The fog was thick that night, creeping like ghostly fingers through the streets of London, embracing the pavements and shuttered doors. On the edge of an old, time-forgotten district, the abandoned theater waited for its visitors… as an altar awaits its sacrifice.
The Royal Lyceum Theater, closed for years after a mysterious fire, had come back to life unexpectedly. When Caleb, Anna, and Douglas arrived, the grand wooden doors were wide open, as if someone had invited them in.
Caleb paused at the threshold, staring into the darkness that stretched inside the lobby.
"Do you feel it?" Anna whispered.
"Yes…" Caleb murmured, "Death is here… but it's not hiding. It's waiting for applause."
They entered the theater cautiously, their footsteps echoing softly against the walls. On stage, under the faint flicker of a dying spotlight, sat Sylvia Duvall—perched on a wooden chair, dressed in an elegant black gown, her hair neatly styled, a dead smile frozen on her face.
As if she had delivered her final performance to perfection… then bowed to death.
Douglas was the first to approach. He touched her neck.
"She's ice cold. Been dead for hours."
Anna whispered: "Look at her eyes… they're open. Staring straight at the thirteenth seat in the audience."
Caleb turned toward the front row… and in seat number 13 sat a cloth doll—disturbingly identical to Sylvia. Same dress, same hair, same frozen gaze.
He stepped closer and sat across from it. This was no ordinary doll—it was an intricate piece of art with a message.
On the doll's hand was a card that read:
"When you think you know the story… remember, the director writes the ending."
A chill ran through Caleb's spine. But he hadn't seen the worst yet.
In the dressing room behind the curtain, the first message awaited them.
On a cracked mirror, written in bold letters in blood:
> "A good actress doesn't die… she's murdered."
Caleb stepped forward slowly, gazing at his reflection behind the words. He felt the message wasn't meant for Sylvia alone… but for him.
"That's the director's signature," said Douglas. "He's telling us this wasn't an accident… but part of his grand production."
Anna, jotting down notes, suddenly looked up.
"What's the time of death?"
Douglas replied: "The broken clock in the theater… it stopped at 3:33 AM. Same time the coroner confirmed Sylvia's death. And the same time that… wait."
He looked at Caleb, who stood frozen.
Then said in a deadly calm voice: "3:33… That's the time my wife died. Two years ago."
Silence fell over them like a heavy curtain.
Anna whispered: "Do you think he knows more about you than he lets on?"
Caleb replied, his voice as dark as the theater's shadows: "He's not playing with us. He's playing with me."
They headed to the lighting booth, where they found a torn notebook. Inside were pages written in elegant handwriting, describing the stage scene as if it were part of a play. The final lines read:
"In her final performance, Sylvia wasn't the actress… she was the mirror.
For whom? For those who believe they see the truth, while unknowingly playing a role written for them."
"He's talking about you," Anna said.
Caleb replied: "Or about all of us. We're just props in his script."
He stood at the center of the stage, looked at the empty seats, then at the doll, then at Sylvia's body.
"Why seat thirteen?"
Anna flipped through old theater records.
"In Sylvia's first performance ten years ago, her mother always sat in seat 13. Sylvia once said in an interview: 'My mother is my first audience. Even after her death, I feel her presence there.'"
Caleb thought for a moment, then said: "Maybe the director wanted Sylvia to perform one last time for her mother… or her ghost. He doesn't just kill. He reshapes memories, distorts them, and displays them however he wishes."
In the back corner, they found a folded paper shaped like a mask.
Douglas opened it. It read:
> "In the next scene, the lead role belongs to the one who admits betrayal.
Because betrayal is what creates false heroes."
Caleb and Anna exchanged heavy glances.
"Is this a hint about the next victim?" Anna asked.
Caleb answered: "Or a hint about me… The director has started addressing me directly. As if he's saying: I know your past. I know your betrayal."
Something inside him trembled… the image of his wife dying in a mysterious accident, the decision he made back then… the secret he buried with his heart.
But before they could leave, they discovered something else.
Behind the curtain, etched into the wooden floor, were small carved numbers:
"13 – 3:33 – D.O.L"
"What does D.O.L mean?" Douglas asked.
After a moment of thought, Caleb said: "Maybe… Death Of Love? Or perhaps… Diary Of Lies?"
Anna looked at him intently.
"Or maybe… Declaration Of Loss. This director doesn't just write death… he writes confessions. Every murder is like a last will."
As they left the theater, the time was five in the morning.
Anna looked up at the gray sky and said: "Every crime is written like a scene. But the real question isn't just 'Who's next?'… it's 'Why?'"
Caleb replied, the shadows deepening around his eyes: "And why now? Why me?"
He paused, then added: "The director isn't just staging a crime… he's opening a door to something I buried long ago."
The wind howled through the city.
But in a dark corner of the theater… the doll remained seated, staring at the stage—as if the show wasn't over yet.