Interrogation Room A-5
1:45 AM
The interrogation room's walls were bare, save for the dull paint and scratches marring some spaces. No doubt left behind in the wake of countless others who'd once sat in the same hard metal chair Emerson now found himself sitting on. A single fluorescent light panel lit the room in an unpleasant glow of yellowish-white that was somehow too bright, and yet not bright enough. The worst part was the smell. It was like fresh car leather that'd been left to bake in the sun.
A scarred and dented metal table stood in the center of the room-- some of the deep gouges giving the impression that someone had tried to carve their way out of the room with a dull knife. Two chairs sat opposite one another from across the table, their legs bolted to the floor with screws that looked more like slag than anything. At the head of the table loomed a one-way mirror, reflecting the room back at itself in ghostly shades of gray.
A calm baritone voice addressed Emerson, "Mr. Rivers?"
Emerson seemed unaware that his name had been called-- his gaze firmly fixed on the plain metal table.
The only other person in the room stood across the table in a sharp black suit and winter coat that fit him like a second skin. A heavy silence followed the man's question, hanging awkwardly in the air like a poorly timed joke. He cleared his throat and briefly glanced at the room's one-way mirror before fixing his gaze on the lone suspect. Folding an arm behind his back, he leaned in and placed a hand on the table. "Mr. Rivers, can you hear me?" He asked, his voice soft yet firm.
Emerson's eyes gradually came into focus as he lifted his gaze from the table. At first, confusion lingered on his face before his eyes widened in realization as he registered the question. "Uh... um, yeah- I-I'm Rivers," Emerson stuttered, recoiling at the sound of his own voice. "E-Emerson Rivers," he added, with unsteady certainty. His hands trembled as he tightly clasped them in his lap. Fragments of memories flashed through his mind, and confusing emotions burned hot and cold in his stomach. He couldn't remember how he had gotten here, and prodding at the thoughts sent a pulsing headache through his temples. He shut his eyes and shakily exhaled, trying to grasp onto the last thing he could remember.
'No. No, that didn't happen. I'm still here. I’m alive. That... couldn't have happened,' he reassured himself. But the phantom ache across the top of his chest told a different story. One he couldn't bear to confront. He clenched his jaw and tightly gripped his trembling hands, refusing to look down and confront the reality that might lay beneath his shirt. The thought of confirming his worst fears kept him frozen in place, trapped in his own mind.
He didn’t want to risk it. He couldn’t handle it right now.
The only reality he could cling to was what he knew for sure: he'd woken up in the medical examiner's office of the police station, surrounded by a group of perplexed paramedics and a disconcerted doctor who were arguing about the absence of proper protocol, procedure, and equipment. The room descended into chaos when he attempted to sit up, and they finally realized he'd regained consciousness. He was instructed not to move and to remain calm while they did everything in their power to assist him.
He hadn't resisted the medical team tending to him. He was too exhausted, his every muscle aching as if he'd run a marathon. Plus, that sort of organized chaos surrounding critically ill patients wasn't anything new to him since his experiences in the emergency rooms. So, he didn't mind, though he did find it a bit awkward being the center of so much attention. However, the mood in the room shifted when the paramedics cut away his ruined scrubs with trauma shears. The doctor had fallen silent, looking profoundly confused before eventually asking the paramedics to move on to vitals. But the team's frustrations only continued to mount as they struggled to get even a single reading on his blood pressure, oxygen saturation, or blood glucose with the "subpar equipment" available at the facility. Then, after a series of physical examinations confirmed that he wasn't on the brink of death, Emerson was given a fresh set of casual street clothes and informed that someone was waiting to speak with him. He was escorted to this room by two police officers. Emerson had followed their lead, feeling a cold numbness weighing on his shoulders as they walked through the maze-like corridors of the police station. The sterile, fluorescent lighting and matte wall paint made it feel like a prison rather than a safe place. He'd tried to focus on the present, but those... memories... kept flashing through his mind like a bad dream.
Emerson's mind furiously worked to piece everything together. 'They must've gotten something wrong. I feel... fine. Not great. Not good. But... fine.' He rationalized. But he was broken out of his thoughts.
“It’s good to meet you,” the man offered a warm smile. “My name’s Joshua Fleury, detective chief inspector. May I?” he politely asked, motioning to the only other chair at the table.
“Y-yeah, of course," Emerson replied, wincing as he sat up a little straighter in his own chair.
Joshua thanked Emerson and gently placed the manila file folder he had been holding on the table. He then pulled back the chair, taking care to make sure it didn't harshly scrape on the floor. Joshua let out a contented sigh as he eased into the chair and adjusted his overcoat. "How are you feeling, Mr. Rivers? - or do you prefer Emerson?" he asked, intertwining his fingers and placing them on his stomach.
"I'm... okay, I think," Emerson replied softly, blinking. "Oh, and um, Emerson, or Em, is fine," he quickly added.
Joshua chuckled softly, "Don't worry, it's understandable. After everything you've been through..." His tone then turned serious. "I know it's been a terrible night for you, and I want you to know that we're here to help in any way we can, okay? I want that to be made absolutely clear and in no uncertain terms."
“Yeah...” Emerson's voice trailed off, looking down at his hands. He knew that the police were just trying to help by doing their jobs, but at this point, all he wanted was to leave this small claustrophobic room and collapse in a heap in his bed back home. He wanted to forget. He wanted to wake up and go to work. But now, the longer he stayed awake and talking, the clearer those dreadful memories became, each one like a thorn plunging deep into his mind. The ache at his temples that increased every time he tried to remember what had happened to him was a constant reminder that something was wrong. And not just wrong, but wrong.
"So Em, what is it that you do?" inquired the detective.
Emerson lifted his gaze from his hands, his eyes flickering with a glimmer of hope as he grasped onto the prospect of a mundane discussion like a drowning man clinging to a lifeboat. "I work as a hospital medical technician," he began, "and sometimes I do transcription work on the side."
“The medical field, ay?” Joshua knowingly smiled as though he was in on the joke, “-sounds like difficult but fulfilling work. But between us, I need to know something,” he leaned in.
Emerson's gut clenched at the serious look on the man's face.
“… is it you guys, or the pharmacy that never pre-authorizes my blood pressure medications?” The man stage-whispered.
Emerson blinked.
Joshua's expression was perfectly deadpan, and for a moment, Emerson wondered if the man was joking. But when Joshua raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, Emerson felt a weight lift from his shoulders. A small semblance of relief washed over him at the prospect of an ordinary, friendly conversation. If there was one thing he desperately needed right now, it was talking about everything and nothing at all. Smack talking about his awful hours, pay, and the occasional know-it-all, frustrating patients were just what the proverbial doctor ordered.
Emerson's lips curled up into a wry smile as he asked, "They're asking for pre-auths for that?"
Joshua spoke with mock exasperation, leaning back into his chair. "Oh, like you wouldn't believe," he said, "I was on hold one time for - and I kid you not - one hour." He held up a single finger for emphasis.
Emerson chuckled and shook his head. It was a story he'd heard all too often. His thoughts drifted back to his time at the hospital, where he'd have dozens of similar conversations with Medicare-eligible patients on a daily basis. As he listened to Joshua expounding on the perils of prescription medications, he felt himself relax even further.
Joshua's hand fell back to his lap as he continued, "And after enduring that awful waiting music-"
Emerson, now feeling a sense of ease from the conversation, leaned in slightly with engaged interest. “You didn’t mute it?”
"You can't, though," Joshua shook his head. "It's too risky. What if you're in the middle of something and miss their response? Then you have to start the whole process over again!"
Emerson gave a small nod, the corners of his lips twitching in a slight smile. "Fair enough," he said, his voice soft. He leaned back in his chair, letting out a quiet sigh.
"So anyway, after being transferred to three different departments and waiting on hold for another half an hour, I finally got the pharmacist on the phone and explained my situation." Joshua continued.
Emerson empathetically nodded in understanding.
“And you know what the pharmacist says?" Joshua asked.
Emerson smirked- already knowing the answer.
"They have it in their system, but can’t fill it without pre-authorization from my provider. So what do I do?” Joshua rhetorically asked, raising his eyebrows. “I call my provider.”
Emerson raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, a knowing look on his face. "Let me guess?"
With mock frustration, Joshua pointed at Emerson's smile, "See? You already know how the story ends," he said, letting out a sigh, "My doctor said he'd already sent over the authorization, so the pharmacy should have it."
“Sounds about right,” Emerson nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching as he unsuccessfully tried restraining a growing smile.
“So what gives?” Joshua asked, sounding genuinely curious.
In a voice that carried a hint of understanding, Emerson cleared his throat, which felt drier than usual, and said, "Well... doctors tend to forget when the work piles up, but in this case, it's probably on the pharmacy."
“You don’t say?” Joshua arched an eyebrow.
“I’d bet on it, yeah; which pharmacy was it?” Emerson inquired, his voice raspier than usual.
Joshua's lips curved into a smirk as he dismissed Emerson's question with a wave of his hand. "Oh, I couldn't possibly answer that," he said. "But..." he hedged, "I have a feeling you already know which one it was."
Emerson chuckled and was about to ask for the man's thoughts on scheduling specialist visits when he caught Joshua's jovial demeanor gradually fading as he assumed a more formal posture.
“Now then, I know this is going to sound cruel,” the detective began, and Emerson, noticing the man’s change in tone, grew slightly despondent.
“But I'm afraid I have some questions here,” the detective continued, splashing a bucket of cold water over the tenuous sense of normalcy they’d established. His demeanor shifted as he cleared his throat and leaned forward, placing a hand on the folder in front of him.“-that I have to ask. I’m sorry.”
Emerson's heart sank as he numbly nodded, his gaze fixed on the table.
Joshua sighed and said, “Please understand: these questions- they’re going to help us find whoever did this and help everyone we can. Okay?”
Bloody, auburn hair hanging down around a beautiful face…
Emerson shut his eyes as a memory unbiddenly surfaced. A dull ache pressured his temples.
Piercing red eyes staring into his soul!
Emerson flinched at the images flashing through his mind’s eye like a demonic slide show. The dull ache grew stronger.
“I can’t imagine what it would be like to relieve these events,” the detective’s voice sounded like it came from somewhere distant, “-I won’t pretend to understand.”
Razor-sharp nails carving through his skin!
Heart-stopping, pulse-pounding fear!
Emerson’s eyelids twitched, and his fists unconsciously tightened beneath the table. It felt as though something sharp was stabbing inside his temples.
Liam’s horrific, dying screams. Echoing...
Emerson shakily exhaled as he was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt, anger, and frustration.
Joshua’s steadily analyzed Emerson’s mannerisms and expressions.
'Nervous, scared, insecure, and troubled. Not overly emotional and still coherent and intelligent,’ Joshua noted as he mulled to himself.
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‘He remembers. He’s trying not to... but he remembers,’ Joshua concluded. His gaze softened.
“Hey,” the detective softly said, “-can I get you some water, maybe a coffee? We can do this once you've settled in a bit more; I’m sorry.”
It was almost 2 AM, but if some coffee were a comfort drink and could help their only witness soothe his nerves enough to discuss the incident, then Joshua would damn well drive to the man’s favorite 24/7 diner with bells and whistles on his car to pick him up a cup of steaming joe fresh off the press.
Emerson’s eyes slowly opened as though he’d just woken from a daydream. He looked at Joshua with exhaustion-lined gratitude and nodded.
"Yeah, water, please," Emerson said, the words making him finally slow down and notice how unbearably dry his throat was compared to when he’d last felt it. That realization started a cascade effect as an overwhelming hunger smashed him over the head, inducing light-headedness and weakness that reminded him of being bedridden with a fever. At the same time, swallowing felt like he had strep throat and an esophagus lined with sandpaper. The sensation was unpleasant to the point of driving his already frayed mind to the breaking point.
He almost groaned aloud and had the embarrassing urge to lay his suddenly burning forehead against the table's cool, metallic surface before the detective. At least then, maybe, that would relieve the pounding in his temples.
"All right, I'll be right back," said the detective, getting out of his chair and pushing it back under the table. But as he leaned forward to push the chair in, Emerson's eyes instinctively jumped to the small gap that had opened when the man's black wool coat shifted down at the collar- exposing his neck.
Emerson's pupils marginally dilated, his vision tunneling as though he were looking at the detective's neck from only inches away; his breath hitched as the entirety of his focus- of his being- narrowed onto that exposed skin. Emerson could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
But if he were truly in any state other than nearly-starved, he would've noticed that the heartbeat and pulse were distant. Distinctly separate. Not his own…
The world also became brighter, the single, overhead LED fluorescent light flaring to the brightness of the noon-day sun as the ambient buzz of electricity exponentially grew louder.
Colors turned more pronounced- sharply contrasting against one another as the table's metallic gray surface gleamed with an unnatural luster beneath the lights.
In contrast, the detective's drab clothing exploded with intricate detail as Emerson could suddenly make out individual coat fibers flowing together in uniform waves.
Dozens of seemingly heavy footsteps and the chaotic jumble of garbled, unintelligible masculine and feminine voices interwoven with the heartbeat pounding in his ears.
A faucet was squeakily cranked, water blasting into a mug.
A microwave beeped with the strength of a nuclear launch sequence before its door swung open on squeaking hinges.
"-er-"
Pens and pencils scribbling on paper. Pages ripping... flipping... tearing.
"-son."
Staplers snapping!
The interior of a bulky copier shifting- kerchunk!
"Emerson?"
The detective stood, the coat's collar sliding back up to cover his neck.
Emerson blinked. And blinked again. Everything gradually returned to normal.
"Sorry," Emerson muttered hoarsely, his thin voice like gravel. He reached up and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands to help clear his vision of the nebulous after-images of the overhead light that was now thankfully dimming to a normal brilliance.
"It's okay. It looked like I lost you there for a moment- you all right?"
"Mm. Yeah. I'm- I'm good. Just... tired. Thirsty. Hungry..." Emerson murmured as though he were about to fall asleep.
The detective smiled sympathetically, "Well, now, I can help with those last two," he said, walking to the door and slightly opening it.
Emerson's eye twitched as the room was suddenly flooded with overwhelming office sounds. He wanted to raise his hands over his head as his sensitive ears shook.
"-or-"
"Hm?" Emerson said as he tried recovering from the sensory flashbang.
"Ice, or no?"
Emerson squinted at the detective with bleary, red-rimmed eyes- pure confusion written across his pale face.
"For your water. Ice?" The detective patiently reiterated.
"Um, no. No, thanks," Emerson barely shook his head. His neck muscles were now aching to the point where any movement sent agony down his back and across his shoulders.
"Sure. Be right back," the detective said, the door shutting with a soft click that sounded like it had happened right beside Emerson’s ears. The pounding in his temples became more pronounced, the dull ache suddenly becoming a sharp, stabbing sensation that radiated behind his eyes. He almost dry-heaved. But mercifully, the pain quickly turned sporadic and sluggish the next moment.
'Why does it hurt so much?' he couldn't help the inadvertent groan that escaped his mouth as he rested both elbows on the table's cool surface and placed his face into his hands.
'Did I hit my head?' Sorting through the night’s events was a lost cause. He was suffering from dehydration, probably critically-low blood sugars, a splitting headache, sore muscles and joints, and for some inexplicable, stupid fucking reason, his top row of teeth hurt. Like worn enamel, exposed nerves at the tip of his canines- hurt. And only those teeth, for some goddamn reason.
He felt a particularly heavy throb in his temples hammer against his brain.
His eyes felt like needles were stabbing into their backs. His insides twisted and throbbed. He piteously moaned into his hands.
'Fucking doughnuts…' He cried to himself.
----------------------------------------
Joshua closed the interrogation room door behind him- his friendly expression turning thoughtful.
All traces of the friendly detective were missing, replaced with a hardworking professional presented with a complicated problem that needed solving. He stood outside the interrogation room door for over ten seconds before turning and maneuvering down the hall past another group of constables walking to the opposite station section.
They respectfully acknowledged him with an ‘Evening, sir,' or simply a nod and 'Sir.' Joshua grunted in reply, lost in thought as he continued through the station. It was like a second home, so it didn’t take long before he reached his destination: a heavy-set door in the station’s center.
Reaching into his coat's interior breast pocket, he removed an ID card and placed it over the rectangular card reader on the wall beside the door. The light flicked to green, and a gentle buzzing whir sounded as the magnetic locking seals disabled. Slipping the ID back into his coat, Joshua grabbed the handle, twisted it, and yanked the door open. Despite its considerable bulk, the door swung open silently, allowing him to slip inside the small security room before it automatically slammed shut behind him. He wasn’t alone.
"What're you thinking?" Chief Inspector Carilas Laberge asked, his tall back and broad shoulders facing Joshua as he intently watched the camera feed to Emerson River's room- the man was currently hunched over the table. He looked like he was in bad shape and growing worse with every passing minute.
Joshua hummed, stepping up beside Carilas.
"Honestly, sir?” Joshua shrugged a shoulder, “-he's convinced me that he thinks he's telling the truth."
"Repressed memories?" Carilas hypothesized.
"Yes, and no- although I can't speak to that with any certainty. But I am convinced he remembers some of what he saw. And it terrifies him."
Carilas grunted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Joshua’s analysis.
“I can’t speak as to his emotional stability,” Joshua continued, “-you may want Christina to take a crack at him if you’re worried and want a psychoanalysis profile ‘docked’ for testimony.”
“What I’m more concerned with at the moment, DCI Fleury,” Carilas' tone took on an edge, “-is that either we still have a mass murderer on the loose-” he looked at the monitor, “-or he’s sitting right in front of us.”
Joshua’s lips pursed, unfazed by his superior’s caustic tone. This was, after all, an incredibly stressful situation. The entire night-shift rotation was on the case. They needed to close this and fast. So no, Joshua wouldn’t hold anything against anyone for the next few nights. Unless someone stopped bringing in doughnuts- then he’d be miffed.
“As I said,” Joshua replied, observing the screen alongside Carilas, “he’s convinced he’s telling the truth. Of course, he might forget something due to lingering trauma… but… it seems like he remembers what happened.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“No, I didn’t,” Joshua shook his head, then motioned at the screen with a hand, “I didn’t have to. When I mentioned I had questions about what had happened, his reactions were enough."
“Mm,” Carilas sounded distracted, then asked: “You get a copy of the ME’s report on the other bodies?”
Joshua exhaled and closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Shit. No, I haven't yet; sorry, sir.”
How could that have happened? Were the files just sitting there on his desk? Carilas waved him off.
“Don’t worry about it, son. I just got the damn thing myself. I was only wondering,” the tension in Joshua’s shoulders eased. He’d been horrifically worried about missing something crucial to an investigation and embarrassing himself as a decorated senior detective of the department in front of the Chief Inspector Laberge.
“She found something interesting, then?” Joshua asked, an eyebrow raised. Carilas wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise.
“Well,” Carilas grunted, “I don't know, Detective,” he hedged, his voice carrying a tone of knowing sarcasm as he walked over to a desk against the wall beside the bank of monitors showing other empty interrogation rooms.
“Why don’t you tell me?” he casually inquired, sliding the medical examiner’s report off the table and handing it to Joshua.
Joshua silently opened the file with knitted brows, his experienced eyes flicking across the gruesome, evidentiary crime scene photos of two mutilated bodies. Their clothes were shredded to ribbons around their necks and arms, blood soaking most of their upper bodies as though a wild animal had its way with them. And based on the state of their throats, he would wager that’s precisely what had happened.
He’d been a detective for over twenty years. He’d had seen some nasty fucking business. But this was just... wholesale slaughter. The victims’ throats were completely torn open- down to the whites of the bone.
But despite the killer’s gruesome MO, Joshua couldn’t tell what he was looking for. A tag on the clothing? An errant wallet soaking in blood? The odd pallor of the victims’ skin? It must’ve been in the report he was holding, and evident at that because Carilas figured it out pretty damn quickly since getting the information.
Joshua’s eyes narrowed. He closely examined the photos and the written forensic notes tagged to key evidence zones.
‘C'mon Fleury, what’re you missing...?’
His eyes suddenly widened, his head snapping from the file to squint at the camera feed to Emerson River’s room.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” Carilas asked, nodding at the monitor, then walking up to it with hands clasped behind his back.
“How the survivor of what looks like a power tool killing spree was found near the other victims, covered in blood, clothes torn or lacerated in much the same manner, and yet-” he tapped on Emerson’s hunched form with an index finger before turning around to look at Joshua, who’s eyes were riveted to the screen.
“-the man only has a single scar across his chest—an old scar,” Carilas’s piercing gaze bored into the monitor.
“I happen to find it very interesting. Don’t you?” he softly asked.
Then, the two of the most seasoned criminal investigation officers on the police force in the city watched as the door to Emerson’s room was opened without their express permission. And then the camera feed winked out.
----------------------------------------
Interrogation Room A-5
The doorknob turned.
The door opened.
Emerson lowered his hands enough to uncover his eyes. He peeked out from beneath a half-lidded gaze. Two police officers strode into the room- neither resembled the detective. This didn't register.
The taller officer popped the button on the lid of a pouch on his utility belt and removed something that he underhanded up into the corner of the room. Emerson’s eyes lazily tracked the small cylindrical object as it magnetized itself to the side of the camera’s chassis with a plastic snap.
The shorter officer locked the door to the room behind him with a snick. This did not register. Then both officers spread out into the corners of the room closest to them and reached to their hips, unholstering strange-looking, silenced handguns.
This also did not register, as Emerson blearily watched the proceedings through a hazy, third-person perspective. And it wasn’t until Emerson was looking down at the barrels of two separate guns that reality suddenly crashed over him like a ton of bricks. His eyes went as wide as saucers.
“Wait-” he croaked, raising his hands to-
THWIP! THWIP!
There was no flash. There was no ear-shattering noise—only an odd whispery noise followed by intense pressure in his chest. The pressure quickly turned to pain and blossomed like a fiery lotus, its flaming petals expanding and searing his insides. He slowly looked down with complete befuddlement.
There were two holes in his shirt.
One on his right pectoral and the other over his heart- something warm and wet trickled down his chest. He dazedly reached up with a trembling hand to touch his chest and confirm that he, and the wounds, were real.
‘I...’
THWIP! THWIP!
Emerson’s right arm jolted away as a bullet shattered his right shoulder. He would've screamed or, at the very least, shouted in pain now that his brain had caught up with what was happening, but the second bullet tore through his neck.
His eyes widened in pure terror as blood spurted out of his mouth, and he reflexively wanted to swallow, only to send blood spattering across the table. The pain was unimaginable. His eyes looked like a frightened animal, confused and pleading as he looked between the two men, his arms violently shaking as he tried to reach his ruined throat. His right arm wouldn’t work. The room was filled with the sounds of wet choking.
The short man holstered his handgun with a sneer, then removed a long dagger strapped to his outer left thigh. The taller man’s face showed some hard sympathy as he leveled the handgun at Emerson’s head.
“Sorry, Kid. You would thank me if you knew...” his finger curled around the trigger.
Time slowed to a crawl.
Emerson’s emotions were a chaotic mess of terror, confusion, and rage, underlined with a foundation of pure disbelief.
'What's happening? Who were they? Why me? I didn't do anything! I’ve been good! What did I do?! Why? Why?! WHY?!'
And in that moment of pure, unfocused hatred fueled by agony, hunger, and self-preservation, Emerson’s throat rasped a grotesque parody of defiance as the newly born Beast within his soul was briefly unleashed from the fetters of the mortal mindset. A primal bellow of unwillingness surged out his ruined mouth, the sound resonating across another plane of consciousness like a ripple upon the still surface of a pond.
TH-
Darkness…
----------------------------------------
Somewhere, deep below the surface...
A pair of solid, glowing red eyes slowly opened- illuminating the suffocating darkness. There was a question in those eyes. It had felt something just then... Such a curious sensation. It wanted to know- needed to understand what could have prematurely awoken it during the daytime. The eyes closed- the room falling into a dark, perpetual stillness.
It needed to focus- traveling through The Shadowlands was an exercise in precision, strength of mind, and a great deal of luck.
A dreadful, skin-crawling presence descended upon the area as the room's occupant forcibly cast a fragment of their waking consciousness into the spirit-inhabited, mirror dimension of reality. It followed the disturbance to its origin, traversing hundreds of miles in seconds, to finally reach the source- a small room with two mortals and... It couldn't be...
A newly risen fledgling...? Only two hours old... yet capable of communing through the Underworld? Its interest was piqued. The fragmented consciousness closely inspected the fledgling.
‘!’
The fledgling was dying- this couldn't be allowed!
The fragmented consciousness coalesced into an inhumanely beautiful woman. She stood beside the dying fledgling, the color of her normally radiant ruby dress was muted, and the room's only fluorescent light was extremely dim. The table, walls, and chair resembled their natural counterparts but were slightly off in this chilling, gloomy reality.
The woman placed a finger onto the fledgling's forehead over the bullet wound- the seeping blood around the hole reflected a dull, lifeless grey.
The fledgling's departing soul shuddered before tethering itself to its original vessel. Now stabilized, he could be better examined and understood. Next, the woman's figure dematerialized into a monochromatic mist that entered the fledgling's head through the wound. Then, she re-materialized into her original form within the fledgling's consciousness- simply flicking a hand to alter his mental space and organize the mess.
A plain stone slab appeared within an infinite void- the fledgling's nude consciousness laid out on his back in its center. She cocked her head with curiosity, then smiled.
A smile that made the sun look dim in comparison.
"Interesting... very interesting," her voice simultaneously sounded from everywhere and yet nowhere. She placed a hand on the fledgling's forehead.
The manifestation of her consciousness brushing against his- controlling, altering, and shaping it. She wanted him all to herself- and she only tolerated perfection. She removed her hand and leaned over him, speaking into his right ear, her lips tantalizingly close.
"Come find me... but first..." her mouth curved into a wicked smile as her eyes shone a demonic red, bathing the unconscious fledgling's soul in a crimson light.
"I want you to kill them," she whispered, so close.
"Kill them all."
The woman vanished in a swirl of red shadows and fading laughter.