Soft classical music played in the background as Alexia stood before her latest canvas, lost in the steady rhythm of her brushstrokes.

The dim glow from the studio’s overhead lights bathed the room in a warm hue, reflecting off the array of paintings lining the walls. Each piece held its own intensity, but the one she worked on now—bold strokes of crimson slashing across a muted backdrop—felt different.

A knock at the open door made her pause.

Ava stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes scanning the studio with quiet appreciation, before settling on Alexia. “Impressive.”

Alexia set down her brush, wiping her hands on a rag. “That’s one word for it.”

Ava stepped inside, moving with ease through the space. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For remembering. For putting that piece together.” Ava’s gaze turned to the half-finished painting. “That name—Marla Richards. It’s our first real thread in a tangled mess. It means something.”

Alexia let out a breath, leaning against the table. “I don’t know her well. She was just another neighbor, another face in passing.” She hesitated, then added, “But I did notice something about her.”

Ava nodded, urging her to continue.

“She spent a lot of time talking to Kelton Rioz, the landlord. Not in the usual ‘tenant complaining to management’ way. More… private. Hushed conversations in the hall, just out of earshot.”

Ava processed this, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. “And you think he’s connected?”

Alexia exhaled. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But now?” She met Ava’s gaze. “I think I’d be stupid not to.”

Ava’s expression was unreadable, but something—satisfaction, maybe—crossed her face. “That’s exactly the kind of detail I needed.”

Alexia smirked slightly. “So, I’m officially useful now?”

Ava’s lips twitched. “You’ve been useful. Now you’re just more involved than you probably wanted to be.”

Alexia shrugged, but there was no denying the weight of it. “Story of my life.”

Ava leaned against the table beside her, gaze fixed on the painting. “Your work—what does this one mean?”

Alexia hesitated before speaking. “Frustration. Chaos. Not knowing what’s coming next.” She gestured vaguely. “It’s unfinished.”

Ava glanced at her. “Like this situation.”

Alexia met her eyes, a knowing look passing between them. “Exactly.”

Ava straightened, a thoughtful expression settling over her. “I’ll be looking into Marla and Kelton first thing in the morning. If they’re tied to something bigger, we’ll know soon enough.”

Alexia nodded, but something still nagged at her. “And if they disappear?”

Ava’s gaze darkened slightly. “Then we find out who erased them.”

A moment of silence passed before Alexia spoke again. “You think we’re in deeper than we realize, don’t you?”

Ava didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked at the painting again.

Then, finally… “I think we’ve only scratched the surface.”

Alexia swallowed, the weight of those words settled in.

Ava turned toward the door. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

Alexia watched her go, then turned back to the canvas.

She picked up her brush, and with slow, deliberate strokes, continued painting.

Ben, Harris, Steven, and Jacob stood outside the rundown apartment building, scanning the dimly lit entrance. The building smelled of dust, stale air, and faint traces of cigarette smoke—like a place that held secrets in its walls.

The new landlord, Roger Stamp, a wiry man with thinning hair and a nervous tick in his left eye, stood with his arms crossed. His expression was carefully neutral, but Ben caught the way his fingers twitched slightly against his sleeve.

“They moved out three days ago,” Roger said. His voice was casual, too casual. Too convenient.

“Did they leave a forwarding address?” Harris asked, pulling out a small notepad. Roger gave a slow shake of his head. “Nope. Cleaned out the place. Didn’t say where they were going.”

Ben exchanged a glance with Steven. This wasn’t adding up. People like Marla and Kelton don’t just disappear unless…

Jacob stepped closer, his tone edged with suspicion. “You’re sure you didn’t see anyone unusual hanging around before they left? No one meeting them?”

Roger scratched his chin, glancing toward the stairwell as if debating how much to say.

“Look… I mind my business. But a couple nights before they took off, I saw a black SUV parked outside. Tinted windows. Sat there for hours, engine running. No one got out. Next morning? Marla and Kelton were gone.”

Ben’s fingers tightened into a fist. They didn’t just leave… they were extracted.

“Anyone else know them?” Steven pressed. “Neighbors?”

Roger snorted. “Most people keep to themselves here. But if you’re looking for more dirt, you won’t find it in my building. I bought this place legit. Whatever trouble they were in? Ain’t my problem.”

Ben exhaled sharply, weighing their next move. This wasn’t just a dead end—it was a message. Someone was one step ahead.

One hour later, at the estate, Ava sat at her desk, multiple screens glowing as she ran search after search. “No leases. No tax records. No traffic cams. Marla Richards and Kelton Rioz might as well have never existed.”

She clicked through yet another database, frustration tightening her shoulders.

“They didn’t vanish,” she hissed. “They’re somewhere. We just don’t know where—yet.”  

Ben exhaled, nodding. “Then we find them.”

And this time, they wouldn’t just be chasing shadows.

The evening air carried a faint chill, filtering through the open windows of the studio. The scent of fresh paint mixed with the subtle warmth of dim lighting, casting long shadows across the walls.

Alexia stood in front of her easel, her gaze fixed on the last strokes of her seventh and last piece. The collection was complete.

She exhaled slowly, stepping back to take it all in. Six paintings with the first one already at the gallery waiting on these six to complete the set. Seven truths. Each one was an unfiltered reflection of her journey so far.

A quiet knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. She turned just as Elliot stepped inside.

He didn’t speak right away, his eyes scanning the paintings before finally settling on her. “I knew you’d finish it tonight,” he said, his voice low.

Alexia smirked. “That predictable, huh?”

Elliot stepped closer, hands in his pockets. “Not predictable. Just inevitable.”

She turned back to the painting, her arms crossing. “It’s done.”

He moved beside her, taking in the entire series—the raw emotion in each stroke, the unspoken stories embedded in the colors. “They deserve a showing.”

She scoffed. “You’ve already arranged it.”

Elliot didn’t deny it. “Because they deserve to be seen.”

Alexia’s fingers curled slightly against her arm. “This wasn’t supposed to be for the world. It was for me.”

Elliot studied her, reading beyond the words. “That’s why it matters.”

Silence settled between them, thick with something unspoken.

Elliot reached out, his fingers grazing the edge of the canvas. “This one—what does it mean?”

Alexia hesitated. “It’s the moment before something breaks. The edge of knowing.”

“And do you know now?”

She exhaled. “Not yet.”

A pause.

Then he stepped in closer, his presence brushing against hers. “You will.”

Alexia’s pulse quickened, but she didn’t step away. His gaze dropped to her lips, and for a moment, the air shifted—charged, waiting.

Then, before she could process it, his mouth was on hers. A slow, deliberate kiss that stole the breath from her lungs. It wasn’t rushed or demanding—just steady, like he was waiting for her to catch up.

Alexia froze for half a second, then pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “Elliot…”

He smirked. “Not in the mood?”

She swallowed, the war between hesitation and desire flashing across her face. “No.”

His smirk deepened. “Really?”

And then he kissed her again.

This time, she didn’t pull away.

The brush in her hand slipped to the floor, forgotten.

The air between them thickened, charged with something undeniable. Alexia could still feel the weight of Elliot’s kiss, the warmth lingering against her lips even as she took a step back.

Elliot watched her, his sharp gaze locked onto hers, reading everything she wasn’t saying. He had always been able to do that—see beyond the walls she put up.

Alexia pressed her fingers to her temple, grounding herself. “This… isn’t what I need right now.”

Elliot’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk appearing, but there was something different in his eyes. Something deeper. “Are you sure about that?”

She exhaled sharply. “Elliot—”

He stepped forward, closing the distance again, but slower this time. Measured. Controlled. His voice dipped quieter but no less intense. “Tell me to stop.”

Alexia’s breath caught in her throat. She should say it. Push him away. But the words never came.

Instead, Elliot’s fingers brushed against her wrist, the smallest touch, but it sent a shiver racing up her spine.

“You’re overthinking,” he murmured.

“I always think,” she countered.

Elliot’s lips curved into a knowing smirk. “And I always win.”

Her pulse jumped, frustration in her eyes. “This isn’t a game.”

“I never said it was.”

His fingers trailed up her arm, slow, deliberate. Alexia sucked in a breath. He wasn’t pushing—just waiting. Giving her the chance to pull away.

She didn’t.

“Damn it, Elliot.”

Elliot looked at her until their eyes met. “Still not in the mood?”

Alexia’s resolve wavered, her body betraying her even as her mind screamed at her to keep control.

“I hate you,” she whispered, though there was no venom in her voice.

Elliot’s smirk widened. “I know.”

And then, with the slightest tilt of his head, he kissed her again.

This time, she didn’t fight his warmth and hunger for her.

Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer. The tension that had been simmering finally boiled over, and Alexia let herself stop thinking.

“Hmm, I…”

Elliot stopped her words by putting his fingers on her lips then picked her up and carried her to his bed at the other end of the mansion. She didn’t resist.

For just this moment. The world outside could wait.

The truth is… right now… this was the only thing that…