The flickering desk lamp cast long shadows across the scattered sketches and case files. The air in the precinct was heavy, the hum of inactive holo-screens the only sound in the quiet midnight hour.

  Lance sat alone in the evidence room, his fingers running over the frayed edges of Eleanor Vance’s artwork.

  Something wasn’t right.

  The way the victims died, the lack of a tangible killer, the sudden spikes in suicides with no physical connection.

  But the paintings.

  They told a story.

  He flipped through the worn sketches, eyes tracing the strokes of desperation, fear, and revelation.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Then he stopped.

  A figure—painted in dark oils, its form resembling an angel, a savior. But its wings were breaking apart, morphing into something twisted. The eyes were hollow. The mouth—once gentle—stretched into a silent scream.

  It was transcending.

  Falling from grace.

  Turning into something else.

  Something not human.

  Lance leaned in, fingers brushing against the thick layers of paint, and that’s when he noticed it.

  A smudge.

  Not a mistake. A cover-up.

  His heart pounded as he grabbed a small scalpel from the evidence table. Carefully, he scraped away the top layer of paint.

  Flakes fell away, revealing something beneath the surface.

  At first, it seemed abstract—just lines, meaningless curves.

  But then…

  Lance flipped the page upside down.

  The lines aligned, forming something recognizable.

  An emblem.

  His pulse slowed.

  The logo was familiar—etched into corporate banners, printed on sleek office walls, embedded in official documentation.

  The emblem of the Apex Mental Health Initiative.

  The same company that ran the suicide hotline.

  Lance’s chest tightened.