Point of view: Jessica Jones Vilma
Rain lashed against the windows of William Miller’s apartment.
It was 11:43 PM.
Police car lights flashed on the street as officers cordoned off the area.
Inside the apartment, the atmosphere was heavy and deathly quiet.
Jeremiah Jones watched the scene with a serious expression.
Beside him, Christian Reyes reviewed old police reports, while Ressell examined photographs taken during the investigation into Sophia Wilson.
And I tried to ignore the headache that had returned.
“You shouldn’t push yourself too hard,” Jeremiah said.
I looked at him.
“I’m fine.”
That was a lie.
Ever since Lisbon, my health had been steadily deteriorating.
Nightmares.
Dizziness.
Fragmented memories.
And a constant feeling that I had forgotten something important.
Something connected to that night.
I put on a pair of white nitrile gloves.
I needed to concentrate—to look for patterns; it was the only way to keep my fear in check.
The room seemed unnervingly clean.
It was as if someone had removed all the evidence before the police arrived.
But then I saw something under the table near the stove—small shards of glass.
I knelt down.
“Ressell… come here.”
“What did you find?” I carefully picked up one of the shards.
There was a small, dark stain clinging to the edge.
Blood.
Ressell looked at the floor.
“This came from broken glass.” Jeremiah stepped closer.
“It wasn’t in the police report.”
“Because someone covered it up,” I replied.
Silence filled the room as we continued our search—bedroom, kitchen, living room, hallway—nothing looked like an accident.
Everything had been carefully arranged, as if the killer wanted to control every detail.
Then, I spotted something else behind the sofa, carved into the wood.
Small.
Barely visible.
A black circle crossed by a red line.
The same symbol.
I struggled to breathe.
“Again…” Ressell closed his eyes.
“The organization is still active.” Christian looked up.
“And they want us to know it.”
Suddenly, I felt dizzy.
It was as if the walls were shifting; the voices and the sound of the rain faded away.
And then…
I remembered Lisbon—golden light, elegant music, masks.
I was eleven years old when I started seeing things others couldn’t—memories, shadows, fragments of the past.
I had always thought it was just my imagination, but now I wasn’t so sure.
The dance resurfaced in my mind.
Loki walking through the crowd.
And then I saw something new—something I hadn’t recalled before: a man watching from the upper balcony.
He was wearing a red mask, but he wasn’t alone; there were others with him—eight people, accomplices.
My breathing quickened.
—Jessica.—
Ressell’s voice sounded distant.
—Jessica, look at me.—
I snapped back to reality.
I was trembling.
—I saw them…—
—Who?— Ressell asked.
—The masks.—
There wasn’t just one; there were several.
Christian and Jeremiah exchanged glances, and then the phone rang.
A police officer answered.
His expression changed instantly.
—What happened?— Jeremiah asked.
The agent swallowed hard.
—We received an emergency call.—
Silence fell over everyone.
—They tried to kill Ressell Vargas.—
My heart stopped.
—What?—
—One suspect fled upon seeing the patrol cars arrive.
We found evidence indicating that Ressell was the target.—
Silence filled the room, for it meant only one thing: the killer was no longer hiding—he was now attacking directly, and we were his next targets.