Darkness had a sound.
A muffled rustle, like footsteps sliding over something wet.
Adrian didn't know where he was, but he knew he wasn't alone. He felt it in the way the air trembled, in a breath that wasn't his, in a deep pulse rising from the floor beneath him.
When he opened his eyes, he was standing in a narrow corridor. The walls were stained and slick. The floor gleamed with a mix of rainwater and blood. A single flickering neon light buzzed at the far end, throwing flashes of white across the walls.
Each time the light blinked, something shifted, a door that had been closed was now slightly ajar, a shadow stretched a little longer. He moved forward slowly.
The sound of dripping water marked the seconds. Plink. Plink. Plink.
Blood mingled with rain, forming a thin stream that brushed against his shoes.
Then he saw him.
A man kneeling on the floor.
The killer.
His hands were sunk in a dark puddle that flowed away like oil.
A woman's body lay before him, arms spread like broken wings. Her face was gone.
Only a smudge of red lipstick remained, a ghost of what she had been.
The killer was whispering. Not praying, not asking for forgiveness.
Repeating something, hoarse, breathless, obsessive:
"Can you hear me, doctor? Can you hear me, doctor?"
Adrian froze. That tone, that obedience.
He was talking to Rinaldi.
The killer's head jerked backward, as if yanked by invisible strings. His eyes, two holes of glassy ice, turned toward Adrian even though he couldn't see him.
"He told me to keep going," the man rasped. "He said this is the only way. That pain is purification."
Behind him, under the trembling neon, Adrian saw a reflection in a puddle, a glowing sign: Bar Aurora – Viale dei Tigli 47.
The name burned in his mind. A real address.
In the dream, Adrian's breath began to change, he wasn't just watching anymore.
He was inside the scene.
Every smell, every heartbeat, every vibration of that voice crawled beneath his skin.
"He said he'd be back soon," the man went on, staring at nothing.
"He said I should wait. Be ready. Because the circle doesn't close without him."
He lifted something, a kitchen knife, spotless, shining under the neon. He looked at it the way a believer looks at a holy symbol.
"This is how I stay with him. How I still hear his voice."
Adrian tried to shout, to stop him, but his throat locked.
He felt like his own voice had been ripped from him.
The killer turned his face, speaking now with his lips, his voice slow and deliberate:
"You're the one he's waiting for. You're next, Adrian."
Then the blade came down. The sound exploded, glass, rain, metal, blood.
It splattered over the walls, over Adrian's face, hot and heavy. He looked down and saw no body, no killer.
Only a mirror. And in the mirror, his reflection had the killer's eyes.
He woke up screaming. His heart was pounding out of control, sweat running down his temples. For a moment he couldn't tell if he was still dreaming.
The ceiling above him seemed to ripple, the walls pulse.
Then he heard her voice.
"Adrian?"
He turned sharply.
Clara was sitting up beside him, her eyes still heavy with sleep, her voice soft, almost fragile.
"Did it happen again?"
He nodded, breathing hard.
"Yes. But it wasn't the same. It was… sharper. I saw him, Clara. I felt him. The killer is still alive. And he's still killing."
Clara blinked, wrapping the sheet tighter around her body as she leaned closer.
"How can you be sure?"
Adrian got out of bed, grabbed his laptop from the table, and began typing fast.
"Because I saw a place. Bar Aurora, Viale dei Tigli. I looked it up, it's real. It's right here, a few miles away."
She joined him at the table, eyes on the glowing screen. The image showed a run-down building, broken sign, cracked windows, exactly like in the dream.
"It could be coincidence," she whispered.
"No."
His tone was sharp, steady, almost frightening.
"In the dream, he was talking to Rinaldi. He still thinks he's alive. He still believes he's getting orders."
Clara frowned.
"But Rinaldi doesn't even remember his own name…"
"Exactly," Adrian said. "He left commands in that man's head. Like a loop that never stops. He turned him into a puppet, and the strings are still moving, even without the puppeteer."
He paced, running a hand through his hair, the old instinct of the investigator coming alive again.
"If the killer's still acting under that illusion, someone else could die. I can't just ignore it."
"Adrian," Clara said softly, standing. "And what if it's a trap?"
He turned to her.
"Then it's one I need to walk into. I won't let Rinaldi's shadow keep killing through him."
She approached slowly, her bare feet silent on the floor, her face pale but determined.
"Then you're not going alone."
"Clara…"
"No, listen to me."
She took his face in her hands.
"You can't protect me from what we are. Every time you push me away, you weaken yourself. Every time we're together, you grow stronger. You said it yourself, our power feeds on connection."
He closed his eyes, trembling under her touch.
"I can't bear to see you hurt again."
"And I can't bear to lose you," she whispered. "We've already died once, Adrian. The only way we survived was by holding on to each other."
Her hand slipped down to his chest, over his heart.
"When I touch you, everything settles. Maybe that's what Rinaldi never predicted, that together we're not dangerous. We're complete."
Adrian looked at her, his expression softening, the storm inside him shifting into something gentler. Then he took her hand, pressed his lips to it, and kept it against his heart.
"You're right," he murmured. "If this is happening again, we'll face it together."
Clara smiled faintly, half relief, half fear.
"Always."
They dressed in silence.
Adrian reached for the old handgun he had kept since his days as a profiler, slipping it into his coat.
Outside, dawn was spreading across the city, turning the streets a cold blue.
Before leaving, Clara glanced at the table.
The laptop screen was still glowing.
The map of Bar Aurora flickered faintly, as if reacting to something unseen. And then, right beneath the photo, a line of text appeared, typed by invisible hands:
"The doctor is waiting for you."
Adrian froze. His pulse spiked.
"Clara," he whispered. "We have to go. Now."
She nodded, and their fingers found each other instinctively. The moment their palms met, a jolt ran through both of them.
For an instant, they shared the same vision, the same image, a figure standing under the rain, in front of the bar, staring straight at them. And they both knew it wasn't over.
The dream hadn't ended. It had just begun.