Rose stood in a place she didn't recognize. Fog curled around her feet, thick and shifting, as if alive. The air smelled damp, metallic. Somewhere ahead, a dim light flickered, and beyond it—shadows. They moved strangely, forming shapes she couldn't make sense of.
A voice, distant but familiar, called her name.
She tried to move, but her legs were heavy. A cold dread spread through her chest. Then, a sudden crash—like glass shattering. The shadows twisted. The light blinked out.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
And then—
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The alarm rang, yanking her out of the nightmare. She gasped, bolting upright, her heart slamming against her ribs. For a few seconds, she just sat there, disoriented, the dream still clinging to her like smoke.
She exhaled sharply. Just a dream. The same dream. Again.
Shoving off the covers, she swung her legs over the bed and stretched before dragging herself to the bathroom. The mirror reflected her tired face—dark curls falling messily over her shoulders, eyes slightly sunken from restless nights.
She placed her hands on the sink, staring at herself. It's just an interview. She could do this.
Taking a breath, she straightened up and said, "I'm Rose Delacroix." The name rolled off her tongue smoothly, but as always, it sent a strange chill through her.
She shook it off, finished getting ready, and grabbed her bag.
---
The streets were alive with movement. Cars honked. People rushed by. Rose barely caught the bus, slipping into an empty seat by the window.
Twenty minutes later, she stood in front of the towering building of Solstice Industries. The sleek glass exterior reflected the morning sun, the name Solstice Industries carved into a polished metal plaque by the entrance. She took a steady breath, adjusting the strap of her bag before stepping inside.
The air was crisp, a sharp contrast to the heat outside. The interior was sleek and modern, with marble floors and high ceilings. Employees moved with purpose, their polished shoes clicking against the tiles.
She approached the front desk, adjusting the strap of her bag. The receptionist barely looked up.
"Name?"
"Rose Delacroix," she answered.
The woman typed something, then gestured toward the waiting area. "Take a seat. You'll be called shortly."
Rose nodded, walking to the rows of chairs. Several candidates sat there, some tapping on their phones, others looking equally anxious.
She had applied for a position as an editorial assistant. It wasn't her dream job, but it was a start—something stable, something that might help her move forward.
A magazine sat on the table. She picked it up absentmindedly, flipping through the pages.
Then, something strange happened.
For a moment, everything dimmed. The background noise faded. The letters on the page shifted, forming words she didn't recognize. Her fingers tingled as an odd sensation washed over her, like she was being pulled—somewhere.
A voice broke through the moment.
"Miss Delacroix?"
She blinked. The world snapped back to normal.
A man stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand. "You're up."
Closing the magazine, she took a steady breath and stood.
Whatever that was… it wasn't over.