The rain didn't stop. It thickened, as if the city itself were trying to wash something away.
Back at Arthur's apartment, the note from Naomi sat pinned to a corkboard littered with old crime scene photos, train schematics, and names Arthur couldn't forget even if he wanted to. The circle with the jagged line burned in his memory like a scar reopened.
Luke paced behind him, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. "So, either this is a cult symbol, or Naomi had seriously bad taste in doodles."
Arthur didn't laugh. His mind was too busy recalling Silas Graye's coat from months ago—back when they had finally cornered him. The symbol had been tucked in the inner lining, a detail Arthur had overlooked. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
"What if Naomi saw something?" Arthur muttered. "Something they thought she'd forgotten. But she remembered—and tried to warn us."
Luke stopped pacing. "Us, or you?"
That question lingered in the room longer than it should've.
Arthur didn't answer.
They traced the symbol to a fringe philosophy group called The Circle Beneath—a disbanded movement that once operated under the radar, known for recruiting people who had experienced "echoes" of alternate realities, déjà vu, or sudden violent trauma. Most dismissed it as another cult that fizzled out years ago.
But not Arthur. Not after what he saw on the train. Not after Naomi.
They needed someone who could remember the early days of The Circle. Someone who left before it vanished. There was one name. A librarian who used to run their archive.
Gideon Raithe.
He lived in the outskirts now, deep in the woods, according to the last traceable address.
Arthur didn't hesitate. "We leave in the morning."
Luke frowned. "We don't know what we're walking into."
"We didn't on the train either," Arthur replied. "And we walked out."
Luke sighed. "Barely."
That night, Arthur couldn't sleep.
The rain had stopped, but he still heard it.
Drip.Drip.Drip.
In his dreams, the chains on his wrists tightened, pulling him downward. Not into water or fire—but into silence. A silence so dense it rang in his ears. He saw faces. Naomi's. Silas Graye's. Even Evelyn's.
And then his own.
Blood on his hands. A reflection with eyes that didn't look away.
He woke in a cold sweat, gripping the edge of his bed, knuckles white.
The echo was back.
And this time, it wasn't waiting.