Valeria left the motel with trembling hands. The door hadn't been locked. No one was behind it. Just the wind… and her growing paranoia.
She got into her car without looking back and started the engine.
Her mind was a blur, but one thing was clear—someone knew she was investigating. And they wanted her to know they were watching.
She drove straight to her downtown apartment. It wasn't big, but it was enough. One wall was covered with articles, photos, and maps connected by red thread—her investigation made physical.
She pulled out the voice recorder she'd used at the motel and pressed play to check for anything strange.
She rewound the tape and listened:
> [Static]
[The sound of rain. Footsteps. Her breathing. Nothing unusual.]
[Pause. Silence.]
"You're next."
Valeria froze. That couldn't be… That voice wasn't hers.
She replayed it. Same sequence. Same whisper:
> "You're next."
The recording continued after, as if nothing had happened.
There was no logical explanation. No one else had been in the room. And yet, the warning was there—spoken just after she found the number.
She sat down, the floor seeming to fall away beneath her.
Was it a pre-recorded message? Or something else?
Her eyes darted to the wall of evidence. The previous victims. The numbers.
And then she saw it.
Each of them had vanished exactly 9 days after their number appeared.
Valeria looked at the calendar.
Day 1.