---
CHAPTER THREE: TRUTH BLEEDS
The photo was sick.
Elias couldn't look away.
It was him. In bed. Asleep. Face smushed into the pillow. Shirtless. Arm out. Totally exposed.
Someone had been in his room.
Watching.
His thumb shook as he tapped the number.
Dead line.
"F**k," he whispered.
He started pacing—back and forth, over and over—trying to breathe through it. The blinds were shut. Door was still locked. No broken windows.
But someone got in. Got out. No trace.
His brain screamed one name.
Damien.
No. No, don't be crazy. Don't—
Buzz.
New message.
Another photo.
His stomach dropped.
Grainy shot. An old train station. His brother standing there. Alone.
His blood turned to ice.
Meet me where the trains don't run.
Same words from that woman's note. The same abandoned station Elias passed every day on his commute. Shut down after the fire five years back.
He didn't think. Just grabbed his keys.
---
The place looked dead.
Black walls. Rusted tracks. Everything smelled like smoke and rain and death.
He stepped through the gate, phone light out, cutting through the dark.
"Hello?" he called.
Nothing.
Every step echoed like a warning.
Then—
He saw it.
A body. Slumped against a pillar.
Naked. Pale. Too still.
No. No, no, no—
He ran closer.
Not a dummy.
A guy. Late twenties. Mouth covered in plastic. Face frozen mid-scream. Dead.
On his chest, in thick black marker:
> CONFESS
Elias gagged. Stumbled away. Vomited in the corner.
Footsteps behind him.
Too late.
A hand yanked him back. Slammed him into the wall.
"ELIAS."
Damien's voice.
He let go just as fast. Elias gasped.
"You—what the f**k—you scared the hell outta me!"
Damien didn't answer. He was already walking toward the body like this wasn't the worst thing ever.
"You shouldn't be here."
"I didn't just come for fun," Elias snapped. "Someone sent me those photos!"
"Wasn't me," Damien said, checking the guy's hands. "They wanted you to find this."
"Why me?! Why the hell—what does this even mean?!"
Damien didn't reply.
Instead, he pulled a red slip of paper from under the body.
Held it up.
Elias's breath caught.
His name. Written in neat block letters.
> Elias Vale. You're next.
---
The cops showed up fast.
Too fast.
But Elias realized something.
Damien never called them.
And by the time they got there…
The body had been moved.
The writing was gone.
The red slip? Vanished.
And Damien?
Acting like none of it ever existed.
---
They got in the car.
Elias was shaking.
"You covered it up."
Damien said nothing.
"You hid the note."
Still nothing.
Elias slammed his fist against the glovebox. "Why?!"
Finally, Damien spoke. Calm. Cold.
"I'm protecting you."
"From WHAT?!"
Damien glanced over. His jaw clenched.
"There's the truth," he said. "And then there's what people can handle. You think you want answers? You don't."
"You knew my brother. You were there. Don't lie."
Silence.
Then—
"Back seat."
"What?"
"Get in."
"Damien—"
"Now."
Elias climbed into the back, heart going crazy.
Damien reached under the seat. Pulled out a thick folder. Tossed it to him.
Elias opened it.
Dozens of photos. Dead bodies.
Every one the same.
Plastic bag over the head. Word written on the chest.
Fear frozen on their faces.
"What the hell is this?"
"Not a killer," Damien muttered. "Not exactly."
"Then what?"
Damien looked at him through the rearview mirror. Eyes dark. Empty.
"They were hiding something. Secrets. And someone didn't like that."
Elias's hands started to shake.
"My brother?"
Damien nodded once.
"He knew something. Tried to warn you."
Elias swallowed. "And now they're after me."
"No." Damien leaned forward.
"They're using you."
A beat.
"You're bait."
---
Elias didn't sleep that night.
Again.
He sat on the floor, back to the wall, knees pulled up. Just staring at nothing.
Except one thing kept flashing in his head.
Damien's silver ring.
His brother's voice from the old voicemail.
> "Don't trust—"
Cut off.
His phone buzzed.
Blocked number.
He almost didn't look.
But curiosity was louder than fear.
He opened it.
Another photo.
His stomach dropped again.
A mirror selfie.
Taken inside his bathroom.
Just minutes ago.
Written across the glass in red—
> "Truth is a wound. Ready to bleed?"
He stood up so fast the phone hit the ground.
Heart in his throat, he turned to the bathroom door.
Light was off.
He pushed it open.
And there it was.
His name. On the mirror.
Still wet.
The words began to drip.
Not lipstick.
Blood.