Risa Murakami stood in the doorway of her bedroom. She was translucent around the edges, but her eyes were solid. Angry. And in her hands, she held a copy of the same photograph—except in her version, the smiling woman had her face scratched out.
Written on the back in pen: “Yuki. 458. Don’t trust the apart.”
I heard breathing behind me. Not a whisper. Not a wind. The wet, rhythmic inhale-exhale of someone standing too close.
“What mistake?”
“Level 247s don’t manifest physically,” I muttered, recording into my wrist mic. “Something’s off.”
My EMF reader didn’t spike. It flatlined. That was wrong. A 247 should rattle the dial like a maraca.
That’s how I ended up in Risa Murakami’s apartment at 3:00 AM.
The lights went out. The last thing I saw was the sticky note on the fridge: Milk expires Tuesday.