Lila’s hands trembled violently, the notebook’s pages fluttering like dying moths in her grip. The words "The other me" pulsed in her vision, searing into her mind like a brand pressed too deep. The bruises she couldn’t recall earning. The blood in her dreams that felt too real, too warm. Adrian’s voice, desperate and rough, insisting none of it was real—that someone was using her, twisting her mind like a knife in a lock.

But if that was true, then who?

And why?

She needed answers. And there was only one person who might have them.

Dr. Voss.

The name slithered down her spine like a drop of ice water. According to the notebook—her notebook, written in her handwriting, in words she didn’t remember writing—she’d been seeing the doctor for weeks. Sessions. Blackouts. Dreams of screaming.

But Lila had no memory of ever stepping foot in her office.

Adrian had left again barely an hour ago, his jaw clenched, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t dare. "Stay here," he’d ordered, voice low. "Don’t trust anyone. Not even—" He’d cut himself off, but she knew what he’d been about to say.

Not even yourself.

But she couldn’t stay. Not with Sophie missing. Not with the gnawing, rotting fear that she was somehow responsible. That the blood in her dreams wasn’t just a nightmare. That the bruises on her knuckles weren’t from a fall.

She had to find Dr. Voss.

The address in the notebook led her to a sleek, glass-paneled building on the outskirts of the city, its mirrored surface reflecting the storm-heavy sky. The air smelled like ozone, thick with the promise of rain. The lobby was cavernous, silent except for the distant hum of an elevator shaft. No receptionist. No security. Just an empty desk and a sign-in sheet with only one name scribbled in the last week:

E. Voss. 4/7. 9:00 AM.

Lila’s fingers hovered over the buzzer for Suite 407: Dr. Evelyn Voss, Psychiatry.

No answer.

She pressed it again, her pulse hammering.

Silence.

A creeping sense of dread coiled in her stomach. Something was wrong.

The elevator doors opened with a whisper, the interior too bright, too sterile. Her reflection in the metal was distorted—her face stretched, her eyes too wide, her mouth a thin, trembling line. The fourth floor was dim, the overhead lights flickering like a dying heartbeat. The hallway stretched before her, lined with identical doors, all shut tight.

Suite 407 was at the end.

The door was slightly ajar.

Lila’s breath hitched.

“Dr. Voss?” she called, her voice barely above a whisper.

No response.

She pushed the door open.

The office was pristine. Too pristine. No papers on the desk. No coat on the rack. The chairs in the waiting area were perfectly aligned, the magazines stacked in neat, untouched piles. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, like a hospital room after a deep clean.

It didn’t look lived in.

It looked staged.

Lila stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind her with a sound like a bone snapping.

“Hello?”

Silence.

She moved toward the inner office, her fingers brushing the cold metal handle.

Click.

The door swung open.

And Lila froze.

The room was destroyed.

Papers were strewn across the floor like fallen leaves. The desk chair lay on its side, one wheel still spinning lazily. A bookshelf had been toppled, its contents—medical journals, psychology textbooks, a framed diploma—shattered on the ground. And on the far wall, slashed in jagged red letters that dripped like fresh wounds:

RUN.

Lila’s blood turned to ice.

Then—

A sound.

A whisper of movement behind her.

She spun, her breath catching in her throat.

A shadow shifted in the doorway.

A figure stepped into the light.

And Lila’s world fractured.

Because standing there, eyes wide with the same terror coursing through her veins—

Was herself.

Same face. Same dark blonde hair, same scar above the eyebrow from when she’d fallen off her bike at eight years old that was barely visible. Same slight crook in her nose from the time she’d walked into a door as a child that was also barely visible.

But the expression was all wrong.

Cold. Hollow.

Smiling.

“You weren’t supposed to find this place,” the other Lila said, tilting her head like a predator studying prey. “Now look what you’ve done.”

Lila couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The other me.

It wasn’t a metaphor.

It wasn’t dissociation.

It was her.

Real.

Here.

The other Lila took a step forward, her smile widening. “You should have listened to Adrian.”

Lila stumbled back, shaking her head. “No—no, this isn’t—”

But when she blinked, the figure was gone.

The doorway was empty.

Her breath came in ragged gasps. Had she imagined it? A hallucination? A trick of the light?

She turned, heart pounding, and took a step toward the hall—

And then—

Black.

A hand clamped over her mouth from behind, dragging her back into the dark.