around. When the door finally opens, the light makes her cry.

  She wanted to forget. She tried. But her body never forgot. Years later, she tried to understand. She said his name out loud, just once.

  Michel.

  Her uncle.

  She went to see him.

  He opened the door with that same smile. That calm smile. Self-assured.

  She spoke. Poorly. Trembling.

  She told him about the closet. The cellar. The darkness.

  He let her finish. Then he laughed.

  A short laugh. A laugh without surprise.

  — “You’re talking complete nonsense. You know what they’ll say if you keep this up? That you need to be committed.”

  She tried to insist.

  So he leaned toward her. Very close. And whispered:

  — “Do you remember how you screamed? The cellar is still there, you know.”

  She left. She told no one. Because at that precise moment, the closet closed again inside her head. The darkness. The lack of air. Her bleeding nails.

  And that icy certainty: he will never pay.

  Since then, the fear has never left her. Not like an emotion. Like a permanent state.

  A taut thread between her and that closet. Between the present and what was never repaired.

  She is not ready to die.

  Not while that still exists. Not while Michel breathes freely.

  Since her attempt, she has been here. She speaks little. She observes a lot. She knows that everyone lies in this place. Even those who smile. Especially those who smile.

  But there is Lucie.

  Lucie is different. Lucie does not lie to her. She doesn’t understand why, but the presence of this woman reassures her. Lucie speaks softly. She touches without forcing. She looks without judging.

  And in this place where light hurts as much as shadow, that is already a lot.

  élodie often thinks she won’t last much longer. But there is something she has to do first. She doesn’t know what yet.

  Maybe she should see her uncle again. Maybe write a letter. Or just recover the memory in full, without trembling, without screaming.

  She doesn’t know.

  But she knows she isn’t ready to die. Not yet.

  And that is why fear never leaves her. Not at night. Not during the day. Not in the gray moments in between.

  She hears footsteps in the corridor. The handle turns. She straightens up. And offers a faint smile.

  It’s Lucie.

  _________________________________________________

  Room 314.

  élodie is curled up on her bed, knees drawn to her chest. The television is on, sound muted.

  — “It’s me.”

  élodie looks up, relieved.

  — “I thought you’d forgotten me.”

  Lucie smiles.

  — “We don’t forget you, élodie. Never.”

  She steps closer. Places a hand on the young woman’s forearm. A reassuring gesture.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Perfectly measured.

  — “I saw your note this morning. Have the nightmares come back?”

  élodie nods.

  — “I’m scared. I always feel like… like it’s going to happen again. Like I’m going to die here.”

  Lucie sits on the edge of the bed.

  — “You know what they say?”

  — “No…”

  — “Fear can be treated. But sometimes… it has to be faced.”

  She stands. Walks to the door. Locks it.

  The click is sharp. Final.

  élodie straightens up.

  — “Lucie…?”

  Lucie doesn’t answer right away. She draws the curtains. Lowers the lights slightly.

  The atmosphere becomes suffocating, intimate.

  — “We’re going to do an exercise,” she says calmly.

  — “What kind of exercise?”

  — “A trust exercise.”

  She pulls a thick, transparent medical plastic bag from her pocket.

  — “You told me you were afraid of being buried alive.”

  — “Yes…”

  — “So we’re going to check something.”

  élodie begins to retreat on the bed.

  — “Check what?”

  Lucie tilts her head. Her smile changes. Wider. More childlike.

  — “How much.”

  She lunges at her.

  The bag is pressed against élodie’s face. The screams become muffled, stretched, shapeless.

  Lucie presses hard. Very hard.

  — “Breathe,” she whispers. “It’s important to breathe.”

  élodie struggles. Her nails claw at the plastic. The bed creaks against the wall.

  Lucie counts softly.

  — “One… Two… Three…”

  When the body finally goes still, she doesn’t remove the bag right away.

  She waits. A little longer. Then she releases.

  élodie slides to the side. Inert.

  Lucie watches her chest. Nothing moves.

  She removes the bag. Wipes the sweat from her forehead. Smooths the young woman’s hair back behind her ear.

  — “Shh… There. It’s over.”

  She opens the window. Activates the air detector. Takes out a form.

  Cardiorespiratory arrest. Late discovery. She knows the procedure.

  The body will be gone in an hour. The bed will be remade. The room reassigned.

  Before leaving, Lucie casts one last look. She smiles. Then she turns off the light.

  _________________________________________________

  The darkness comes back before the pain. Not an abstract darkness. A close, clinging darkness that touches the skin.

  élodie wakes up enclosed.

  She sees nothing. She feels.

  The pressure around her chest. The supple material hugging her shoulders, her hips, her thighs.

  Too close. Far too close.

  She tries to breathe in. The air comes poorly.

  No. Not again.

  Her heart races instantly. There is no transition. No thought.

  Panic explodes.

  She thrashes. Her arms strike a soft surface that gives without ever opening. Her knees draw up on their own, as if they remembered before she did.

  The substance resists. Sinks in. Returns.

  The closet.

  The word is not formed. But her body has already understood.

  She screams.

  The scream goes nowhere. It comes back into her throat, muffled, distorted, as if the space around her were drinking it in.

  She claws at it. Her nails sink into the membrane. The sensation is worse than wood.

  Warm. Alive. Like skin shuddering under attack.

  She hyperventilates. The air turns scorching. Her lungs search for something they cannot find.

  Images burst forth in rapid flashes: the darkness, the bolt, the voice, the threat.

  I am going to die here.

  The certainty is absolute.

  So she strikes again. Not to escape. To avoid disappearing.

  She throws herself against it in chaotic, hysterical blows, without rhythm, without logic. She bites the substance. She spits. She cries.

  And suddenly… it gives.

  Not all at once. A tear. A weakness. A point where the membrane becomes too thin.

  She digs her fingers into it. The material rips open with a wet, obscene sound. She pulls, tears, drags herself free, screaming.

  She falls. To her knees. Into open air.

  The light is wrong. Dirty. Yellow and gray at once.

  She is in a dilapidated room. An old medical office. Peeling walls. Overturned furniture. Dark stains on the floor that could be mold… or something else.

  élodie is still gasping, but air comes in. She curls up against a wall. Draws her knees to her chest. Looks around her with eyes emptied of meaning.

  — “Where am I?”

  She has no recent memory. No continuity. She doesn’t know how she got there. Nor why she is no longer in her room.

  She stands up. Her legs tremble. The floor creaks beneath her steps.

  Every door is closed. Every corridor seems to twist slightly when she looks at it for too long.

  Something is wrong. She feels it in her flesh. In the way the walls seem too close. In the silence that listens.

  And then… she is no longer alone.

  A silhouette appears at the entrance of the room.

  Small. Thin. Motionless. A little girl.

  élodie freezes.

  The girl looks at her without blinking. Her dress is dark. Her feet bare.

  And around her mouth, there are thick black streaks, glistening faintly in the light.

  élodie steps back.

  — “Don’t come any closer…”

  Her voice trembles.

  The little girl tilts her head. Surprised. She hadn’t expected this.

  — “Oh…”

  Her voice is soft. Almost disappointed.

  — “You’re already out…”

  She takes a step forward. élodie immediately steps back.

  — “Leave me alone!”

  The little girl smiles. A slow smile. Calculated.

  — “You’re afraid.”

  She says it like an observation. Not a threat.

  — “I like it when they come out on their own. But you…”

  She comes closer still.

  élodie feels the panic return. Her gaze slides toward the door. Toward the walls. There is nowhere to go.

  The little girl extends her hand. Not to touch. To indicate.

  — “Do you know what this is?”

  She points at the walls.

  — “A place where you can’t breathe.”

  She steps closer again.

  — “You know this place. You do.”

  élodie screams.

  The little girl laughs softly.

  She is now too close.

  And when her fingers touch élodie, they are no longer a child’s fingers.

  _________________________________________________

  She licks her fingers.

  The Ichor is lukewarm, a little sweet, a little bitter. She doesn’t really like it when it’s bitter.

  But that’s because the girl had sad thoughts. Heavy things. Rotten.

  Still, the taste…

  — “Mmh…”

  She brings a finger back to her mouth. A small black vein still clings beneath the nail. She sucks on it slowly.

  Her eyes gleam.

  She looks at the wall where the cocoon opened on its own. Not normal. Not supposed to happen.

  She kneels. Studies the tears. Runs her hand through them.

  She shivers. She was very scared. She can still smell it.

  The panic. The earth. The closet.

  She loves it. She adores it.

  She straightens and spins in place, dress twirling, arms wide.

  — “She was perfect!”

  She laughs.

  — “At first, I was afraid she’d scratch me.”

  She looks at her hand. A scratch. Just one.

  — “But she was too tired.”

  She crouches. Spreads her arms as if to hug an invisible doll.

  — “I was nice, wasn’t I? I let her see a little… Just a little.”

  Her smile stretches from ear to ear.

  She bends down. Picks up a lock of élodie’s hair that has fallen to the floor. Caresses it between her fingers. Slips it into her pocket. A souvenir.

  She looks around. The room is empty. But she feels she is being watched.

  She narrows her eyes. Whispers:

  — “You can come now… I’m ready to play some more.”

  And in her belly, the Ichor pulses.

  _________________________________________________

  The floor breathes beneath him. The walls sweat.

  Anon staggers.

  He no longer knows how long he has been walking. His legs are heavy. His palms bleed with a blood that is not his own.

  The corridors of the asylum change as he moves forward. The ceilings open, warp. The walls whisper.

  And the visions continue.

  A plastic bag over a face. A scream that doesn’t come out. Legs twitching weakly. Then darkness.

  A rattle. A trembling silhouette. Childlike arms wrapping around a torso. Flesh giving way.

  Anon drops to his knees. He vomits something black, viscous, which is immediately absorbed by the floor.

  He cries. Or thinks he does. His eyes burn.

  — “You feel it?”

  The voice returns. In his head. Like every time.

  — “She gives you a little gift each time. A bite. Another bite, still warm.”

  Anon grits his teeth.

  — “I don’t understand what I’m seeing…” he gasps.

  — “You don’t understand anything. Period.”

  — “Are they memories?”

  — “They’re leftovers… crumbs of the dead.”

  Anon screams.

  — “STOP!”

  But the voice goes on, soft as a serpent.

  — “You’re the one who opened it. You’re the one who let her through.”

  He slams his fist into the floor.

  — “I wanted to get out!”

  — “And you let the wolf in.”

  A laugh. Short. Dry.

  — “Are you hungry, Anon? Do you want a taste too?”

  Anon forces himself up. His body trembles.

  — “She’s killing… I can feel it. She’s killing again… And I can’t do anything.”

  He moves forward, staggers, crashes against a wall.

  And that’s when he hears them. Two voices. Footsteps.

  Elisabeth.

  Bolton.

  They arrive together, a rare thing. Their faces are tight. Their gazes dark.

  Elisabeth grabs him by the arm. She hauls him upright without gentleness.

  — “You’ve seen her too, haven’t you?”

  Anon nods.

  Bolton clenches his jaw.

  — “This isn’t a simple hunt. She’s gorging herself… devouring everything she can.”

  Elisabeth spins in place, agitated.

  — “The Ichor is hers now. Every drop makes her stronger. If we let her go on… she’ll become invincible.”

  Anon stares at the floor.

  He can still feel the burning in his stomach. As if each death were hollowing him out a little more.

  — “I don’t know how to stop her.”

  Bolton steps closer. His eyes gleam with something Anon has never seen before.

  Not jealousy. Not control. Fear.

  — “You have to close the breach. You’re the one who opened it. It’s up to you to seal it… and fast!”

  _________________________________________________

  Room 216.

  Window ajar. Curtains drifting softly.

  Henri Deslauriers is sitting on his bed. Upright. Motionless. His hands resting on his knees.

  He hasn’t slept. He is staring at the wall. The same wall as always. But today, he is listening to it.

  It has been eight months since he spoke to anyone. Not a word. Not a syllable.

  They called it sliding syndrome. They wrote it in his file, the way one notes a malfunction.

  “Refusal to live.”

  It was true.

  Until yesterday. Until the hand.

  He stares at the crack in the wall.

  It is there. Thin. Discreet. Dark as a line of ink on a blank page.

  — “It was him.”

  His voice is hoarse. Worn. But full.

  — “He touched me.”

  He inhales slowly. Then he begins to speak. Not to God. To her.

  — “You were right, Madeleine.”

  A tired smile rises to his lips.

  — “I remember when you used to tell me that God sometimes speaks to us through tiny things. A light. A dream. A voice.”

  He lowers his head.

  — “Do you remember how I used to mock you? How I said you’d read too many novels? That it was coincidences, illusions?”

  He laughs softly.

  — “And you never got angry. You smiled. You said: ‘It’s all right, Henri. God has all the time in the world.’”

  His hands clench on his knees.

  — “Well… He waited. And He found me.”

  He lifts his eyes toward the crack.

  — “It was him. I felt it in my bones. His hand… it wasn’t a hallucination. It wasn’t a fever.”

  A silence. Then:

  — “It was grace.”

  He closes his eyes.

  Tears slide soundlessly down his cheeks.

  — “I’m sorry. For the years of sarcasm…”

  — “For the sidelong smiles. For the masses I never came to hear with you. For that emptiness I refused to fill with anything other than numbers…”

  — “I’m sorry, Madeleine.”

  He remains that way for a long time. Kneeling on his bed, hands clasped. A man transformed.

  And suddenly, he feels a change.

  A shiver in the room. A breath. The crack pulses.

  He is coming back.

  Henri rises. He approaches the wall. Trembling. But certain.

  _________________________________________________

  The corridor is darker than he remembers.

  Anon moves forward by feel. Every step is an effort. His hands tremble. His throat is dry.

  He has the impression that his own Ichor is slowly leaking out, drop by drop, with every breath.

  Behind him, Bolton and Elisabeth follow at a distance. Silent. Anxious.

  They let him act. They know the breach will answer only to him.

  Anon turns a corner. And he sees it. The crack. Still there. Tiny, twitching, like a wound badly closed. It pulses faintly, barely visible, but it calls to him.

  He comes closer. Places a hand on the wall.

  The Ichor weave is still there, stretched like a web beneath the surface.

  He closes his eyes. Breathes in. And threads his fingers into the fibers.

  The crack widens. A dull groan rises from the walls. Like a bone cracking. A lukewarm breath slips between worlds.

  And then…

  Something touches him from the other side.

  A hand. Rough. Aged. Alive.

  Anon flinches.

  And the other, on the other side — Henri Deslauriers — flinches as well.

  They remain there. Palm to palm. Separated by a veil, a world, a death.

  And suddenly, the link is made.

  Henri receives everything. Not as a story. Not as memories. As a deluge.

  Images. Pain. Deaths. The bag. The blood. The child’s laughter.

  And the other one.

  The one in the shadows. The one who opened the breach.

  Henri staggers. His knees buckle. But he does not step back.

  He closes his eyes. And he understands.

  Not with reason. Not with words. But with a raw, unshakable faith.

  — “It’s not a man on the other side… It’s not a ghost… It’s a divine presence.”

  His breath catches. He feels the sacred in his veins. He feels the mission, like a gentle burn. And above all: he is no longer afraid.

  Anon, for his part, opens his eyes again.

  He feels the bond tighten. He feels Henri understand. He wants to say something. But no words come.

  So, gently, he closes the breach. The wall’s substance seals itself beneath his fingers.

  Like a wound. Like a scar.

  The light fades. The breath dies away. The contact is broken.

  Henri remains alone. Hand outstretched toward the void.

  A void… filled with meaning.

  He stays that way for a few moments. Then, slowly, he straightens. His gaze is clear. His back, straighter than it has been in years.

  He leaves his room. Without alarm. Without noise. He knows what he has to do.

  It is not Jesus. But he has been touched by something.

  And he no longer has the right to remain still.

  _________________________________________________

  Break Room – 3rd Floor.

  Artificial light. The smell of lukewarm coffee and hand sanitizer.

  Elijah Carter is sitting at a table, a mug in his hands. He watches the rain slide down the windows. Catherine enters, tablet in hand.

  — “Did you check the forecast?” she asks, without looking up.

  He shakes his head.

  — “I’m trying to think about something else.”

  She sits down across from him.

  — “Bad idea. We’ve had a second death this week.”

  Elijah looks at her. She hands him the tablet. He reads:

  — “élodie R., 28 years old. Cardiorespiratory arrest pronounced at 7:19 a.m. Not resuscitable. No signs of violence. No cardiac history.”

  He frowns.

  — “Two young patients in forty-eight hours? And both with unexplained arrest?”

  — “The first had a mild anxiety history. This one, severe depression, but stabilized. No recent vital alerts. And above all: no suicide attempt.”

  Elijah sets the tablet down.

  — “We didn’t order an autopsy?”

  — “The on-call physician signed the declaration without objection. Everything is clean. Everything is simple.”

  A silence.

  — “Too simple…” Carter adds, staring into his cup.

  He sets his mug down. Catherine’s gaze hardens.

  — “What?” she asks.

  — “Nothing.”

  — “You’re making that face. The one that says you’re about to say something stupid.”

  He hesitates. Then:

  — “Have you seen Henri Deslauriers again?”

  — “This morning. Why?”

  He plays with his spoon.

  — “I know it sounds stupid. But… he’s different. Since his collapse in the room.”

  Catherine raises an eyebrow.

  — “It could be the head trauma. Or maybe he’s just tired of surviving.”

  — “Didn’t you notice anything strange?”

  — “He’s a mute, fragile old man at the end of his road. What do you want me to notice, Elijah?”

  He lowers his eyes. She sighs.

  — “What are you getting at?”

  He hesitates again.

  — “I questioned him… about that crack in the wall. He told me he saw ‘the hand of God.’”

  — “You’re kidding.”

  — “No.”

  — “And you believed him?”

  He doesn’t answer right away.

  — “I think he believes what he saw. And this morning, I don’t know… he had that look. Clear. Determined. Almost… peaceful.”

  Catherine crosses her arms.

  — “Or he’s delirious. Or you’re starting to delirium along with him.”

  She stands, goes to the counter to pour herself a cup as well.

  — “Do you remember that patient last year? The one who said he saw angels in the cracks of the tiles? Did you believe him too?”

  Elijah smiles.

  — “It was touching, wasn’t it?”

  — “It was psychosis.”

  Another silence. Catherine looks at Elijah over her cup.

  — “You want to believe in something, Carter. I know it. You want the world to be stranger than it is. But we’re psychiatrists, not exorcists.”

  He lifts his eyes to her.

  — “Maybe we’re both. And we just forgot.”

  She doesn’t answer, but sets her cup down sharply.

  — “Do you want to talk about the rumors in wing C too? About the patient who heard a child’s laughter in the ceiling? Is that it? Are we having a horror-story meeting?”

  He looks at her, calm.

  — “You’ve never seen something you couldn’t explain?”

  — “Yes. And I diagnosed it.”

  A beep sounds on Catherine’s tablet.

  She checks the screen.

  — “Block B, room 207. Nurse present. New death reported. Sixty-two-year-old male.”

  She freezes.

  — “That’s the third.”

  They exchange a look. This time, neither of them smiles.

  She stands.

  — “I’m going.”

  — “I’m coming with you.”

  _________________________________________________

  The walls of the corridor are sticky. Anon moves forward slowly, every step in the Ichoreon costing him effort. The air is heavier than before, saturated with a dull rumble, like a vibration beneath the skin. The floor has changed texture: slicker, more alive.

  He follows the smell.

  A blend of childhood, burnt sugar, and lukewarm blood. The smell of a monstrous feast.

  The asylum’s corridors no longer lead anywhere. They fold in on themselves, close up behind him. Anon understands too late: he cannot turn back.

  And then he sees them.

  The first ones. Bodies. Not really bodies. Shells. Cadavers of souls.

  They lie there, eyes open, but empty. Their Ichor has been extracted. Every fiber torn out, unraveled. Shells without light.

  Anon kneels beside one of them. A woman. Her mouth frozen in a silent scream.

  Her chest is split open like a piece of fruit, but there is nothing inside.

  One by one, he discovers them. All marked by the same signature. The same claw marks, the same tears. The same appetite.

  And at last, he hears her voice.

  Laughter.

  Light, high-pitched bursts that ricochet off the walls. Nursery rhymes murmured backward. Snatches of sentences.

  — “I want more… They were all so good… I’m going to become the biggest. The strongest. The hungriest.”

  He turns a corner.

  And sees her.

  Sally.

  Seated at the center of a gutted room. Her face streaming with Ichor. Her hands plunged into the chest of a specter still twitching faintly.

  She laughs, head thrown back, like a child getting away with a secret mischief.

  Around her, dozens of souls are agonizing. Some try to crawl away. Others pray. Still others resign themselves.

  She devours them one by one.

  Anon screams:

  — “SALLY!”

  She stops. Lifts her head. Her eyes gleam, round, dilated.

  She looks at him.

  — “Ooooh… You.”

  She stands.

  Her face changes. Her smile stretches. Her arms lengthen.

  The child becomes a shifting shape, beast-girl, a thing too fast to stay clear.

  — “Do you want to play?”

  He steps back.

  — “You have to stop this.”

  She frowns.

  — “Why? They’re already dead… I make them delicious.”

  She takes a step toward him.

  — “You look at me like I’m a monster… But you’re the one who opened the door.”

  Anon clenches his fists.

  — “You were… different. You weren’t… this.”

  She laughs.

  — “I’m exactly what I’ve always been. You were looking wrong, that’s all.”

  He tries to reason with her, his voice trembling.

  — “You can’t devour all the Ichor… you’re going to… lose yourself.”

  She stops. Her gaze clouds for an instant.

  Then she bursts out laughing.

  — “Lose myself? I’M FINDING MYSELF!”

  And she lunges at him.

  Claws spread. Jaws open. Eyes burning with demented hunger.

  _________________________________________________

  Henri Deslauriers walks down the main corridor.

  Barefoot. Wearing his hospital gown. He moves in small steps, hands clasped like a monk’s, his gaze fixed.

  He isn’t trying to hide. Nurses pass him, offer him awkward smiles.

  They are used to nocturnal wanderings.

  Henri doesn’t see them. He follows an invisible path. He goes down the stairs. Reaches Block B. The oldest psychiatric wing of the institute.

  That is where something guides him.

  A noise behind him. He turns.

  Catherine Holloway, white coat, hair pulled back, looks at him, taken aback.

  — “Mr. Deslauriers? What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be out of your room without supervision.”

  He looks at her. Slowly.

  — “We have to leave,” he says simply.

  She frowns.

  — “I’m going to walk you back. You must be disoriented.”

  — “No. You’re the one who doesn’t see anything.”

  She approaches him cautiously.

  — “Come on, we’ll go back upstairs. I’ll call the night staff.”

  Before she can reach Henri, a voice stops her.

  — “Catherine.”

  Elijah Carter has appeared at the end of the corridor. He approaches slowly.

  — “Let him speak.”

  — “Elijah… he’s delirious.”

  — “Did you hear him?”

  — “He told me ‘we have to leave.’ That’s typical of a confusional episode.”

  Carter looks at Henri. Hesitates for a moment, then takes the plunge:

  — “Tell me… the crack in your wall. Is it still there?”

  Henri nods.

  — “It speaks. It calls. And it shows.”

  He raises his eyes to Elijah.

  — “You know. You saw.”

  The doctor goes pale.

  Catherine sighs.

  — “All right. I’ve heard enough.”

  She pulls out her phone.

  — “I’m going to request a transfer to close supervision.”

  But Henri grabs her wrist.

  — “Don’t stay here. She’s here. The woman with the red hand.”

  Elijah freezes.

  — “What did you just say?”

  — “She kills. Silently. Slowly. No one sees her. But she kills.”

  Catherine yanks her arm back.

  — “This is nonsense. You’re not going to listen to...”

  Henri raises an arm, slowly.

  — “Wait.”

  He points down the corridor. Toward Block D.

  — “It’s that way. That’s where she passes.”

  Elijah hesitates. Then motions for Catherine to follow him.

  — “Just a quick look.”

  — “Are you serious?”

  — “Two minutes.”

  They move forward. Henri stays behind them, silent.

  Room 219.

  Door ajar.

  Elijah pushes it gently. And stops.

  The bed is made. Sheets pulled tight, pillow immaculate.

  But the room reeks of a lie.

  Catherine steps in as well. She frowns.

  — “There’s something…”

  She crouches. Under the bed. Her hands tremble slightly.

  And she pulls out the body.

  A man.

  Elderly.

  A long-term patient.

  Gray skin, bluish lips, a plastic bag still knotted around his neck.

  Catherine staggers back, bumping into the bedside table.

  Elijah steps closer. He examines the body. No blood. No visible violence.

  But the horror is there—dense, undeniable.

  — “We call security,” he whispers.

  — “Wait.”

  Catherine points toward the bathroom door. It is half open.

  A second shape.

  A woman, this time.

  Seated against the wall. Eyes open. Stare frozen.

  A fourth patient. Dead. Unexplained. Invisible until this moment.

  They step back. Henri, in the corridor, murmurs:

  — “She hides them. Like broken toys.”

  Catherine presses the tablet to her chest.

  — “Who… who would do this?”

  — “A patient? A psychotic break?”

  — “Not without a sound. Not without any staff seeing something.”

  Elijah nods, pale.

  — “There’s something else.”

  And then, the room grows colder.

  An icicle slides down the doctor’s spine. A sensation out of season. Out of place.

  A creak. A silhouette at the end of the corridor.

  Lucie Tremblay.

  Model nurse. Perfect hair. File in hand. A frozen smile.

  — “Good evening…”

  Catherine opens her mouth. Closes it again.

  Lucie steps into the room.

  — “Is everything all right here? You seem tense.”

  Henri steps back. Elijah doesn’t take his eyes off her.

  — “Lucie… what are you doing here at this hour?”

  She looks at him gently.

  — “I’m being useful. As always.”

  She moves toward Catherine.

  — “You look tired, Doctor.”

  She reaches out to touch her cheek. The young woman avoids her.

  — “Lucie, could you step back a little? I don’t like being approached like that.”

  Lucie freezes for a moment. Then smiles again.

  But her eyes do not smile.

  Henri whispers:

  — “It’s her. It’s her.”

  Carter grabs Catherine by the arm.

  — “We’re leaving.”

  — “What?”

  — “Now.”

  Lucie tilts her head.

  — “Already leaving? We’ve only just met again…”

  Elijah drags his colleague out of the room. Henri follows them. They start running down the corridor.

  Lucie remains still. For a moment.

  Then she slowly removes her gloves. Her hands are soaked in a dark liquid.

  And she begins to walk.

  Faster.

  Her footsteps echo through the empty corridor.

  She hunts.

  “I’m going to find them.”

  “I’m going to cut them into pieces.”

  “I’m going to make them cry.”

  “And I’m going to savor it.”

  _________________________________________________

  She strikes him without warning.

  A black flash. A cry of delight. Her fingers rake the air and the Ichor answers.

  Anon is hurled against a wall. His back buckles. The stone caves in. His breath shatters.

  — “You’re slow, Anon!”

  Sally strikes again. Not with anger. Not with rage. With the ease of someone who knows she’s going to win.

  Anon rolls across the floor as her claws tear through the air. The wall behind him explodes in shards of Ichor, like flesh stretched too tight.

  He staggers to his feet. He breathes badly. Every inhalation costs him a burn in his chest.

  She circles him. Her steps barely touch the ground. She glides, doubles, mocks distance itself.

  — “You’re slow… You think too much…”

  She laughs. A child’s explosion in a carnival of black blood.

  — “You still think you can reason with me?”

  He is about to answer her, but her image fades, as if evaporating. Anon remains there, panting, staring at the empty room.

  A giggle behind him. Too late.

  He feels her fingers sink into his back.

  Not to the bone. Not yet. Just enough to remind him what it feels like to be opened.

  He screams.

  He tries to draw the Ichor to himself, to gather the fibers, to raise a barrier.

  The matter responds. But badly. Too brutal. Too chaotic.

  A wall surges up… and Sally passes through it as if it didn’t exist.

  Too slow. Too heavy. His legs tremble.

  She runs around him. She flies. Or glides. Or burns the space between steps.

  Her arms have become filaments. Her eyes, lanterns of hunger. She radiates Ichor, and the Ichor follows her.

  He tries to call out.

  — “Sally…”

  She stops for a moment. Her face becomes almost human again.

  — “Yes?”

  A breath of innocence. A gentle voice. The little girl.

  — “You don’t need this. You don’t need to kill them.”

  She tilts her head.

  — “But I like it.”

  And she leaps at him.

  This time, he doesn’t retreat. He plunges into the Ichor of the room. He too.

  He feels the fibers beneath his feet, like a second ground, a weave. He pulls. But it isn’t a net. It’s a tidal wave. The Ichor responds, but without finesse. It explodes.

  The wall behind him tears open. A cold light bursts forth. Shapes moan between the cracks.

  Sally stops.

  — “You’re learning fast.”

  She laughs. That laugh is no longer a child’s. It is full, sated, vibrating with power.

  — “You see? You can feel the threads, but you don’t know how to use them.”

  At lightning speed, she slams into him and pins him to the ground.

  Her knees sink into his chest. Her weight is impossible, disproportionate.

  She leans over him. Her face is too close.

  Around her mouth, the Ichor is still flowing.

  — “You smell good…”

  She inhales deeply.

  — “…like a hot meal.”

  With a final effort, Anon tries to push her away.

  She rolls across the floor and rises without the slightest effort, a grimace on her lips. Her features blur and the little girl changes again.

  Her mouth widens. Arms burst from her back. Doll arms. Adult arms. Emaciated arms.

  She is celebrating.

  — “I’m going to eat you last. To savor you properly.”

  She charges again.

  Anon tries to weave a barrier. The Ichor threads vibrate. He stretches them in front of him like a shield.

  She passes straight through it. Like laughter passing through silence.

  He screams.

  She bites him. Not to devour him. To mark him.

  — “You’re mine. I’m the one who found you. I’m the one who sensed you first.”

  She hops closer and he tries to push her away. His hands slide over her, as if over an oiled surface. He feels his own Ichor pour out, drawn, siphoned away.

  He understands then.

  He is losing. Not slowly. Not heroically.

  He is being consumed.

  He feels his own Ichor revolt. He wants to flee. To dissolve.

  He understands then what those she devours experience.

  He closes his eyes.

  And the voice returns in his head. Calm. Detached.

  — “You understand now?”

  Time seems to stop for an instant, suspending the moment of death.

  — “She is not an obstacle. She is an outcome. You don’t fight a feast by throwing it crumbs. You can thrash as much as you want… you’ll end up in her mouth.”

  Anon opens his eyes.

  — “You still think you can save her?” the voice murmurs again. “You can’t save something that never wanted to be whole. She’s hollow. She fills herself however she can.”

  Sally smiles.

  She knows.

  _________________________________________________

  They run.

  Their footsteps echo in the service stairwell. The fire alarm remains silent.

  No one comes. Elijah stumbles. Catherine catches him by the sleeve.

  Henri follows them, surprisingly fast for his age.

  — “She’s here,” he murmurs. “Always.”

  They turn into a corridor. Empty.

  White light. Closed doors.

  They slow down. A breath behind them. They turn around.

  Lucie is there. Standing. Motionless.

  — “You’re running for nothing,” she says softly. “I know where you are. All the time.”

  They run again.

  Lucie does not run. She walks.

  And yet, when they reach the next corner… she is already there.

  Catherine feels panic take hold of her.

  — “How… how does she do that?”

  Elijah has no answer.

  They take refuge in a consultation room. Lock it.

  Silence. They breathe hard.

  Then a knock against the door. Not violent. Precise.

  — “You’re there…”

  Lucie’s voice is sing-song.

  — “I can hear you breathing.”

  Henri closes his eyes.

  — “It’s not her.”

  — “What?” Catherine whispers.

  — “It’s not her anymore.”

  The handle turns. The door gives way. Lucie enters.

  Her hands are black, gleaming. Her eyes shine like those of a nocturnal animal.

  — “We’re going to play now.”

  _________________________________________________

  Anon is on his knees.

  Not because he chose to be. Because his body no longer responds. Every breath is a painful pull in his chest. His Ichor flows badly, like thickened blood.

  Sally circles him. She no longer hurries.

  — “You’re getting tired…”

  She crouches in front of him. Rests her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands. A child watching a wounded insect.

  — “That’s a shame. You were interesting.”

  Anon lifts his head. His eyes burn. He isn’t really looking at her. He is looking through her.

  The fibers. The weave. What hides beneath the form.

  He has understood one thing. Not clearly. Not yet put into words. But he has felt it.

  Every time he faces her head-on, every time he tries to block, to push back, to fight… she wins.

  Because she does nothing but move forward.

  Because she does not doubt.

  Because she devours.

  Sally straightens abruptly. She senses something.

  — “You’re thinking too much.”

  She steps closer.

  — “I’m going to help you stop.”

  She strikes. Anon raises his arm by reflex. The impact tears his shoulder apart. He crashes to the ground. His vision blurs.

  He feels the Ichor flee out of him, drawn away by Sally’s proximity.

  The familiar voice slides into his head. Neither mocking. Nor cruel. Factual:

  — “You understand now. You don’t fight a predator by looking it in the eyes… You’re not strong enough. You won’t be today.”

  Anon clenches his teeth.

  — “So what… I die?”

  A silence. Then the voice resumes:

  — “You do what those who survive do.”

  Sally comes closer again. Her steps leave behind black traces that immediately fade, as if the floor were licking them away.

  — “Talking to yourself now?” the little girl sneers.

  She laughs.

  — “You’re doing just like them, right before.”

  Anon straightens slowly. He doesn’t take a defensive stance. He prepares no shield.

  On the contrary. He opens himself.

  He lets his Ichor rise to the surface. He lets the pain flow. He lets fear exist.

  Sally stops. Surprised.

  — “…What are you doing?”

  He lifts his eyes to her. And for the first time since the fight began, he doesn’t flee her gaze.

  — “Come,” he murmurs.

  She hesitates. Barely. But enough for something to change.

  — “You want to play?”

  She smiles, delighted.

  — “All right.”

  She steps closer. Again. Always closer. Anon feels his heart pound.

  Not fear. Not only.

  Anticipation.

  He gently pulls at the fibers around him. Not toward Sally. Not against her.

  Elsewhere.

  In the wall behind her.

  He isn’t trying to open it. He weakens it. Scratches. Wears it down. Prepares it.

  Sally is now within reach. She raises her hand. Her claws lengthen.

  — “You should always save dessert for last.”

  Anon lunges toward her. Not to attack. To draw her in.

  At the final instant, when her claws are already in motion, when all her attention is on him… Anon opens a breach. Not wide. Not visible. Just enough.

  A glacial breath sweeps through the room. A shiver of foreign Ichor.

  Sally frowns.

  — “…What is that?”

  And behind her, something arrives.

  The breach breathes. Not like a door. Like a wound being reopened.

  An alien breath crosses the room, heavy with an ancient smell: medicine, resentment, obsession.

  Sally freezes. Her smile falters. She turns around. Too late.

  Elisabeth bursts forth first. Not running. Sliding.

  Her body warps, her arms becoming blades of braided Ichor, fine, vibrating. She strikes without a cry, without a word. The threads slice across Sally’s back.

  Not deeply. Just enough to open her.

  Sally screams. Not in pain. In surprise.

  Bolton arrives immediately behind. He doesn’t rush. He seizes.

  His hands clamp around the little girl’s neck, and the Ichor around his fingers thickens, turns rigid, bone-like.

  He tightens his grip.

  — “Our turn now.”

  His voice is calm. Satisfied.

  Sally struggles. Her body tears, multiplies, tries to slip out of their hold. Arms burst forth. Claws lash the air.

  Elisabeth grabs her by the throat. Her face is very close to Sally’s. Her eyes gleam with an ancient, cultivated hunger.

  — “You were nothing but an appetizer.”

  She plunges her fingers into the girl’s chest. Not hastily. Methodically.

  She finds the knots. The bindings. The accumulations of stolen Ichor. And she pulls.

  Sally screams for real this time.

  A sharp, broken cry that makes the asylum’s walls vibrate.

  The corridors constrict. The ceilings bleed.

  Bolton drives his hand in as well. He doesn’t tear. He siphons. His face twists with pleasure.

  — “You’ve eaten too much, little one. Now… you give it back.”

  Ichor bursts from Sally in black and luminous torrents. Fragments of faces. Unfinished screams. Torn-out memories.

  Everything is shared, devoured, dissolved.

  Anon steps back. He cannot look away. He sees what he has caused. He sees what those who survive too long in the Ichoreon become.

  Sally tries to reach out toward him. Her voice is nothing but a breath.

  — “Anon…”

  Not a plea for help. An accusation.

  Elisabeth rips her hand away. Bolton shatters what remains.

  The little girl disintegrates. Not into dust. Into remnants.

  Fragments of Ichor fall to the floor, inert, quickly absorbed by the asylum itself.

  Silence falls. Heavy. Final.

  The breach seals behind Bolton and Elisabeth with a soft, wet sound.

  They don’t look at Anon. They don’t need to. They have eaten.

  Anon remains alone. Standing in the middle of the gutted room.

  His body trembles. No victory. No relief.

  Only this certainty, now impossible to ignore:

  Here, evil is never defeated. One merely chooses which monster will finish the feast.

  _________________________________________________

  Lucie Tremblay stops dead. In the middle of the corridor. Her hands tremble.

  A scream rises in her throat, but never comes out. Her eyes fly wide open.

  She brings her fingers to her mouth, as if trying to hold back something that is already escaping.

  The black liquid that stained her palms begins to flow backward, drawn inward, sucked back into her body.

  The nurse drops to her knees.

  Elijah, Catherine, and Henri are only a few meters away. They stop as well.

  No one dares to move closer.

  Lucie folds in on herself. She vomits.

  Not bile. Not blood.

  A dark, viscous mixture that steams faintly when it hits the floor.

  She finally screams.

  An inhuman scream, far too long for human lungs.

  Then the cry breaks.

  Lucie collapses onto her side. Her body convulses for a few more seconds… then goes still.

  Silence falls again.

  Brutal. Deafening.

  Catherine is the first to move. She kneels beside the body. Checks for a pulse. Looks at the time. Her voice is mechanical.

  — “Time of death confirmed.”

  Elijah turns away. He is shaking.

  — “That was… what was that?”

  Catherine doesn’t answer. She stares at the nurse’s hands. Clean now. Human.

  Henri steps forward. He kneels as well, slowly, respectfully.

  He closes his eyes.

  — “She has been freed,” he murmurs.

  Catherine looks up.

  — “Freed from what?”

  Henri turns toward her. His gaze is calm. Inhabited.

  — “From what was inhabiting her.”

  Catherine shakes her head.

  — “You can’t say that.”

  — “Yes, I can.”

  He stands.

  — “Because it stopped at the very same moment.”

  Elijah understands. He looks around them.

  The corridors have become… normal again. Too normal.

  No more laughter. No more sense of being watched.

  Just a hospital. And the dead.

  — “And now?” he asks.

  Henri turns his head toward the corridor that leads to his room. Toward the wall. Toward the place where the crack had been.

  — “Now… I have to speak.”

  Catherine frowns.

  — “To whom?”

  Henri smiles. A gentle smile. Unshakable.

  — “To those who have seen. To those who survived. To those who feel that there is something else, even if they don’t have the words.”

  He places a hand against the wall.

  There is no longer any crack. But he knows.

  — “There is a presence,” he says. “A force that suffers. A force that fights, where we cannot go.”

  He turns back to them.

  — “And it will need witnesses.”

  Catherine opens her mouth to protest. Then stops.

  She thinks of the bodies. Of the impossible timing. Of Lucie’s gaze just before she died.

  Elijah looks at Henri. For a long time.

  — “And you… who are you in all this?”

  Henri lowers his eyes. Then raises them again.

  — “I am the one who was touched.”

  He starts walking toward the exit.

  Not like a patient. Not like an old man.

  Like someone who has found meaning.

  Behind him, the flashing lights begin to wash over the windows. Emergency vehicles are arriving.

  Too late.

  And somewhere, very far away, in a world no one here can see, something is still watching.