It started on a stormy night, when rain poured endlessly and the world outside blurred into shadows. Sixteen-year-old Mia woke up with a sharp gasp, her heart racing uncontrollably as she struggled to breathe. The vision had been different this time—too real, too intense. She had seen a man standing in the middle of an empty street, drenched in rain, crying as he held a lifeless woman in his arms. His screams echoed, filled with pain, but his face remained hidden, just like the woman’s. Yet something about her felt disturbingly familiar. Mia sat up, trembling, trying to steady herself. She had always had visions—small flashes of the future—but never like this, never something that felt so deeply connected to her. The next morning, she told her mother everything, her voice still shaking as she described the scene. But her mother simply sighed and brushed it off, telling her she was overthinking and that not every dream or vision had meaning. Mia tried to believe her, tried to move on, but the feeling lingered in the back of her mind. Then, just like that, the vision never came again. Five years passed, and Mia was now a college student studying criminal psychology, a field that strangely felt natural to her. Her life had become normal, and the visions had faded into rare, insignificant moments—until one morning when she woke up with a jolt. The same vision returned: the rain, the empty street, the man crying over the woman’s body. But this time, there was something new—a date written clearly near a board: 21.04.2020. Mia froze as she realized it was still 2019. One year from now. Her chest tightened as fear settled in; this wasn’t just a random vision—it felt like a warning. Days later, her class received an assignment to collect raw psychological data by interviewing real criminals, and a visit to a jail was arranged. Mia was supposed to go with her friends, but at the last moment, she chose to go alone, making up an excuse, as if something inside her was pulling her there. As she entered the jail, the heavy iron gates shut behind her with a loud clang, and the air felt suffocating, filled with an unsettling silence. She handed over her details to the jailer, who told her to wait before walking away. Left alone, Mia’s curiosity took over, and she began walking slowly through the corridor lined with cells, her footsteps echoing against the cold walls. Most of the cells were dimly lit, some completely dark, but she suddenly stopped in front of one—cell number 214. It was darker than the rest, and something about it felt wrong. She stepped closer, her heart pounding, and that’s when she heard it—a voice, low and calm, almost amused, saying, “Finally… after so many years… you can hear me, Mia.” Her breath caught instantly, and she froze in place, her mind going blank as fear crept through her veins. “Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. A soft chuckle echoed from the darkness, sending chills down her spine. Before she could say anything else, footsteps approached from behind, and the jailer returned, making her flinch and step back quickly. He looked at her sternly and asked if he hadn’t told her to stay put. Mia immediately shook her head, apologizing, trying to hide the panic on her face. But as she glanced back at cell 214, there was nothing—only silence, as if no one had spoken at all. Yet deep down, Mia knew one thing for certain: this wasn’t just a vision anymore, it was something real, something connected to her, and somehow, it had been waiting for her all along.

Mia was still staring at the iron plate fixed to the bars—214—when a sharp voice cut through the corridor.

“What are you doing there?”

She turned so quickly that her shoulder brushed against the cold wall. A police officer stood a few feet away, his expression unreadable beneath the dim yellow light. His heavy boots echoed against the concrete as he approached.

“I—I was just looking around,” Mia said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I wasn’t doing anything. I just… noticed this cell.”

The officer’s eyes flicked briefly toward the dark interior of the room before returning to her. Mia hesitated, then asked the question that had been nagging at her ever since she had stopped in front of it.

“Why is this cell numbered 214?” she asked. “All the others in this corridor start with 1. Why is this one different?”

For a moment, the officer said nothing.

The silence stretched just long enough to make Mia regret asking.

Then he looked away and said flatly, “You’re here to interview an inmate, Miss Luther. That’s what matters.”

His answer did nothing to satisfy her, but before she could press further, he gestured for her to follow.

“The prisoner assigned to you is in this cell,” he said. “His name is DAMIAN DARCURS.”

The name settled heavily in the air.

As they walked closer, the officer continued speaking, his tone clipped and professional, but there was something uneasy beneath it—something Mia caught immediately.

“He was brought here in 2017,” the officer said. “He’s accused of killing a man in an exceptionally brutal manner. The victim’s body was mutilated beyond recognition. According to the case file, Damian acted alone.”

Mia’s fingers tightened slightly around her notebook, but she kept walking, listening carefully.

“He has escaped confinement multiple times,” the officer went on. “And every time he escapes, someone ends up dead. The strange part is…” He paused, his jaw hardening. “He always comes back on his own.”

Mia looked at him.

“Comes back?”

The officer nodded once. “No one knows why.”

A chill ran through her.

“The court hasn’t issued a final judgment yet,” he continued. “Some believe he’s suffering from a severe psychological disorder. Others think he’s simply dangerous in ways they don’t understand.”

He stopped in front of the bars.

Mia swallowed and looked into the darkness of the cell again.

The officer reached for the lock.

“As long as you’re in there, I’ll be standing outside,” he said. “If anything feels wrong, you call me immediately. Do you understand?”

Mia nodded.

The lock clicked open with a metallic snap that echoed down the corridor. Then the officer slowly pushed the door inward. It let out a long, rusty groan, the sound sharp enough to make Mia’s skin prickle.

Inside, the cell was dim and suffocatingly still.

A narrow bed was fixed against the far wall. Sitting on it was a man, his head lowered, his posture unnaturally still. His dark hair was long, tied loosely behind him, though several strands had fallen forward around his face. Even from a distance, there was something unsettling about the way he sat—too calm, too motionless, like he had been waiting for this exact moment.

The officer stepped aside slightly and said, “Damian Darcurs.”

The man didn’t move.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t even react.

Only silence answered.

The officer glanced at Mia one last time before stepping back toward the door. “I’ll be right outside.”

Mia took a slow breath and entered the cell.

The air inside felt colder than the corridor, heavier somehow, as if the darkness itself had weight. A metal chair stood near the wall. She pulled it forward carefully, the legs scraping faintly against the floor, then placed it a short distance from him. Not too close.

Just enough to talk.

She sat down, opened her notebook, and forced herself to sound calm.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m **Mia Luther**.”

For the first time, the man moved.

Slowly—far too slowly—Damian raised his head.

And looked straight at her.

Mia’s breath caught.

As a criminal psychology student, she had spent years studying facial expressions, behavioral patterns, emotional detachment, psychopathy, trauma responses. She had trained herself to notice things other people missed.

But nothing in her studies had prepared her for the darkness in Damian Darcurs’s eyes.

It wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t madness.

It was something deeper—something buried so far beneath the surface that it felt less like emotion and more like a secret. Something old. Something watching.

Mia forced herself not to look away.

She straightened slightly and continued, “I’m a criminal psychology student. I’m here to conduct an interview for my research assignment. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright.”

Before she could say another word, Damian spoke.

“Welcome back, Delphi.”

The world seemed to stop.

Mia stared at him, confused. “Pardon?”

For a second, he only looked at her.

Then he laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t wild.

It was worse.

Low, soft, and deeply unsettling—like he knew something she didn’t. Like he had been waiting for her confusion. The sound curled through the room, dark and obsessive, and Mia felt a cold shiver crawl down her spine.

Damian leaned back slightly, his gaze never leaving hers.

“You don’t remember,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Mia gripped her pen harder. “Remember what?”

His lips curved into the faintest smile.

And somehow, that smile frightened her more than his laughter.

“Interesting,” he said softly. “After all this time… you really came back to me with no memory at all.”

Mia lowered her gaze to her notebook, forcing her breathing to steady. Damian’s last words still lingered in the air like smoke, but she pushed the unease aside and straightened in her chair.

If he wanted to unsettle her, she wouldn’t let him see it.

She clicked her pen and looked up again.

“Let’s begin with something simple,” she said, her tone calm and professional. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

His answer came smoothly, almost lazily, as if the question amused him.

Mia wrote it down.

“You’ve been here since 2017,” she continued. “And according to the case reports, you’ve escaped this prison several times. Every time you escaped, someone died. But what doesn’t make sense is this—why did you come back?”

Damian didn’t answer immediately.

He only watched her.

There was something deeply unnerving about the way he did it—not like a man listening to a question, but like someone studying a memory. His gaze moved over her face with quiet intensity, as if he were searching for traces of someone else beneath her skin.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“Because I was waiting for someone.”

Mia’s pen paused.

“Waiting for someone?” she repeated.

A faint smile touched his lips, but it never reached his eyes.

“Next question.”

She ignored the strange pull in her chest and forced herself to move on.

“Tell me about your childhood,” she said. “Your family background. Your relationship with the people who raised you.”

Damian leaned back slightly against the wall behind him, his expression unreadable.

“I was an orphan,” he said. “Later, I was adopted by the DARCURS family.”

Mia nodded for him to continue.

“For three years, I stayed with them. Then I left.”

“Why?”

“Because blood isn’t the only thing that can make a house feel like a prison.”

Mia looked up from her notes.

“And your relationship with them now?”

He gave a soft, humorless laugh.

“I don’t have one.”

She wrote that down carefully, though she could feel there was far more beneath the answer than he was willing to reveal.

“Do you keep in contact with any of them?” she asked.

“No.”

“Do you regret leaving?”

“No.”

The reply came so quickly, so flatly, that it made the silence afterward feel even colder.

Mia turned a page in her notebook.

“When you killed the victim,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “what were you feeling in that moment?”

This time, Damian’s face changed.

Not much. Just enough for Mia to notice.

The amusement vanished. His jaw tightened slightly, and something dark flickered behind his eyes.

“Revenge,” he said.

The word landed between them like a blade.

Mia’s grip on her pen tightened.

“Revenge for what?”

“For what he took from me.”

His voice had gone quieter now, but somehow that made it worse.

“He took someone away from me,” Damian continued, staring straight at her. “Someone precious.”

He paused.

“Not once. Twice.”

A chill spread slowly through Mia’s body.

“I tried to save her every time,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “And every time, I failed. He took her from me anyway.”

Mia swallowed.

“And when I finally got the chance…” His lips curved into something that was almost a smile, but there was no warmth in it. “I killed him.”

For a second, Mia forgot to write.

“Who did he take from you?” she asked quietly.

Damian said nothing.

He simply looked at her.

His gaze was so still, so intense, that it made the small cell feel even smaller.

Mia cleared her throat and tried again, keeping her tone measured.

“What exactly did he take from you that led to the murder?”

Still nothing.

Only that same unbroken stare.

Mia shifted slightly in her chair, suddenly aware of how cold her hands had become. There was something deeply uncomfortable about the way he watched her—like he wasn’t deciding whether to answer, but whether she was ready to hear it.

She looked back down at her notebook and moved to the next question.

“Did you know the victim personally before you killed him?”

“Yes.”

“How long had you known him?”

“Long enough.”

“That’s not very specific.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Mia looked up at him, but Damian’s expression remained maddeningly calm.

She exhaled slowly and tried another angle.

“Did you plan the murder in advance?”

“Yes.”

“So it was premeditated.”

“Yes.”

“No hesitation?”

“No.”

“No guilt afterward?”

Damian tilted his head slightly, as though considering the question.

“Would you feel guilty for killing the man who destroyed the only thing you ever wanted to protect?”

Mia didn’t answer.

She wrote down the response exactly as he said it.

“Do you believe the victim deserved to die?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you believe justice and revenge are the same thing?”

For the first time, something like real interest flashed in Damian’s eyes.

“No,” he said softly. “Justice belongs to the law. Revenge belongs to the one who survives the loss.”

Mia felt her heartbeat stutter at the way he said it.

Not like an opinion.

Like a truth he had lived.

She looked at the next line in her notes.

“When you escaped prison, did you always leave with a specific target in mind?”

“Yes.”

“The people you killed after escaping… were they all connected?”

Damian didn’t answer.

Mia waited.

His silence told her enough.

“They were,” she said quietly.

He smiled again, faint and unreadable.

“You’re good at this, Mia.”

Her name on his lips made her skin prickle.

She ignored it and continued.

“Do you hear voices?”

“No.”

“Do you experience hallucinations?”

“No.”

“Blackouts? Memory loss? Gaps in time?”

At that, Damian’s eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly.

“Not me,” he said.

Mia frowned. “What does that mean?”

But he had already gone silent again.

She stared at him for a moment, then pushed on.

“When you say you were waiting for someone… do you mean a person connected to your past?”

Damian’s gaze darkened.

“Yes.”

“Someone still alive?”

He smiled.

“Yes.”

Mia’s pulse quickened. “Who?”

Damian leaned forward at last, resting his forearms loosely against his knees. The movement was small, but it sent a wave of tension through the room. He was close enough now for Mia to see the shadows beneath his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the strange calmness in his face.

“Do you really want the answer to that question,” he asked softly, “or are you only pretending not to know?”

Mia’s mouth went dry.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Another quiet laugh escaped him.

“No,” Damian murmured. “That’s the problem. You don’t.”

Mia forced herself to stay focused. “Did your crimes ever make you feel powerful?”

“No.”

“Relieved?”

“No.”

“Then what did they make you feel?”

For the first time since the interview had begun, Damian looked away from her.

His eyes drifted toward the narrow window high above the wall, where a thin line of pale light slipped through the bars. When he spoke again, his voice was so low she almost missed it.

“Closer.”

Mia stared at him. “Closer to what?”

He turned back to her.

“To her.”

The room fell silent.

Mia felt the air leave her lungs in a slow, careful breath.

She glanced down at her notebook, pretending to review her questions, but in truth she was trying to steady the sudden unease rising inside her. Every answer he gave only deepened the mystery. Every sentence felt less like an interview and more like a conversation happening one step ahead of her understanding.

Still, she forced herself to continue.

“Did you ever love her?” Mia asked before she could stop herself.

The question hung in the air between them.

For the first time, Damian’s expression shifted into something she couldn’t immediately name. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t surprise.

It was something far more dangerous.

Something raw.

When he answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“I still do.”

Mia’s fingers tightened around the pen.

“And she’s dead?” she asked carefully.

Damian looked at her for a long moment.

Then he smiled—a slow, chilling smile that made the blood drain from her face.

“That,” he said softly, “depends on which lifetime you’re asking about.”