You think you’re chasing a suspect, then you realize you’re being led. Step for step, mile for mile, until you’re standing in a place you’ve never been but somehow remember. That’s when you stop calling it coincidence. That’s when you start calling it what it is.
You start to notice the patterns if you stay in long enough. Not the kind they teach at Quantico. I mean the kind that don’t make sense until you’re awake at three in the morning and the air feels like it’s listening. People disappear in the margins. Locations shift a few degrees off the map. And the Bureau calls it noise. But I’ve been in the noise, and it’s not static–it’s a signal. And someone’s still sending it.
Belle Flower grew up in a circus. But the real freaks? They weren’t in the tent. She carries scars from bombs, from dreams… and from her parents. This isn’t a ghost story. It’s a reckoning.
