Chapter 6: Threads of the Living
The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, but it couldn't drown out the tremor in Luna's voice.
"John…" she whispered, clutching her temples. "Something's… wrong. I saw something. I felt pain."
John turned sharply from the whiteboard he'd been scribbling theories on in his office. The precinct had cleared out for the evening. Only a few tired officers loitered near the back, nursing coffee like lifelines. But Luna—visible only to him—was practically glowing under the light. Her edges shimmered with instability, like she was caught between static and mist.
"Where?" he asked, stepping closer. "What did you see?"
She gritted her teeth. "It was dark. Cold. I think it was a hospital… but wrong. It smelled like bleach and—" she gagged, "—something dead. There was… a girl. A ghost. She touched me, and I felt it. My chest, like a fire spreading in slow motion."
John's expression darkened. "Your body's reacting. That pain—it's real. That means you're still tethered. Alive. Somewhere."
Luna blinked at him, unsure if it was hope or terror that flared in her chest. "Then what are we waiting for?"
He glanced around, then leaned in close. "We need a warrant. But I can't just walk up to the captain and say, 'Hey, I think a dead doctor is turning missing people into sculptures in the basement of an abandoned hospital, oh—and also Luna is technically not dead, just in ghost mode.'"
Luna gave a half-laugh, half-sob. "You make it sound so rational."
He grinned briefly, then dropped his voice. "But I have someone I trust."
He grabbed his phone and sent a quick message:
"Need to meet. Urgent. No questions. Bring flashlight. And snacks."
Luna raised a brow. "Snacks?"
"Lollipops only go so far."
Just then, the air in the room shifted. Cold again. Like someone had opened a freezer and forgotten to shut it.
Luna turned slowly.
A girl stood behind her—translucent, thin, hair dripping wet like she'd just climbed out of a river. Her dress was torn. Her eyes were hollow.
John felt it too. He reached for his flashlight out of instinct, even though it wouldn't help.
Luna took a hesitant step forward.
"Do you know him?" she whispered.
The ghost didn't speak. But her lips moved.
"The Sculptor."
Luna gasped. Her eyes widened, and suddenly the precinct disappeared—replaced by a warped vision.
She was there.
In Voss's lair.
Rust-stained tiles. The smell of formaldehyde. The cold, unholy stillness of death wrapped in surgical precision.
She saw her own body—lying motionless on a cot. IV drip. Monitors. A leather chair beside her. A locker labeled "Luna."
And standing over it—
Voss.
His back was turned, but she saw the scalpel in his hand. The way he adjusted the lights like he was prepping for a performance.
She screamed.
The vision snapped.
Back in the precinct, she fell to her knees, gasping.
John rushed to her, even though his hands passed through her like smoke.
"I saw it," she croaked. "I saw my body, John. He's prepping it. There's… another corpse. One that looks like me."
John paled.
"He's going to swap you out. Make the world think you're dead."
A door slammed behind them.
"Okay," a voice said. "What the hell is going on?"
Detective Riley entered—John's old partner. Her eyes scanned the scene. She couldn't see Luna, but she saw John's panic, the tension in his body.
"Did you bring the flashlight?" John asked calmly.
"And snacks," she deadpanned, holding up a bag of sour worms.
"I'm going to tell you something absolutely insane," he said, pulling her into his office and locking the door.
Riley listened as he laid it all out. Voss. The coma patients. The body swaps. Luna's visions. The ghosts.
She didn't speak for a long moment.
Finally, she looked at him and said, "Are you high?"
Luna scowled. "Rude."
John smiled grimly. "No. But I wish I were."
He slid over the evidence—cases that didn't add up, missing persons with conflicting autopsies, old newspaper clippings about Voss. It was insane. But somehow, it fit.
"This is beyond cold case," Riley murmured. "This is…"
"A living nightmare," John finished. "I need your help. I think Luna has days—maybe hours—before he destroys the body."
Riley stared at the photo of Voss, the lines of red thread connecting victims like constellations.
"Okay," she said. "Then we bring him into the light."