The rain had slowed, but thunder still rolled across the city skies as Detective Monroe, Amanda, Shawn, and Elias stood in the shadowed shop. The old building creaked and groaned like it was holding its breath. Midnight was minutes away.
The circle had been drawn with ancient care: sea salt, ash, and threads from Mira's scarf forming its boundary. Inside the circle lay three objects—Mira's hand-drawn picture of her family, the cursed parchment, and the porcelain doll with its unnerving smile.
"This is where the veil is thinnest," Elias whispered. "This is where she'll be forced to listen."
Monroe held out a match. "Light the circle," she said.
Amanda struck the match with trembling fingers. The salt caught flame not with fire, but with white light—ghostly and silent. A wind rose from nowhere, rattling the windows and slamming the shop door shut behind them.
The world shivered.
They didn't just see the room warp—they felt it. Their bodies shifted like they were being pushed through liquid glass. Time splintered, color drained, and the air became syrupy.
When it stopped, they were no longer in the shop.
They stood in an endless hallway lined with mirrors.
Each one held reflections that weren't theirs.
Dolls. Children. Cracked faces.
And at the far end of the hall—a glow.
A girl.
Mira.
Shawn stepped forward, his voice cracking. "Mira!"
She turned, eyes wide, frozen in disbelief. Her mouth moved but no sound came.
Then a shape moved between them.
The Collector.
Her true form was grotesque: skin like wilted parchment, eyes sunken and void of light, her long bony fingers curved like thorns. She wore a dress made of doll parts—lace and porcelain sewn together with hair.
Monroe stepped between the Collector and Mira.
"We've come for her," she said coldly.
The Collector bared her teeth. "You've come to die in her place."
And the mirrors began to shatter.