Sasha hadn't slept. Her makeup had streaked down her cheeks. Her red dress—once radiant—was now wrinkled, stained with fear and desperation.
The ballroom was empty now—just a few stragglers from the cleanup crew.The guests had searched everywhere—bathrooms, storage closets, the garden out back. Even the private rooms upstairs. No Mila. Security footage? Wiped.
Zhian placed a blanket over Sasha's shoulders, kneeling beside her. "We've done everything. Searched every floor."
"I'm not leaving," Sasha said through clenched teeth, her voice cracking. "Not until I find her."
Zhian tried to reason with her. "Sasha—please. The police are already looking. We need to stay safe until—"
"I said I'm not leaving!" Her voice echoed sharply across the marbled floor.
Then, her phone buzzed again.
Sam.
"Any word?" Sasha asked immediately.
"Not yet," Sam said. "But we reported it to everyone on our side. They're watching all flights, bus stations, tunnels. If he tries to take her out of the state—we'll know."
Sasha clutched the phone. "If he touches her…"
"He's not doing this to hurt her," Sam said carefully. "He's doing this to punish you."
"…Then let him. Just bring her back."
Gallagher Street – Midnight
Kael slammed the police station door open. Nina and Sam followed, both pale.
"We've confirmed it," Kael told the officer on duty. "The shop's back. El Fuego de Shop. Not a replica. Not an illusion."
"And there's something else," Nina added, her voice low. "There's… two of them."
The officer raised a brow. "Two?"
"Sinner 1. And The Boy," Kael said. "Both are standing outside the store. Watching. Waiting."
The room went cold.
"We thought they were destroyed. Gone," another officer whispered.
Kael shook his head. "They didn't need to survive. They were preserved. And now they've come back… waiting for Michael's next move."
Sam spoke grimly, "He's already made it. He's in New York. He's taken Sasha's daughter."
"Then he's split his war," Kael muttered. "Two fronts. Two goals. One message."
The chief leaned forward from his chair.
"Alert the city. Lock down the street. And someone call the fire department—we may need to burn this entire block again."
The house was silent when Sasha and Zhian returned. Too silent.
No footsteps pattered upstairs. No laughter echoed from Mila's room. No toy-strewn floors. Just empty walls and echoing grief.
Sasha sat on the edge of the bed, clutching Mila's favorite stuffed toy. Her red dress, once a symbol of celebration, was now soaked with tears and shame. Outside, the city glimmered with lights and noise, but in their apartment, it was winter. Cold and lifeless.
Zhian couldn't sit. He paced the room like a caged wolf, muttering under his breath, trying to piece together something rational from what had just happened.
Then Sasha's phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number. No name. Just a voice recording.
Her fingers trembled as she pressed play.
Mila's voice.
"Mom…? Mommy? I-I don't know where I am—he said I can't cry or else—"
The message cut off in a burst of static.
Sasha dropped the phone. Her hand flew to her mouth as a ragged scream escaped her throat.
The phone rang again.
The same number.
She answered.
"Where is she?! Where is she?!"
Michael's voice leaked through like a thin layer of oil over water. Calm. Cold. Amused.
"You should've come back when I called, Sasha."
"Michael, please—don't hurt her—don't you dare—"
"You never wanted to be part of it again. You had your new life. Your pretty little daughter. Your book deals. Your cameras. But you forgot what it feels like to lose. So I'm reminding you."
From the other end, Mila's muffled scream. Wet sobs. Something heavy scraping against stone.
"Shhh… It's okay now," Michael whispered. "Say goodbye, Mila."
There was a horrible sound then—a sharp, wet slash. Then… a gunshot.
The silence afterward was endless.
Sasha collapsed onto the floor, her face pressed into the wood, shrieking so hard her voice fractured. "NO! NO, PLEASE! NO!!"
Michael said one last thing. "I told you. You don't get a happy ending."
Then he hung up.
DING DONG. The doorbell. They froze.
Zhian rushed forward, peeking through the peephole. Nobody.
He opened it slowly. The hallway was empty. But at their feet... a box. Large. Wooden. Painted black. No return address. Just a bow, crimson like blood, stuck haphazardly on top.
Zhian tried to lift it, but it was too heavy. Sasha helped. They dragged it into the living room, the weight of it echoing through every floorboard.
Her hands hesitated. She didn't want to open it. But she had to. Inside was Mila.
Her daughter was dressed like a doll—her dress was stitched into her skin. Limbs bent and broken to fit in the box. Her eyes were open. Mouth sewn shut. A note pinned to her chest:
"Now you remember what it's like to scream."
Sasha wailed. She pulled Mila into her arms, holding the broken child, rocking her back and forth.
"No… Mila, no… please wake up. Please. Please—"
Zhian grabbed the phone. Tried 911. No signal. Nothing.
The lights flickered. Then—a noise. Outside. Slow footsteps on their front porch.
Sasha looked toward the window. Something moved behind the curtains.
A pale hand.
She reached for the curtain, pulled it open— And there it was. A figure stood in the snow-drenched street.
Its skin was cracked porcelain-white, like a broken statue that smiled too wide. Its eyes were sunken holes. Its mouth… stretched unnaturally, like it had been carved into its face. It wore a black Santa suit, torn and charred at the edges. On its belt hung bits of wire, bone, and cloth. On one hand, a jagged machete dripping with something thick and dark. On the other hand, a burlap sack, moving slightly.
Stitched across the sack in red: "NICE." But the rest of it was soaked with blood.
It didn't move. It just watched. Sasha screamed.
Zhian rushed to the window. "What the fuck is that?!"
The creature tilted its head, grinning wider. Then—It charged.
Glass shattered. The window exploded inward. Shards sliced through the air as Sasha and Zhian ducked. The Thriller of the Hunt vaulted inside, its machete dragging along the floor, leaving a trail of sparks.
"RUN!" Zhian screamed.
They bolted toward the hallway, dragging Mila's body, refusing to leave her behind.
The Thriller let out a sound—low and gurgled, like a laugh filtered through static. It lunged.
Zhian slammed the bedroom door. Sasha locked it.
"Call the police! Use the landline!" she shouted.
Zhian grabbed the phone. Dead. No dial tone. No static. Nothing.
Something slammed against the door. Again. Again. Wood cracked. Sasha looked at Mila's lifeless face. "I'll get you back. I swear I'll get you back."
The Thriller's voice slithered through the door:
"Nice… or naughty?"
The door cracked. They were out of time.