𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐀

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 | 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄

The last time I stayed up at night was back at Chamberlain on prom night. That was a different kind of sleeplessness, though—a buzzing in my veins, anticipation wrapped in nerves. I'd spent hours practicing how to look normal, how to blend in, how to wear the mask they all expected me to wear. But by the time the night was over, everything had changed.

Tonight, the weight pressing down on my chest wasn't anticipation; it was dread. And fear.

I stared at my phone, waiting for a message that hadn't come. Not from Homelander, not from Vought, and not from whoever had sent the hands. The silence was maddening. Ashley had left a few hours ago after the police had taken my statement, her face tight with worry. She'd offered to stay, but I'd told her to go, convinced I needed space to think. Now I wasn't so sure.

I hadn't even touched the tea she made me before she left.

The room felt too quiet, too still. Every creak of the floorboards, every hum of the radiator made my nerves jangle. I was back in that place again, feeling small, feeling like prey. I'd promised myself I wouldn't let this break me, but I could feel the edges of my resolve fraying.

A sharp knock at the door jolted me out of my thoughts. My heart leapt into my throat. For a second, I thought it was another box, another grim delivery from the stalker, but then I heard a familiar voice.

"It's me, Carrie," Anne called out. Her voice was soft, but even through the door, I could sense the tension underneath. "Can I come in?"

Relief washed over me as I scrambled to my feet, crossing the room to let her in. As soon as the door opened, Anne stepped inside, her face pale and drawn, her eyes scanning the room like she was expecting something—or someone—else to be lurking there.

"Anne," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She looked me over with a quick, assessing glance before stepping inside and closing the door behind her. Her movements were careful, deliberate, like she didn't want to disturb the oppressive silence that had settled in the room. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken fears.

"Carrie," she said softly, her tone gentle but firm. "We need to talk."

I nodded, too exhausted to resist. I motioned to the couch, where the untouched cup of tea still sat on the table. Anne hesitated for a moment, then sat down, her posture stiff. I followed her lead, sinking back into the cushions. It was like gravity was pulling me down, forcing me deeper into the couch, deeper into the weight of everything I couldn't control.

For a few moments, neither of us spoke. The silence stretched, taut and fragile, like it could shatter with a single word. I stared at my hands, feeling Anne's eyes on me, waiting for me to speak. But I didn't know what to say. How could I explain what was happening to me when I didn't even understand it myself?

Finally, Anne broke the silence.

"I heard about the... package," she said carefully, her voice measured. "The police didn't give me all the details, but I know enough. I'm so sorry, Carrie. I can't imagine how terrifying that must have been."

I nodded, my throat tightening. Terrifying didn't even begin to cover it. The severed hands, the blood—someone out there knew my past, knew exactly what would break me, and they were using it against me. The memory of that night at Ewen High—the screams, the blood, the chaos—flooded my mind, and I forced myself to push it down, to lock it away.

Anne leaned forward, her brow furrowed with concern. "Carrie, I know you're scared. I would be, too. But we need to figure out who's doing this, and why."

"Why me?" I whispered, my voice cracking. "Why now? I haven't done anything... I haven't hurt anyone..."

Anne's face softened, and she reached out, taking my hand in hers. Her grip was steady, reassuring. "You haven't done anything wrong, Carrie. This isn't your fault. Whoever's behind this—they're the ones who are sick, twisted. They're trying to break you because they see you as a threat."