Chapter 9 · The Final Act

The mirror stopped screaming.

That was worse than the sound it had made before.

Maeve stood with the knife still locked in her hand, her fingers numb around the handle. In the glass, Jonah’s face had vanished into a smear of darkness. The emergency department cubicle, the blood-specked pillow, the monitor flashing a thin green line—everything had folded inward until only one pale eye remained, staring through the mirror from somewhere impossibly far away.

Then the eye blinked.

Maeve flinched. The knife tilted toward Eli’s chest.

“Don’t,” he said.

His voice was low, roughened by pain. He had one hand pressed against the burn crossing his ribs, where the contract page had turned to ash. Black flakes clung to his shirt and drifted onto the stage between them. His face looked older than it had an hour ago. Not in years, exactly. In ghosts.

Behind him, the theater groaned.

The chandelier swung above the ruined auditorium, scattering white light over empty seats. Every chair was occupied by a shadow wearing a different face. Some leaned forward with their hands folded. Others had their mouths sewn shut with silver thread.