Rody shot up in bed, breathing heavily as his mind struggled to catch up with the unfamiliar world around him. This wasn’t his apartment. Everything was wrong—too clean, too modern, too sterile. His heart pounded in his chest as he scanned the room, trying to place himself in some kind of context that made sense.
Manon.
He should’ve been missing her, should’ve been consumed by the grief of knowing she was gone, dead because of Vincent. Vincent, who had killed her, cooked her, and served her to him as a grotesque final act of cruelty.
Yet the grief wasn’t there. His heart clenched at the memory of her, but the overwhelming despair he expected didn’t come. Instead, there was this gnawing sense of emptiness, like something had been taken from him and replaced with a hollow echo.
As he pulled on a jacket, he felt strange, like his own body didn’t belong to him anymore—like he was moving on autopilot, following instincts that weren’t entirely his own. The air in the room was cold, crisp, and sterile. Nothing like the old place, nothing like the mess he called home.
And then, a voice—quiet but persistent, inside his mind.
“Don’t leave, Rody. Please… just stay. You don’t need to go anywhere tonight.”
Rody froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat. The voice wasn’t his. It wasn’t some stray thought or instinct. It was like someone else had crawled into his head, speaking to him with an intimacy that was unsettling.
“What…?” he muttered aloud, half expecting someone to answer from the shadows of the room. But it remained still, quiet, save for the voice in his mind.
“You don’t need to go anywhere. If you leave, it’ll just make things worse. Please… stay home. Vinny’s going to be worried if you’re gone.”
Vinny? Who the hell was Vinny? The name meant nothing to him. A wave of confusion and irritation bubbled up inside him. Was this some kind of trick?
He ignored the voice, pulling the door open, stumbling out into the hallway. Everything about this place felt off, like he was in a dream where nothing was quite real. His body felt disconnected from his mind, his movements automatic. He needed to clear his head, to make sense of whatever the hell was happening. Maybe a drink would help.
“Please, Rody, don’t go! Vinny’s going to think something’s wrong if I'm not there when he gets back. I—I don’t want him to worry…”
Rody gritted his teeth, trying to shake off the voice. “Who the hell are you?!” he hissed under his breath as he made his way down the dark, unfamiliar street.
The voice paused, like it hadn’t expected that question.
“I… I’m you. But—just trust me. We need to stay here. Vinny loves me. Don’t do something we’ll both regret.”
The frustration surged in him, a pulse of anger that finally cut through the fog. “I don’t know who you are or who the hell this ‘Vinny’ is, but I don’t care! I’m not staying in that place!” He was tired of the voice, tired of the confusion. He needed something to make sense, and if nothing else, a stiff drink would help.
The bar wasn’t far. It had a warm glow spilling from the windows, and without thinking, Rody pushed open the door and walked in. The noise, the clinking of glasses, the hum of conversation—it grounded him, made the world feel a little more solid beneath his feet.
But then he saw her.
Manon.
Alive.
Sitting at the bar, smiling, laughing—alive. His heart stopped, the world tilting on its axis. He froze, staring, unable to process what he was seeing. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be anywhere. Vincent had killed her. He had—
