Curves. Feminine. Black hoodie pulled low. Movements smooth enough to suggest familiarity.
I know her before my mind will accept it.
The woman is wearing Violet’s face.
The imposter.
She crosses the room slowly, stopping just feet from the couch. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t touch.
She watches.
Minutes pass. Violet stirs once, a soft shift of limbs, but doesn’t wake. The imposter tilts her head, studying her like a mirror deciding which reflection it prefers.
My grip tightens on the desk until the wood creaks.
She kneels.
Too close.
Then she reaches into her jacket.
A small bottle. A brush.
My heart stutters.
She paints on the wall above the couch, strokes deliberate, and almost reverent. When she finishes, she steps back, admiring her work.
Then she looks directly into the camera.
Smiles.
Not triumph. Not fear.
An invitation.
She leaves as quietly as she came.
I don’t breathe.
Red letters bleed across the wall behind Violet.
You killed my family. I will kill yours.
Something inside me fractures.
“No,” I growl, already moving. “No. No—”
I’m on my feet, phone in hand, while rage and something far older colliding in my chest. I wasn’t watching the street. I wasn’t watching the stairwell. I was watching her sleep.
Because I needed to know she was safe.
Because I can’t stop watching her.
“Who was posted outside Violet’s building tonight?” My voice cuts sharp through the comms.
Static. Then, hesitant. “Carter, sir.”
“Get him on the line.”
