The world first learned of Victoria Lockridge's death through the gleam of television lights and the hollow steadiness of practiced smiles.
"Good evening. We interrupt tonight's lineup with breaking news from Crestwood County."
The male anchor's voice carried the weight of control, but the tremor in his clasped hands betrayed him. Beside him, a woman leaned forward, her eyes somber, the crimson banner beneath them pulsing: Body Found in Crestwood Luggage Case.
"Earlier this afternoon, sheriff's deputies discovered the remains of twenty-five-year-old Victoria Lockridge," the woman said. "Her body was found inside a large suitcase abandoned near Willowmarch Park. Preliminary identification has confirmed the victim, though investigators haven't released details about the condition of the remains."
The feed shifted to helicopter footage — a pale road bordered by dead trees, squad cars lined like mourners. Yellow tape fluttered in the wind like carnival ribbon stripped of color. A forensics tent rippled under the gusts.
Back in the studio, the male anchor swallowed before continuing.
"Sources indicate the body displayed unusual markings, possibly ritualistic in nature."
A blurred still image flashed onscreen — censor bars and pixelation hiding most of it, but not the shape: an inverted spiral carved into flesh, enclosed by a triangle with three closed eyes leaking black tears. Around it, a six-fingered handprint. At its center—nothing. A hollow void.
"The symbol's meaning remains unknown," the female anchor said, her tone tightening. "Some online users believe it represents cult activity. Others think it may be a signature left by the killer. Police have not confirmed any connection to previous crimes."
The camera widened. The broadcast faded into music and advertisements, as if the world could move on.
---
By midnight, the same symbol reappeared. Another broadcast. Same station, different urgency.
"We have new developments tonight in the Lockridge case," the anchor's voice came fast, too sharp to mask his fear. "Crestwood police confirm they've received an anonymous data file sent directly to their encrypted servers. The contents allegedly expose Victoria Lockridge's involvement in a trafficking network."
The screen filled with static-blurred screenshots — spreadsheets, coded ledgers, grainy photos of frightened faces, trails of digital currency snaking across dark-web exchanges.
"Investigators believe Lockridge posed as a recruiter for luxury positions using fake companies," the anchor continued. "Victims—mostly college women—were coerced into sex work. Payments were routed through anonymous crypto channels."
The footage shifted again — sirens, flashing red and blue, armored officers breaching a mansion's wrought-iron gates.
"But the raid took a violent turn," the man said. "When officers entered the property tied to Lockridge, they found the suspects already dead. Each bore the same sigil—painted in graphite across walls and ceilings. The spiral. The three eyes. The six-fingered hand."
The next photo froze the newsroom's air. The words, scrawled beside the bodies in black:
'Eat rot with your rot. Ascend through decay.'
"Several captives were rescued," the anchor added. "They claim a masked figure entered before the police arrived—swift, unseen, leaving only the carnage and the sigil. Online, the figure already has a name: Azaqor."
---
Days passed. The story grew teeth.
A new studio. Sharper lights. The logo of WELB 7 Live, a silver bird with wings outstretched, glimmered across the desk.
"Tonight we're joined by social commentator Herfst Veldman," said the host, leaning forward with the anticipation of scandal. "Herfst, your claims about the Lockridge case have been… controversial. What can you tell us?"
Herfst smiled—a deliberate, feline curve of red-painted lips. Her copper hair glinted under the stage lights.
"Controversial only because they're true," she replied. "Everyone wants to paint Victoria Lockridge as some fallen criminal, but they forget who her father was—Graham Lockridge. Businessman. Philanthropist. Crestwood's golden son."
The host tilted his head. "And you believe his fortune wasn't clean?"
Herfst's eyes flashed. She slid a folder across the desk, her nails clicking against the laminate.
"I've seen the records. Graham Lockridge's empire was propped up by a very specific backer—a consortium that launders through Orphagenynx Industries. That backer? The Halvern family."
The name hit like static through the studio.
"You're claiming the Halverns are involved—"
"I'm not claiming," she snapped, leaning close enough for her breath to fog the mic. "I'm exposing. The Halverns fund decay. They breed it. If Victoria's crimes bloomed in shadow, it's because their roots were already rotting beneath her."
The segment cut abruptly. A string of disclaimers rolled. The seed was planted.
---
Nineteen days later. Same studio. New face.
"Good evening. I'm Aubrey Wynter, reporting for WELB 7."
Her voice was calm, professional. Only her red-rimmed eyes betrayed the exhaustion behind them.
"It is with deep regret that we report the death of cultural figure Herfst Veldman. Authorities have ruled it an apparent suicide. Veldman was found earlier this morning in her downtown apartment. She was thirty-two."
A smiling portrait filled the screen—Herfst, alive, vibrant, untouched by the weight of the world.
"Viewers may recall Veldman's recent allegations involving the Lockridge family and the Halvern consortium. Tonight, tributes pour in across the web, though some express concern over the timing of her death."
The segment ended.
---
Behind the camera, the newsroom exhaled in whispers.
Aubrey removed her earpiece, her pulse still hammering.
"Nice job, Aubrey," a producer said. "You held it together."
She nodded faintly, though her throat felt dry as ash.
Around her, low voices murmured between cubicles:
"She looked fine last week."
"You kidding? She crossed the Halverns. Everyone knows how that ends."
"Keep your voice down."
"They own half this network."
"Doesn't matter. Someone's gotta say it."
"Then someone's gotta disappear, too."
Their murmurs faded into silence.
Aubrey sat at her desk. The light from her monitor washed her hands pale. Her scripts blurred under trembling fingers.
Victoria Lockridge.
Herfst Veldman.
And now… the sigil.
Aubrey had seen it before—back in college. Not on flesh, but scribbled in a notebook margin by someone she once knew. She couldn't recall the face, only the feeling: something whispering from beneath the ink.
Her phone buzzed.
She looked down. No number. Just a contact name: Witnessing of the Hollow.
The avatar was the same symbol—the spiral, the closed eyes, the six-fingered hand.
The message read:
> Hi Abby. It's been ages, hasn't it? I've missed our games. Let's play again.
Her lungs tightened. No one called her Abby. No one except—
Her mind went blank. The screen dimmed. Around her, the newsroom hummed with life, oblivious.
And then she saw him.
In the reflection of the glass wall dividing the studio, a man sat in the shadows near the far corner—a presence that hadn't been there before. His face was half-hidden by a smooth black mask, its surface marked with an emblem: a prism suspended in air.
Inside the prism was the faint shape of a man—his hands pressed against its inner edge, frozen between escape and surrender. Outside the prism stood another figure, tall, draped in a long coat stitched with mirrored thread, like a warden of reflection. Between the two figures grew a tree, its branches twisted into a crown, a serpent coiled around it. The serpent's scaled paw cradled a crimson apple, which it extended toward the trapped man within the prism. The light caught the glass in such a way that the apple almost seemed to pulse.
The man's gloved hands rested together in calm, his legs crossed neatly beneath him. He tilted his head, watching Aubrey with silent amusement—
as though everything unfolding around her was simply a show he had come to enjoy.