The air was thick with antiseptic and something far more unsettling—something metallic and sweet, like rusted iron and lilies. The man on the hospital bed stirred, consciousness drifting in and out like a ship lost in a storm. A pale, clinical light buzzed overhead, piercing his half-lidded eyes and anchoring him somewhere between waking and oblivion.
A shadow leaned over him.
"You're finally awake," said a woman's voice—cold, deliberate, almost amused.
Lucy's hands moved with practiced precision, the suture thread glinting faintly as she finished stitching the jagged wound carved across the man's thigh. She didn't flinch. She didn't blink. Her fingers moved like they had done this a hundred times before—maybe more.
The man tried to sit up, but agony dragged him back down. His body seized in protest, a low, guttural grunt escaping his throat.
With one final tug, Lucy cut the thread and set the needle aside. She removed her gloves slowly, methodically, followed by her blood-smeared surgical goggles. Her eyes gleamed unnaturally in the fluorescent light as she leaned closer to inspect him.
Then she smiled.
"Now that that's done," she whispered, voice curling like smoke, "let's move on to the real thing."
Without waiting for a response, Lucy reached for the man's trembling hand. Her fingers interlaced with his.
And then… something impossible began.
His skin began to dissolve.
It melted—first slowly, like wax under a flame, then faster—until it slid from his bones like sloughing silk, fusing into her. The hue, the texture, even the open wounds etched across his limbs—transferred.
Lucy's own flesh writhed, reshaping, accepting the grotesque gift. The man's scream tore through the silence, raw and primal, echoing down the corridor like a death knell. It was a scream not just of pain—but of pure disbelief.
When it was done, Lucy stood still for a moment, bathed in the dim light, her breathing slow and steady. His wounds now hers—but only in appearance. She didn't feel a thing. Not really.
The man slumped back into unconsciousness, overwhelmed by pain and the horror of what he had witnessed.
Lucy stepped away from the bed, her new face glistening faintly under the sterile lights. She opened the door with care.
Outside, leaning against the wall with folded arms, was Ashean—tall, impassive, his dark eyes scanning her new visage.
"Well, that went smoothly. He'll come to in a few days," Lucy said, mockingly cheerful. "Shall we go, Master?"
Ashean said nothing at first. He peered through the glass slit in the door.
The person lying inside the room, unconscious beneath the overhead light… now wore Lucy's face.
Finally, Ashean turned, his coat swaying as he moved toward the corridor. "We have a new acquisition inbound. Don't ruin everything this time."
Lucy followed, a crooked grin on her new lips.
Meanwhile…
Emergency Medical Services (EMS) Station
The hum of fluorescent lights filled the silence as Captain Timothy Howard stared at the file in front of him. It was marked with the name Reine Castor in bold ink.
He tapped the edge of the folder thoughtfully.
Then—a knock.
The door opened. Reine stepped in, expression unreadable.
"Captain, you called?"
Captain Howard closed the file slowly and rose from his desk. Instead of answering, he walked to the large window overlooking the darkened city, hands clasped behind his back.
"Have a seat."
Reine sat down, her eyes fixed on the back of his head.
There was a pause. Then he turned.
"You've been suspended, Reine."
"What? Captain—"
He raised a hand, silencing her.
"I know how much you care about this job. Hell, I know you'd give your life for it." He took a seat across from her. "But I can't keep covering for you, Reine. There's a limit."
Reine didn't speak. Her jaw was tight.
Then—the phone rang.
Captain Timothy Howard answered with a slow, deliberate motion. As he listened, his eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a line. He turned from the window, the weight of the news sinking into the room like smoke.
"I'll figure something out," he said finally, glancing at Reine. "Once this chaos dies down, I'll see if there's a way back for you. But right now..."
He hesitated.
"What is it, Cap?"
Howard exhaled. "Julio Cantrell. Escaped prison an hour ago."
Reine stiffened. "Julio Cantrell? The serial killer?"
He nodded. "Donnie called it in. They found him wandering near Callaham Bridge. Said he's trying to jump."
The captain's tone soured. "Coward's trying to write his own ending... Typical. The media's already circling like vultures after that school case."
He grabbed his coat. "This'll be your last assignment—ride with Mathew. Assess the scene and wait to see if helps are needed, but don't get involve, I'm warning you."
Callaham Bridge – Early Dusk
The air was thick with mist and dread.
Police cruisers were positioned like barricades, boxing in the road with an eerie stillness. The bridge loomed, half-swathed in fog, its steel frame groaning in the breeze. Red and blue lights cut across the murky air like scars.
Julio Cantrell stood at the midpoint, barefoot, clothed in a tattered prison jumpsuit. One hand loosely gripped the rusted railing. The other hung by his side like a forgotten tool.
He didn't scream. Didn't cry. He simply...stood there. His gaze swept across the officers, curious, bored.
His eyes were gray and hollow. Not lost—just absent. As if he were watching ants scramble beneath glass.
"Anyone got a cigarette?" he asked flatly. "The wind's nice up here."
Nearby, Reine observed silently with Mathew. The atmosphere was taut. Guns were drawn, negotiators whispered into radios, and tactical units moved like shadows along the perimeter.
Julio showed no fear. No hesitation. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he was dragging time out of sheer spite.
A seasoned detective, Ian Becker, stepped forward, megaphone in hand. His voice cracked with tension.
"Julio! Stepping off that ledge won't fix anything!"
Julio didn't move.
"You still have a chance—don't throw it away!"
Julio's lips curled into the faintest hint of a smirk. Not of amusement—just recognition. A reflex.
"You keep saying 'chance' like it means something," he replied, voice emotionless. "I'm already dead, detective. Everything else is just paperwork."
"Julio—please, don't do this."
The killer's head tilted slightly, almost analytically. "Why not?"
He stepped forward, a toe brushing the edge of the bridge.
A dozen weapons cocked in unison. But Julio didn't flinch.
"Do you think I'm afraid?" he asked. "I don't feel fear. Or guilt. "
"Then why escape? Why come here?"
Julio blinked slowly. "Because I was bored. That damn room is suffocating me, you know"
That was all.
No grand speech. No tragic backstory. Just a man who treated death like a delayed punchline.
Then—bang—a flashbang was deployed.
A sudden burst of white light and pressure broke the moment. SWAT officers surged forward in the confusion. Julio made no attempt to run. One officer tackled him, driving him to the ground with bone-snapping force. Handcuffs clamped onto his wrists.
Julio didn't struggle. He simply looked up at the sky, lips moving silently, counting seconds. As if disappointed the game ended too quickly.
Moments Later
The storm had calmed, but the tension in the air had not.
Julio Cantrell lay on the pavement, wrists now bound in reinforced restraints, eyes half-lidded and distant. His expression remained unreadable—calm in a way that was almost inhuman. He didn't flinch when officers surrounded him. Didn't resist. Didn't plead.
Reine crouched beside him, gloved hands working quickly but carefully as she checked for injuries. There was a gash along his forearm—likely from scaling the fence before reaching the bridge. His pulse was steady. Too steady.
She leaned in to shine her penlight across his pupils.
"Julio Cantrell," she said quietly, mostly to herself. "Vitals are normal..."
He blinked slowly, as if registering her presence for the first time.
"Do you think bandages make people whole again?" Julio asked, his voice flat as usual.
Reine remains quiet and continues to provide necessary aids.
Before she could continue, a voice cut through the growing hush around them:
"Step back. I'll take it from here."
A tall figure moved briskly past the barricade—coat billowing, badge already flashing under the flickering light.
"Detective Leonel Schmitt," he announced, holding up a sealed order. "Assigned under Federal Directive 72-Alpha. Julio Cantrell is now under my jurisdiction."
Detective Ian Becker frowned. "Why the Bureau?"
"New developments," Leonel replied coolly. "They suspect Julio's escape wasn't independent. There may be a deeper network involved. Possibly internal sabotage. This isn't just about Julio anymore."
His voice was smooth, controlled—too perfect.
Ian Becker stared at him, something gnawing at the edge of her instincts. "I didn't hear anything about a federal override."
Leonel offered a thin smile. "That's the point of a classified order, Officer Reine."
Julio was dragged toward the black van idling beyond the barricades. For the first time since his capture, his empty eyes locked with Leonel's.
His voice came in a whisper, —"You're not Schmitt."
Leonel's smile widened just slightly.
Julio's words were drowned out by the slamming of the van doors.
But Leonel Schmitt wasn't there that day.
The figure wearing his skin...was Lucy. Her transformation flawless. Every movement, every vocal inflection a mimicry of the man she'd replaced.
Certainly! Here's a rephrased and expanded version of the scene, deepening the mystery around Leonel, building Reine's internal conflict, and enriching her past and relationship with Mathew:
Inside the EMT Van
The rhythmic hum of the engine was the only sound accompanying the ride back. Reine sat quietly in the passenger seat, her gaze fixed on the blurred lights beyond the windshield. The adrenaline from the bridge had long since faded, but her nerves hadn't settled. Something lingered in her mind—an unease she couldn't shake.
Detective Leonel Schmitt.
Or whatever he was.
There was something wrong with him. Not just his demeanor or the way he seized control of the scene, but something she couldn't quite name—like a pressure in the air around him, subtle but suffocating. She'd felt it when he stepped onto the bridge. It wasn't normal. And it definitely wasn't human.
Mathew, seated behind the wheel, glanced sideways at her, breaking the silence.
"Heard you got suspended. You okay?"
Reine gave a short nod, her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Captain'll fix it," Mathew muttered, almost to himself. "Can't believe they pulled you for that. It's not like you blew a case or something. Damn politics."
Reine exhaled through her nose, her voice low and resigned.
"Maybe I needed the break anyway."
Mathew snorted.
"You say that like you're throwing in the towel. But I know you better, Reine. You're cooking something up behind my back, aren't you?"
A smile finally cracked across her face.
"Hell yeah, I am," she said with a faint laugh.
"That's more like it." Mathew grinned. "Let's go get a drink. You need to loosen up before your brain sets on fire."
"You know I don't drink."
"I'm telling you, you're missing out," he teased.
"Not going to break it," she smirked.
They rode in silence for a while after that. Comfortable. Familiar. But beneath her calm exterior, Reine's thoughts churned.
Back at the Station
The fluorescent lights in the EMT station buzzed softly overhead. Reine sat at her desk, finally alone. Her eyes drifted to the manila folder the captain had handed her earlier.
A transfer recommendation.
He wanted her to spend her suspension working under a trusted friend—someone far out of state, well away from California. A private sector position, low-risk, quiet.
Too quiet.
She opened the folder again, thumbing through the pages. Credentials. A letter of recommendation. A simple offer. But everything about it felt like a door closing, not opening.
"Why so far away?" she muttered to herself. "Is he trying to get rid of me?"
She knew Captain Howard cared.
Reine's thoughts drifted—unwillingly—to the past.
To the last time she worked homicide.
To the cold autumn night when everything went wrong.
She had tracked a suspect alone—reckless, maybe, but her gut told her she was close. She was close. But she didn't see the ambush coming. The injuries she sustained that night left her hospitalized for weeks, and her mother—already frail—collapsed from the stress the very next day. That hospitalization turned permanent.
Her family's worries weighted on her. Reine knew her mother was hospitalized because of her.
She had stepped away after that. Resigned her badge. Joined EMTs instead—still saving lives, but at a distance from the darkness that had nearly swallowed her whole.
Reine leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, mind spinning. There is something that's bothering her, but she couldn't pinpoint it.