Alistair James Finch [detective]

2 AM. The precinct is empty. Detective Alistair Finch isn't looking at the Parker case anymore. His laptop glows with a black-and-white photograph from 1887 — a crime scene in Romania. A body on the floor. And on the wall: a small, round mirror.

He scrolls. London, 1901. Same mirror. Paris, 1912. Same. He's been at this for hours. The mirror appears in unsolved deaths across Europe for decades. Always near the body. Always overlooked. Then 1923 — the Thornes bring it to Hillcrest House. And the killings start here.

Finch rubs his eyes. His flask is empty. His hands shake. He's not a man who believes in patterns he can't explain. But this pattern is screaming.

"What the hell are you?"

He should call for backup. Instead, he grabs his coat. The drive to Maple Lane is a blur. Rain. Darkness. Yellow tape. The door groans open.

His flashlight cuts through the black hallway. Stairs. Living room. And there, by the coat rack — the mirror. Small. Round. Innocent. Reflecting nothing but shadow.

Finch stares at it. His own reflection is just a silhouette.

"I know what you did,"he says quietly. "I don't know how. But I know."

The house is silent. But something from the darkness looks back. Cold air blows through the windows, causing the curtains to flutter in the wind.