The night air was sharp against Celeste's skin as she and Amelia stepped out of the shop, Irene's warning still ringing in their ears. The city lights blurred together, neon streaks against the wet pavement. A part of Celeste felt unsteady, untethered, like the very ground beneath her feet had become uncertain.
If they didn't find the painting, she would vanish.
She pulled her coat tighter around herself, but no amount of fabric could shield her from the weight pressing down on her chest.
Amelia was already on her phone, her fingers moving rapidly as she searched through messages and old emails, looking for any trace of the painting's disappearance. Her jaw was set, her eyes sharp with determination, but Celeste could see the tension in her posture, the way her grip tightened around the phone like it was the only thing keeping her steady.
"We need to retrace our steps," Amelia said. "Think. When was the last time you saw it?"
Celeste swallowed. "It was in the apartment. I always kept it in the studio. But then—" She hesitated, her memory hazy. "One morning, it was just… gone."
Amelia muttered a curse under her breath. "And you're sure you didn't move it?"
Celeste shot her a look. "Of course I'm sure."
Amelia exhaled sharply, frustration flashing across her face. "Then someone took it."
The thought sent a chill through Celeste. She hadn't considered that possibility before. That someone else had taken the painting—that someone might know what she was.
A new kind of fear settled in her chest.
Amelia must have noticed the shift in her expression because her gaze softened, just slightly. "We'll find it," she said, quieter this time. "I promise."
Celeste wanted to believe her. But the cracks on her wrist told a different story.
They hailed a cab, the driver barely glancing at them as they slid into the backseat. Amelia gave the address of her apartment, but her knee bounced anxiously as they sped through the city.
The ride was silent, tense.
Celeste's fingers itched to touch the crack again, but she forced herself to keep her hands still. Every time she looked at it, she felt like she was running out of time.
They reached the apartment building, and Amelia all but dragged Celeste inside, up the stairs, and into the studio.
The space was just as Celeste had left it—except for one thing.
The canvas.
Or rather, the space where it should have been.
Amelia stood in the doorway, her breathing uneven. "Okay. Okay, think." She turned to Celeste. "No one else had access to this place except us. Who else could have taken it?"
Celeste hesitated. "…No one."
Amelia ran a hand through her hair. "That doesn't make sense. Paintings don't just disappear."
Celeste was about to respond when a sharp crack split through the air.
She gasped, her hand flying to her wrist as a fresh fracture ran up her arm, glowing faintly before fading into a dull shimmer.
"Celeste!" Amelia was at her side in an instant, gripping her shoulders. "What happened?"
Celeste's breaths came fast, uneven. "I—I don't know. It just—" She winced, cradling her wrist. "It's getting worse."
Amelia's grip tightened. "We don't have time to wait."
Her voice was urgent now, edged with panic.
Then, suddenly—her phone rang.
Amelia nearly dropped it in her haste to answer. "Hello?"
Celeste watched as her expression shifted from confusion to something sharper.
"…Where did you get this number?" Amelia's voice was cold now, dangerous.
Celeste's pulse quickened.
A pause. Then Amelia's grip on the phone tightened.
"You have it?" she said, voice low.
Celeste's breath caught.
Another pause. Amelia's face hardened.
"No," she said firmly. "You listen to me. If you do anything to that painting—"
A click.
The line went dead.
Amelia stared at the phone, her hands trembling with barely contained fury.
Celeste's stomach twisted. "Who was it?"
Amelia exhaled sharply, looking at her.
"They have the painting."
Celeste's heart pounded. "Who?"
Amelia clenched her jaw. "I don't know. But they want something in return."
Celeste's blood ran cold.
"What?"
Amelia's eyes darkened.
"…You."
A chill raced down Celeste's spine.
For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. The city outside felt impossibly far away, as if they were standing in a pocket of reality separate from the rest of the world.
Celeste swallowed hard. "What do you mean… me?"
Amelia's fingers flexed around the phone before she placed it down with deliberate slowness. She turned toward Celeste, her expression unreadable.
"They said if we want the painting back, you have to come to them. Alone."
"No," Amelia snapped before Celeste could even open her mouth. "You're not going."
Celeste flinched. "Amelia—"
"No." Amelia's voice was sharp, but beneath it was fear. Pure, undiluted fear. "I am not handing you over to some strangers who somehow know what you are."
Celeste hesitated. She wanted to agree. Every instinct told her not to trust this, that walking into a situation like this alone was dangerous. But the cracks were getting worse. The painting was the key.
And if they didn't get it back… she would disappear.
"You don't get to make that decision for me," Celeste said, trying to keep her voice steady.
Amelia's eyes flashed. "Like hell I don't."
Celeste clenched her fists. "This isn't just about you! If we don't get the painting back, I—" She stopped, inhaling sharply, forcing down the lump in her throat. "I don't know how much time I have left."
Amelia went rigid.
The words settled between them like a weight, pressing into the space where their unspoken fears lived.
When Amelia finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "We'll find another way."
Celeste wanted to believe her. But the throbbing pulse of the crack beneath her skin told her otherwise.
And so did the feeling in her gut.
Something was coming.
And she wasn't sure they could stop it.