Chapter 20 – The one who looks inside

The darkest hour is just before sunrise.

Maya repeats the phrase to herself like a mantra, though she can no longer remember who said it. Was it a philosopher, a writer, or just an old saying that had passed through the ages? She doesn’t know, but the thought clings to her mind like a fragile glimmer of hope, a thin thread she grips onto in the suffocating depths of this night. Motionless, she stares at a pale beam of moonlight cutting a luminous rectangle onto the wall in front of her—the only sliver of brightness in the oppressive darkness.

She forces herself to close her eyes for a moment as Hugo brushes against her again. His fingers glide slowly through her hair, methodical, almost delicate, as if savoring each movement. The contrast between this horribly calculated gentleness and the violence she knows he is capable of unleashing feels like its own form of torture. The gap between these two realities is an abyss she cannot bridge.

She can smell the blood. The metallic scent clings to him, saturating every shift, every minute movement he makes. Then, the stolen pictures of Sara flash through her mind in uncontrollable bursts, her thoughts scrambling to escape these fragments of horror, to resist imagining the worst of what could happen.

Instinctively, Maya takes mental stock of herself. Her clothes seem intact, her body unviolated. Hugo has done nothing but keep her captive, holding her on his lap like a fragile doll, her head resting against his thighs. But that doesn’t make her position any less unbearable. She remains there, completely vulnerable, and every slow caress he runs through her hair is a psychological torment, a way to break her more surely than with brute force.

Hugo murmurs, his voice laced with a smirk—mocking, almost childish.

“Ooooh, are you giving me the silent treatment? Pouting, are we? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for this moment?”

Maya clenches her jaw, forcing herself to remain silent, to give him nothing.

“Hugo’s grave… ah, that would’ve been such a… pure moment,” he sighs in satisfaction, as if speaking more to himself than to her.

The weight of his words presses down on her, but Maya refuses to give him a reaction. Her gaze stays fixed on that moonbeam, on that single point on the wall. She counts the seconds, the minutes, hoping that whatever he made her inhale will eventually wear off.

She tests her body, millimeter by millimeter. First her toes—she can move them slightly beneath his weight—then her fingers, trembling just enough to be perceptible. Subtle, but enough to reignite a spark of determination within her. She can move. She can regain control. Not now, but soon.

Patience. Stay calm. Think.

She orders herself not to give in to panic. Pride—Hugo is far too confident, far too sure that he holds the upper hand. That could be his weakness. And he is not alone: Jimmy could regain control. He had said that Hugo was forcing him to watch, which means he is here, trapped in the same torment as she is. If she can reach him… Yes. But first, she must not make Hugo angry.

He lets his fingers slide from her hair to her face, tracing a slow line along her cheek. The sensation sends a shiver of disgust through her, but she keeps her muscles tense, her eyelids half-closed, feigning a resignation she does not feel. His voice—soft, almost caressing—brushes against her ear like a serpent hissing its poisoned truths.

“You’re not saying anything? Don’t leave me calling out to you with no response again… I won’t like that.”

Maya’s throat tightens despite herself. The tension in her muscles grows painful, but she forces herself to remain still, not to betray her thoughts. Let him talk. Let his arrogance take over. He will lower his guard eventually.

“Ah… You’re still upset about your friends… But it was necessary, you know?”

Hugo slowly adjusts her position on his lap, his dark, unreadable gaze fixed on her—at once a puzzle to solve and a masterpiece to admire. His drawling voice rises in the silence she imposes, filling the air with an almost hypnotic intensity. He begins to speak, each word heavy with implacable conviction, laced with icy disdain.

“You want to know why, don’t you? Why I do what I do, why all of this is necessary.”

His hand brushes her cheek once more, the gesture almost affectionate, but Maya can feel the underlying tension in his touch, a dehumanizing coldness.

“Look at them. Look at humanity. All these pathetic creatures, crawling through the filth they created themselves. Incapable of bearing the weight of their own existence, reduced to begging, desperately clinging to a worthless life, willing to sacrifice everything for a few scraps of attention, fame, wealth… So pathetic.”

He pauses, his gaze drifting for a moment into silent contemplation, as if seeing something far beyond the room—something Maya cannot.

“Me? I’m merely correcting the mistake. Pruning the dead branches, cleansing the ashes left behind by a degenerate humanity. This world is diseased, rotting with complacency, weakness, chaos. But I see things for what they are. I see the truth.”

His voice lowers, growing more intimate, as if he is sharing an ancient and forbidden secret.

“They don’t deserve what they have. They pollute the natural order, clutter the earth with their mistakes, their useless suffering. Balance must be restored.”

His fingers slide along her lips, and Maya fights not to flinch, not to show the revulsion rising within her. She can feel that she’s regaining some movement, but is it enough?

Hugo leans in slightly, his face so close that she can feel his breath against her skin, heavy with the cloying, metallic scent of blood and death. The world tilts around her, every motion amplifying the numbness in her limbs and the crushing weight of her fear. He holds her firmly, his ragged breath grazing her cheek as his lips draw closer to hers. Her heart pounds wildly, panic steadily replacing paralysis. But just as his lips are about to brush against hers, a spark of desperate defiance gives her the strength to act.

With a violent jerk, she wrenches herself to the side, breaking free from his grip.

Her body crashes to the floor between the couch and the coffee table, a dull thud echoing through the room. A sharp pain lances through her shoulder and side, but survival instinct takes over. She gasps for air, the metallic taste of adrenaline flooding her mouth, and forces herself to move. Her legs remain weak, her muscles tremble, but she manages to push herself upright, stumbling unsteadily until her back collides with the cold wall. She leans against it, grasping for stability, her eyes locked on Hugo.

He rises slowly from the couch, watching her with amusement, entertained by her desperate struggle. A cruel smile tugs at his lips, and his dark eyes gleam with dangerous delight. He doesn’t move right away—he’s savoring the moment, as if he already knows that despite her attempt to escape, she won’t get far.

“Still playing hard to get, Maya?” he murmurs, his voice dripping with mock sweetness, laced with chilling amusement.

Maya straightens slightly, pressing her back against the wall, her trembling hands clenching into fists. She searches for a way out, her gaze flicking briefly toward the door on the other side of the room. But even if she could run, Hugo stands between her and the only exit, his relaxed posture betraying the undeniable threat beneath.

“I won’t help you!” she spits through gritted teeth, her voice shaking with defiant fury.

Hugo laughs—a cold, mocking sound that echoes in the confined space. He steps forward at a deliberate pace, his movements calculated, each one designed to keep her under his control. He stops just a few feet from her, pinning her with an oppressive stare.

“That’s only because you don’t remember what you are,” he replies, tilting his head slightly, his smile darkening into something almost menacing. “And we’ll have to fix that.”

Maya shakes her head, desperately searching for an escape, but her numb legs refuse to cooperate. Hugo steps closer still, closing the distance between them, and she feels the wave of panic surge higher.

“No! No! Jimmy! Jimmy, take control!” she screams, her voice raw and desperate, echoing through the room.

But Hugo, suddenly exasperated, grabs her arm in a harsh, abrupt motion, his fingers digging into her skin. He yanks her toward him, and despite her frantic attempts to struggle, she is powerless against his strength. His hand clamps around the back of her neck, his fingers ice-cold against her flesh, and he drags her effortlessly toward the couch.

“Ooooh, he can hear and see,” he sneers, his voice laced with venomous satisfaction. “But he won’t be of any help to you.”

“Jimmy!” she cries again, her voice cracking under the strain.

Hugo stops, and his expression shifts in an instant. His eyes darken, jealousy flickering in their depths like a growing flame. His lips curl into a grimace of barely contained fury.

“Enough!” he growls, his voice like a clap of thunder.

He forces her to look at him, his grip on her neck tightening. In his eyes, Maya sees a wrath she had hoped to avoid. She has failed to keep from provoking him.

“We don’t need him,” he spits, his voice thick with disdain. “And soon, we won’t need him at all.”

With a violent shove, he throws her onto the couch, forcing her into a half-kneeling position. Before she can protest, he pins her in place, positioning her directly in front of the massive mirror mounted above the furniture. His fingers tighten around her neck, preventing her from looking away.

“Look!” he roars, his voice thundering in her ear.

In the mirror, Maya sees her own reflection—her face streaked with tears, her expression twisted with terror. She realizes she’s crying without even knowing when it began. Behind her, Hugo leans in, pressing his face against hers, their cheeks touching. His cruel smile is a stark contrast to the sheer horror contorting Maya’s features.

“Look at yourself, Maya,” he murmurs, his voice soft again, almost tender. “Look at what you are. What you will become.”

Maya squeezes her eyes shut, desperately trying to escape reality, but Hugo’s grip tightens.

“You can’t run. Not this time.”

He forces her to meet her own gaze, to stare into the terrified blue of her own irises—a merciless reflection of the panic consuming her. But the longer she stares, the more something begins to shift. Her fear-stricken face slowly changes, softening. A strange, almost impossible transformation takes place: the reflection no longer mirrors what she feels. Instead of terror, her mirrored self displays an eerie calm, a serene contemplation—as if it is waiting. For something.

As if it is no longer her looking back, but a different version of herself. Something deeper.

Hugo’s grip remains firm on her neck, his frozen fingers trapping her in place. He leans in closer, his voice slithering through her like silk and steel.

“You are the one I have been searching for all this time…”

His lips brush against her skin as he tilts his head slightly, nestling into the hollow of her neck with a venomous tenderness.

“You are the one who looks within. So look!”

His words ring out like a command impossible to ignore.

In the mirror, Maya’s reflection slowly closes its eyes—a deliberate, almost solemn gesture. The reflection takes a deep breath, a peaceful inhale that seems to beckon Maya to do the same. Against her will, she feels her own body following the motion, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. She inhales in turn, a breath that seems to fill her deeper than she ever thought possible, as if her lungs are opening for the very first time.

And suddenly, the pressure on her neck vanishes. The oppressive warmth of Hugo’s face against hers dissolves. A strange coldness washes over her, and she opens her eyes.

But what she sees in the mirror sends her spiraling into abyssal confusion.

The reflection that faced her just moments ago is gone. Once again, she sees her own face, twisted by fear, tears carving glistening trails down her cheeks. And pressed against her, nestled into the crook of her neck, is Hugo—his arms wrapped around her like a possessive lover.

She recoils instinctively, desperate to escape this vision, but when she turns on herself—

There is no one.

She is alone.

The living room around her appears empty, frozen in a silence so absolute it becomes deafening. Each heartbeat pounds in her ears. She hears everything: the flow of her blood, the wet sound of her breathing, even the faint, subtle gurgles of her stomach digesting. The internal symphony of her own body, usually imperceptible, engulfs her. The entire world seems to have withdrawn, leaving only this crushing silence and the relentless mechanics of her own existence.

Then, within this absence of sound, a melody rises softly. A gentle voice hums a familiar lullaby—something she hasn’t heard in years, a relic of her childhood.

Maya remains motionless for a moment, her mind scrambling to piece together the blurred memories emerging from the tune. Slowly, she steps toward the living room door. Her movements feel sluggish, each step weighed down by a strange sense of unreality, like walking through a dream where time stretches and warps.

Her trembling fingers graze the handle, and she cautiously pushes the door open.

On the other side, she finds her childhood bedroom. The faded wallpaper adorned with innocent patterns, her toys scattered across the floor—Polly Pockets, an unfinished Kapla tower—everything is exactly as she remembers it.

A shiver runs down her spine.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, an old woman hums softly. On her lap, a little girl curls up against her, face buried in the crook of her shoulder, silently weeping. Maya remains frozen, the scene unfolding before her like a living memory.

She knows this woman. She knows this child.

“Granny…” she murmurs, her voice breaking with emotion.

The old woman lifts her gaze, her face filled with infinite tenderness. She gently strokes the back of the little girl crying in her arms, still humming the soothing melody.

“It’s going to be alright, Maya,” she finally says, her voice soft and comforting. “Your daddy is in heaven now. He will watch over you for the rest of your life.”

Maya feels a lump form in her throat. She remembers. This scene, etched deep in her memory, belongs to a moment in her life she had buried long ago. She had been so young when her father died, a victim of a car accident. Her grandmother, her father’s mother, had come to live with her and her mother to help them through the pain.

Heart tight, Maya watches her grandmother sitting at the edge of the bed, reaching out her wrinkled hands toward the little girl clinging to her. Her movements are slow, filled with infinite gentleness. Carefully, she cups the child’s round face, her thumbs brushing away the tears streaking her cheeks.

“My darling… there is something very important I need to tell you. It’s really, really important.”

Little Maya, her eyes red and swollen from crying, lifts her head, lips trembling, searching for solace in that familiar gaze.

“Normally, it would have been your daddy who explained all of this to you… when you were older, and he… very old.”

The grandmother pauses, one hand still resting on the child’s cheek, the other gently rubbing her back. She sighs softly, as if searching for the right words.

“My little darling… Granny is going to heaven very soon too, you know?”

“No… no!” the little girl whimpers, shaking her head fiercely, her tiny hands clutching her grandmother’s sweater as if trying to hold her there forever.

“I know, my sweetheart… I know,” she replies with endless tenderness. “But listen to me carefully.”

Her voice lowers, steadier now, as if she wants to engrave each word into the child’s memory.

“When Granny goes to heaven, you will inherit something very important—something that has been in our family for a very long time.”

The little girl lifts her gaze, confusion flickering in her tear-filled eyes, uncertain of what her grandmother means.

“My father had it before me… and his mother before him. It’s a gift, Maya. A very important gift. Your father should have received it before you. But now, it’s you. You’re the one who must decide what you want to do with it.”

Memories flood into the mind of adult Maya, watching the scene unfold from this strange darkness. Her hands tighten over her stomach, as if trying to contain a pain she thought had long disappeared. She had forgotten these words—or rather, she had buried them so deeply that they felt almost unreal, a memory invented by a desperate little girl who only wanted to see her father again.

In the memory, her grandmother continues after a moment of reflection.

“Sometimes, you will see and hear things that others cannot see or hear. Things that, at times, will frighten you… or make you very sad. But you will have a choice, my darling. You can choose to see and listen. Even to respond. Or, you can choose to ignore them. That is what your great-grandmother decided to do… and what your father wanted to do.”

Her voice trembles slightly, as if the words she is about to say weigh heavily on her.

“If you ignore them long enough, you may even stop sensing them altogether. And whatever you decide, you must never, ever blame yourself. It’s a choice, my darling. It’s your choice. But…”

She pauses, placing a hand on little Maya’s cheek to make her lift her head.

“But remember one thing. One very important thing.”

At that moment, the memory begins to shift. The light in the room dims softly, like a theater spotlight closing in on a scene. The walls of the bedroom fade into shadow, leaving only the grandmother and little Maya in a pool of light, suspended in a space that feels outside of time.

Then, suddenly, another light flares to life—harsh and cold—shattering the darkness. Maya instinctively turns, and the scene collapses.

She is standing in the lobby of the Sea View Hotel, the dim glow of an old lamp struggling to illuminate the worn walls.

In front of her, Jimmy stands behind the counter, a boyish smile playing on his lips.

“I do this comedy character called Hugo Punch,” he begins proudly. “He’s sort of this comedic sociopath, says things that you’re not supposed to say and that sort of thing. It’s quite popular with students.”

Maya takes a step back, her heart pounding. Impossible. This already happened. It’s just a memory. A bad dream. She can’t be back here.

“No…”

Jimmy tilts his head slightly, his smile stretching into something more predatory.

“You’re sure I can’t… twist your arm on this?”

Time seems to stop. The noise fades away again, leaving only Jimmy, his gaze locked onto hers, as if he’s searching for something deep inside her.

And in that gaze, Maya senses something else. Another presence. Another consciousness.

Hugo.

She closes her eyes, but her grandmother’s voice echoes once more in her memory, clear and relentless.

“If you look into the darkness… If you look long enough… you’ll notice that something looks back at you.”

She has looked for too long, and now the darkness has seen her in return.

Maya slowly opens her eyes, but the figure of Jimmy—of Hugo—is gone. In their place, a glacial shock freezes her in place: her own reflection stands before her. Not just an image in a mirror, but a presence, a perfect double of herself, down to the smallest detail. The reflection stares at her with an intensity that seems to root her to the ground.

The deep, distant voice of Inspector Jenks surfaces from her memory.

“During that investigation, I met a young woman, Lisa Blint. She was barely a few years older than you. She looked like you—her hair, her eyes. You remind me of her a lot.”

The reflection doesn’t move. Its expression remains unchanged, but its eyes glimmer with a foreign intelligence. Maya, unable to look away, feels her breath grow shallow. The voice continues, relentless.

“She believed they were… devil worshippers. That they summoned entities and bound them to people. She… she thought they had put a demon inside her. She said she could see it when she looked in mirrors… She was convinced her body no longer belonged to her.”

A chill runs down Maya’s spine, ice-cold, as a wave of panic rises in her throat. Her hands tremble, her entire body feels foreign, disjointed, as if she has suddenly lost all control.

“Do you believe me when I say that sometimes, even I’m afraid to look in a mirror?”

These final words hammer in her mind, forcing upon her a truth she refuses to accept. And yet, every fiber of her being understands. She knows. The thing standing before her is not merely her reflection—it is something else.

Her heart pounds violently as the realization crashes down on her, heavy, suffocating. Hugo was right. Everything he said, everything she refused to believe, was true. She is not alone. She hasn’t been for a very long time.

Something remains inside her, something that watches, that waits. Something that allows her to see and hear the dead.

“You weren’t born with this gift, Maya,” Hugo’s voice sneers in the silence, mocking and terrifying, echoing from everywhere and nowhere. “It was passed on to you, just like I was passed on to Jimmy. So, what do you make of that?”

Maya gasps, her throat tightening as her legs falter beneath her. She wants to scream, to cry, to run—but her body refuses to move. Her own reflection still watches her, unmoving, but with a terrifying intensity, its eyes glowing with an unnatural light.

“No…” Maya whispers, her voice broken, weak.

“You and I… we are the same.”

She clutches her hands to her chest, as if that could make her feel whole, could contain the presence she now senses everywhere.

The one who looks inside.