Chapter 8: Patterns in Darkness
Three nights of systematic observation had taught me that hunting monsters required thinking like one. The Hyde moved through campus periphery on a schedule—every three to four days, always between midnight and dawn, following routes that suggested territorial behavior rather than random wandering.
Predator with patterns. Patterns can be exploited.
My notebook filled with coded observations: claw marks on specific trees, disturbed earth at regular intervals, scat deposits that definitely didn't come from any natural animal. The creature was mapping its territory, claiming Nevermore's boundaries through scent markers and physical damage.
Question: does it choose its hunting schedule, or does something else control the timing?
The distinction mattered. If Tyler Galpin transformed involuntarily, he might be another victim rather than willing accomplice. If he chose when to become the Hyde, he was enemy number one.
Need more data.
Shadow manipulation had improved through constant practice. Ten-meter range now, sometimes twelve if I pushed through the headaches. More importantly, I could trigger Unnoticed Mode deliberately by focusing on the mental state of I don't matter, I'm not here.
The psychological cost was immediate and cumulative. Each time I became background noise, forgettable and irrelevant, some part of me believed the illusion. After particularly long sessions, I'd catch myself wondering if anyone would notice if I simply disappeared.
Eugene would notice.
The thought anchored me whenever existential dread threatened to pull me under completely. His friendship was becoming the lifeline that kept me connected to human reality.
"Tyler Galpin has been remarkably helpful," Wednesday said during our afternoon planning session. "Almost suspiciously so."
We sat in the library's northeast corner, officially studying while actually coordinating investigation strategy. To outside observers, we probably looked like the goth girl and her antisocial study partner working on some morbid research project.
Close enough to the truth.
"Helpful how?"
"Eager to discuss Rowan's final day, volunteering information about unusual behavior, providing timeline details without prompting." Wednesday's expression suggested she found Tyler's cooperation personally offensive. "He mentioned seeing Rowan arguing with someone in the woods several hours before the estimated time of death."
Someone. Or something.
My fragmented memories screamed warnings I couldn't articulate. Tyler was dangerous, connected to the Hyde, possibly the Hyde himself. But explaining that would require revealing transmigrator knowledge.
"You don't trust the normie."
"I don't trust anyone who volunteers information without clear motivation." She paused. "You seem tense about him specifically. Why?"
Because he's a monster wearing a human face. Because he noticed me in Jericho for reasons I can't explain. Because every instinct I have screams 'predator' when he's mentioned.
"Something's wrong there," I said carefully. "Can't put my finger on it, but my gut says keep watching."
Understatement of the century.
Wednesday nodded approvingly. "Good instincts. I'll maintain surveillance while pursuing other leads."
Other leads. Like Xavier's prophetic artwork.
"Speaking of which," she continued, "I have something to show you. Xavier Thorpe's studio. He's been painting things that... shouldn't exist yet."
Xavier's art studio felt like stepping into a fever dream. Canvases covered every surface—some finished, others half-completed sketches that seemed to writhe when viewed peripherally. The smell of oil paint and turpentine mixed with something else, something that tasted like copper and electricity.
Psychic residue. The guy's been channeling visions.
"There," Wednesday said, pointing to a canvas tucked behind several others.
The painting showed the Hyde in perfect detail. Eight feet of muscular wrongness, claws extended, teeth bared in predatory snarl. But it wasn't the accuracy that made my blood run cold—it was the background. Nevermore's woods, rendered with photographic precision, including landmarks I'd identified during my surveillance missions.
He painted the murder scene. Before it happened.
"Xavier created this three days before Rowan's death," Wednesday continued. "Claims he painted it during a 'fugue state' and has no memory of the process."
Xavier himself sat hunched over a sketchpad in the corner, drawing with manic intensity. His hand moved like something else was guiding it, creating shapes that shouldn't exist in any sane reality.
Precognitive ability. He's seeing the future through artistic expression.
I studied the Hyde painting with tactical focus, noting anatomical details that might prove useful. The creature's musculature suggested explosive speed and climbing capability. Its stance indicated predatory intelligence rather than animal cunning.
This is what I'm up against if things go sideways.
"You think he's involved?" I asked.
"Possibly. Either as accomplice or as someone with direct knowledge of the perpetrator." Wednesday's voice carried the kind of cold logic that made serial killers seem warm and cuddly. "His prophetic abilities could be genuine, or he could be documenting planned murders to establish alibi."
Red herring. Classic misdirect.
"Or," I said slowly, "he's documenting events he can't control or prevent. Precognitive ability without agency."
Like me. Knowing what's coming but powerless to stop it.
Xavier looked up from his sketch, catching us studying his work. His expression was haunted, exhausted, the look of someone who'd seen too much and couldn't unsee any of it.
"You want to know about the paintings," he said. "Everyone does. But I can't explain what I don't understand."
"Try," Wednesday commanded.
"I see things. In dreams, in flashes when I'm drawing. Things that feel real but haven't happened yet." His voice cracked. "Sometimes I paint them without realizing it, and then later..."
Later they come true.
"The creature in your Hyde painting," I said. "Have you seen it in other visions?"
Xavier's face went pale. "Every night for a week. Different locations, different victims, but always the same ending." He gestured at the canvas. "Blood. Death. Something that shouldn't exist hunting things that should."
Multiple victims. The Hyde isn't stopping with Rowan.
Wednesday and I exchanged glances. We were thinking the same thing—Xavier was either an incredibly sophisticated manipulator or a genuinely traumatized psychic. Given his obvious distress and the quality of his prophetic artwork, genuine ability seemed more likely.
Which makes him valuable intelligence asset, not suspect.
"Thank you for your time," Wednesday said formally. "We may have additional questions."
Xavier nodded and returned to his sketching, hand moving with the same driven intensity. Whatever he was drawing now, it probably wouldn't be pleasant.
That night, I practiced shadow constructs while Eugene slept. Fifteen-meter extension, crude weapon formation, testing physical solidity. My shadows could hold weight now—five seconds before destabilization, but improving with each session.
Progress. But is it enough?
The question haunted me as I worked. My abilities were developing, but so was the existential dread that came with Unnoticed Mode training. Every time I became background noise, I understood how easy it would be to simply fade completely.
Forget I exist at all.
The thought was seductive and terrifying in equal measure. Complete invisibility, total freedom from social obligations and emotional connections. No more responsibility for Eugene's safety or Wednesday's investigation or preventing future deaths.
No more humanity.
I wrote in my notebook: Every time I become background noise, I understand how easy it would be to just... fade completely. Eugene's friendship might be the only thing keeping me anchored.
My shadow wrapped around Eugene's sleeping form without conscious direction—protective gesture that had become automatic. He stirred slightly but didn't wake, trusting me to keep the darkness at bay.
Found family. Chosen obligation.
Time to figure out how to protect them from monsters I barely remember.
Outside our window, something howled in the distance. Not quite wolf, not quite human, but definitely angry.
The hunt continues.
And tomorrow, I walk into the Weathervane to investigate the predator who might be wearing Tyler Galpin's face.
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