Anya Petrova
"It wasn't the blood that startled me, you see; it was the absence of it in the mirror."
Rain lashed against the big windows of the penthouse, sounding like the fast beating of Anya Petrova's heart.
She stood before the shattered remnants of her reflection, each shard a distorted echo of the life she thought she knew.
The man lying at her feet, his eyes wide with a terror that transcended death, should have painted the clean white carpet red with blood.
But there was nothing. No blood, no struggle, no sign of the violent end he'd met just moments before.
Anya's hand, still clutching the ornate, silver letter opener, trembled. It was cold, heavy, and undeniably the instrument that killed him. She stared at her reflection, or rather, the lack thereof. Her dark hair, usually a cascade of controlled elegance, was now a tangled mess framing a face pale with shock. Her emerald eyes, often pools of calm intelligence, were wide with a dawning horror that threatened to consume her.
The man on the floor was Damien Thorne, a name whispered quietly in the elite circles she navigated. A name synonymous with power, wealth, and a ruthlessness that chilled even the most hardened souls. He had been a guest at her annual masquerade ball, a lavish affair thrown to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday. A night meant for champagne, glittering gowns, and carefully orchestrated alliances. It had become a scene of silent chaos.
Anya remembered the moments leading up to this. The press of the crowd, the clinking of glasses, Damien's intense gaze as he'd pulled her aside, his voice a low, seductive murmur that usually sent shivers of pleasure down her spine. Tonight, though, it had felt like a viper's hiss. He had spoken of secrets, of a debt owed, of a power she didn't know she possessed. Then, his hand had snaked out, his grip tightening on her wrist like a vise.
Fear, raw and primal, had surged through her. She had reacted without thinking, grabbing the nearest object – the letter opener from a nearby antique desk – and... and now he was dead. But where was the blood?
The sound of the elevator doors sliding open shattered the silence. Anya's head snapped up, her heart leaping into her throat. Footsteps echoed in the long hallway, growing louder with each second. She had to move. Panic, sharp and insistent, clawed at her. There was no time to think, no time to process. She was trapped in a nightmare, and the monster was closing in.
With a surge of adrenaline, she dropped the letter opener, the metallic sound swallowed by the pounding rain. She grabbed a nearby candelabra, its heavy base feeling solid and real in her trembling hands. It was a poor weapon, but it was better than nothing. She backed away from the body, her eyes fixed on the hallway, waiting, praying, for whatever was about to come.
The first person to emerge from the elevator was Detective Miles Corbin. He was not what Anya expected. She had envisioned burly men in uniform, their faces grim and accusatory. Instead, she was confronted with a man who looked more like a weary professor than a seasoned detective. He was tall and lean, with a shock of unruly brown hair that seemed perpetually at odds with his sharp, intelligent eyes. He wore a rumpled trench coat, despite the fact that he was inside, and carried himself with an air of quiet observation.
Behind him, two uniformed officers followed, their expressions a mixture of apprehension and grim duty. Anya's grip tightened on the candelabra. She was cornered.
"Ms. Petrova?" Detective Corbin's voice was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the chaos of the scene. "I'm Detective Corbin. We received a call about… a disturbance." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the shattered mirror, the body on the floor, and finally settling on Anya. He raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "This… this isn't quite what I expected."
Anya's voice was a mere whisper, barely audible above the storm. "I… I didn't…"
"Didn't what, Ms. Petrova?" Corbin asked, taking a step closer. "Didn't expect us? Or didn't expect this?" He gestured vaguely at the scene, his eyes lingering on the lack of blood.
Anya opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. How could she explain what had happened when she didn't understand it herself? How could she describe the impossible, the absence of what should have been there?
Corbin watched her, his gaze intense, probing. He seemed to see past her fear, past the surface, to something deeper, something more complex. He wasn't accusing her, not yet, but there was a wariness in his eyes, a sense that he knew this was more than a simple case of murder.
"Perhaps," he said, his voice still soft, "it would be best if you started from the beginning." He gestured to a nearby chaise lounge.
"Please, sit down, Ms. Petrova. Take a deep breath. And tell me… everything."
Anya lowered the candelabra, her arm trembling with exhaustion and fear. She looked at the dead man one last time, a chill running down her spine. The absence of blood was a riddle, a terrifying anomaly that defied all logic. And she knew, with a chilling certainty, that it was just the beginning.