Clara was putting on her coat when something caught her eye.
On the small table by the door, beside a ring of keys and a dusty watch, lay a car keychain, metallic, with a logo she didn't recognize. She picked it up.
"Adrian… whose are these?"
He turned. The keys jingled softly in her hand.
"I've never seen them before."
"They were right here. Maybe they were already in the apartment when we arrived."
Adrian took the remote, studied it, then pressed the unlock button. From the parking lot below came a faint beep and the flash of headlights.
Clara froze.
"Was that…?"
He gave her a small, tense smile.
"Apparently it's ours."
A pause. "Or someone wanted us to think so."
He went down first, cautious. The car, a dark sedan, sat alone under the flickering streetlight. It was spotless, polished, the interior too neat, too clean. No dust, no fingerprints, nothing forgotten.
Clara ran her hand along the window.
"Someone's been here recently."
"Yeah," Adrian murmured, opening the driver's door. "And they cleaned everything."
Inside, the smell of leather and disinfectant hung in the air.
He checked the glove compartment. Empty.
No papers. No registration. As if the car had been reset.
"It's been scrubbed," Clara whispered.
"Exactly. Someone wanted us to find it, but not to know why."
Adrian started the engine. It purred to life instantly.
"At least it'll get us there."
They drove in silence.
Rain smeared the windshield into a blur of gray light and ghosted reflections.
The city looked half-asleep, half-dead.
Every few seconds, the glow of a streetlamp painted Clara's face in flashes: pale, focused, beautiful.
When they reached Bar Aurora, Adrian parked a block away and killed the lights.
They sat there for a moment, neither speaking.
The old sign across the street buzzed and flickered. Only two letters still worked, the A and the R, blinking on and off like a heartbeat.
"Are we sure about this?" Clara asked softly.
Adrian's gaze didn't move from the building.
"No. But we don't have a choice."
He stepped out into the rain, pulling his jacket tight.
The air reeked of metal and wet concrete.
Clara followed, her eyes darting nervously through the shadows. Every window looked like an eye. The front door was padlocked, but the lock was new, shiny.
"Someone's been using this place," Adrian muttered.
He pulled a small knife from his pocket.
Old habits. Two seconds later, the lock clicked open. The door creaked inward.
Inside, the air was thick and sour.
A mix of mold, stale alcohol, and something heavier… sweeter. Blood.
Adrian turned on his phone's flashlight.
Tables covered in dust. Chairs overturned.
Bottles everywhere. A broken mirror behind the counter, spiderwebbed with cracks.
Then, a dark stain on the floor.
"Adrian…" Clara's voice trembled.
He followed the beam of light.
A woman lay on the ground, half-covered by an old coat. Her hands were pale, stiff, as if she'd tried to hold on to the floor.
Adrian knelt beside her.
The air was freezing against his skin.
"She's been dead less than a day," he murmured.
"The blood's still wet."
Clara pressed a hand to her mouth.
"God…"
"It's him," Adrian said quietly.
"The killer from my dream. The same precision, the same ritual. But…" He frowned.
"It's too neat. He came back after the murder. To clean up."
"Why?" Clara whispered.
"To leave something behind."
He crossed to the counter. A dusty landline phone sat there. He lifted the receiver.
A metallic hiss and then, a voice: "Pain is purification. You are the cure, doctor."
The words crawled through the static like insects.
Clara paled.
"It's the same phrase Rinaldi used in the lab."
Adrian set the phone down slowly.
"Then it's not just an echo," he said.
"Someone wants us to hear him again."
He crouched beside the body once more.
His eyes scanned everything with surgical focus, the fingernails, the torn sleeve, a missing button, a scrape near the wrist.
Then he saw it: a loose air vent, slightly ajar.
He pried it open. Inside was a small plastic bag. He pulled it out. A wallet.
He flipped it open and froze.
Laura Neri. 34 years old. Address: Via delle Magnolie 22.
"She hid her ID here," he said. "He didn't want the police to find her right away."
Clara looked at him, her voice trembling but steady.
"We should call it in."
"Yeah but anonymously. If they trace it to us, Rinaldi will find out we're still alive."
She nodded, took her phone, and dialed.
When the dispatcher answered, she changed her tone, flat, detached.
"There's a body at Bar Aurora, Viale dei Tigli. Female, around thirty. Please hurry."
She hung up before they could ask more.
Adrian pulled the coat fully over the woman's face.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"We'll find who did this."
A sound broke the silence. A faint hum, somewhere in the back room.
Adrian followed it. A recorder was spinning on the floor, the tape still running.
He pressed play.
Rinaldi's voice filled the air, mechanical, cold, hollow: "Repeat after me. Pain is purification.
The doctor sees you. Don't forget your mission."
Adrian hit stop. The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Clara came closer, her face tense.
"Every time we think we've escaped him…"
"…he finds a way back," Adrian finished.
He straightened up, eyes hard now.
"Let's go to Laura's apartment. If the killer went there, he left something. He always does."
They slipped out through the back door into the alley.
The rain was steady, washing blood down the steps. Far off, sirens began to wail.
They ran to the car.
Adrian started the engine, staring at the steering wheel with a strange expression.
"This car…" he murmured. "Who left it for us? Why was it waiting, spotless, like someone knew we'd need it?"
Clara looked out the window, voice low.
"Maybe someone's helping us. Or watching us."
Adrian didn't answer. He shifted into gear, and the car slid into the darkness.
Behind them, the flickering sign of Bar Aurora died at last. And in the puddles on the street, for a single heartbeat, the reflection of a man appeared, watching their car disappear into the rain.