Sunlight streamed through the windows in scattered beams, and the anchor's voice echoed down the corridor from the television. Blood still dripped from the walls, leaving streaks as it fell. The gun in Keya's hand now hung limply toward the ground, swinging aimlessly. An outsider might have assumed it was part of the bloody scene. For the first time in her life, Keya felt fear. This had never happened to her before. She had to think-figure out her next move.
They had probably already accessed the apartment cameras; she could sense it. They were far more prepared than she had expected. Reporting the incident directly to the police was impossible. If she told them that the killer seemed to vanish like a hallucination, only to reappear elsewhere, they would likely have committed her to a hospital. This case had to remain absolutely secret.
She looked at the corpse-something had to be done. She couldn't leave it there.
Trembling, Keya dragged the body toward the front of the apartment, moving fast, thinking quickly. She grabbed a mop with shaking hands to clean the blood on the floor. But the more she wiped, the more it spread. Panic erupted with a loud thud as the stick slipped from her hand. She moved faster, each second gnawing at the emptiness in her stomach. For the blood on the wall, her final solution was to wipe it and spray wall paint over it. There might be an excuse. Her mind was a mess, but she had to think fast. She couldn't get caught. Not now, not ever.
Then a voice came from the television.
"Keya-" The anchor laughed. "Trust me, Keya..." The voice cut off abruptly. The TV turned off by itself.
Not now... not the time... she repeated internally.
After moving the corpse, she hesitated but plunged her hands into the bloody body. There had to be something in the pockets, somewhere, that could reveal the identity of the person. She tore the shirt off roughly, spotting a chip on the chest. She pressed her watch against it-the device should scan and display information. But nothing appeared. Ridiculous, she thought.
Then she searched the pockets and found a random ID, old-fashioned.
The name read: "Martin Roth."
She grabbed her phone-Pierce had to help her. She repeated silently, Answer it when it rings. Seconds felt like eternity.
"Would you think of me?" Pierce's sleepy voice reached her ears through the phone. What an idiot.
"Pierce, don't joke now. I'm in trouble."
"What did you do, Keya?" His tone immediately turned serious.
"You have to find a man, it's urgent." Keya's trembling voice had worried him.
"What's happening, Keya?"
"Martin Roth, number 8****. Pierce, hurry..." Her voice broke into a whimper.
"Okay, one second."
Keya paced the small living room, glancing at the body on the floor, turning away with disgust. The blood on her hands was far from gone.
"I can't get any data, Ke-" The voice cut off.
Keya froze. She hung up and called again, again, but no answer. She was on the verge of tears. The phone rang, and she stared at the screen, heart racing-but it was another unknown number. She hesitated, then answered.
"Hello?"
Faint, indistinct sounds came through. A crackling. Robot-like voices echoed as Keya's life seemed to drain second by second.
She pulled the phone from her ear. Words appeared on the screen.
"We need to talk. Check the corpse's shoes."
Seeing the message, Keya rushed to the shoes, scooping them up. Inside, someone had placed a folded piece of paper. She opened it. It read:
"Keya Hill."
Below it was another note:
"You're next."