I unlocked the door and we stepped into the quiet room, the smell of turpentine welcoming us.

Suddenly, my phone on the wooden counter vibrated, the screen lighting up.

It was an unknown number, displaying a short video file.

I clicked play, and my heart stopped.

The video showed the street outside my studio, filmed from a parked car across the road.

A text message appeared beneath the video link.

*The game is not over just because Harrison is in a cell.*

At the same instant, a loud, metallic click sounded from the lock of the back door.

Jonathan grabbed my arm and pulled me behind his shoulder.

His grip was tight, his knuckles turning white under the dim studio light.

I held my breath, my eyes locked on the wooden door at the back of the room.

The metal handle turned slowly, squeaking against the old brass plate.

Jonathan reached down and gripped a heavy iron clamp from my worktable.

“Stay back, Mariana,” he whispered.

The door swung inward, letting in a gust of cold, damp night air.