Page 219 of Irreversible

—just as the lights go out completely.

A scream flies past my lips as a wash of pitch-black nothingness smothers me. My head shoots left, right, behind, but I can’t see anything. It’s just me, the strange song, and whatever lurks in the shadows. Haunting memories invade my mind: the sound of a gunshot, a darkened foyer, blood-soaked tiles.

A monster waiting to drag me away, his arms coiling around me like a snake.

I slam my eyes shut, collapse to my knees.

The main doorthunksclosed, and I wonder if everyone made it out. Fumbling for balance, I crawl forward, splashing in puddles, my wet hair tangling in front of my eyes as I try to blink away the darkness. My hands search the platform to keep me from toppling over the side. I cling to the edge, my palms sliding across the slick surface, breath coming in shallow gasps. The song plays on a loop, dizzying me. I can’t see a thing—just shadows twisting and turning in the dark. Panic claws up my throat as my fingers grope blindly, desperate for any sense of direction.

Then, somewhere in the distance, footsteps echo—a slow, deliberate beat that ices me to the bone. Shrinking back, Iclamp a hand over my mouth. Whoever it is, they’re coming closer, each step amplifying, slicing through the darkness like a butcher’s knife.

Just as the ground beneath me starts to spin, the lights snap on, flooding the room in blinding, unforgiving brightness. I squint against the glare, blinking away spots until my vision clears.

That’s when I see him.

My heart stutters, then slams into a frantic, suffocating rhythm.

The Timekeeper—Leonard Vincent—stands at the entrance of the runway, his face a mask of cool fury. His mismatched eyes glint with malice as he forces a tight smile, a sliver of agitation slipping through his customary composure.

No.

This is a trick.

I’m hallucinating, manifesting my greatest fear.

Pinned by his gaze, I’m trapped like prey caught in a predator’s snare. Every nightmare I thought I’d left behind surges to the surface, memories bubbling up, raw and fresh—the smell of stale air and bleach, the scrape of metal cuffs as I spent those first few months chained to a wall, and the stifling stillness of his underground hideaway.

It all comes rushing back, crushing my chest like a deluge.

I freeze, instinctively recoiling as he takes a step forward. My skin prickles with the phantom sensation of his hands on me. The urge to run stampedes across my ribs, but I can’t move. Every muscle in my body locks, every nerve flaring, screaming at me to escape.

But I’m back there, in that room.

Trapped. Helpless.

The corners of his mouth lift into a thin smile as he watches me struggle, and I know he’s savoring this. Drinking in my fear like it’s a topflight champagne.

He scans the empty rows, disappointment flickering over his features before his eyes settle on me. Lifting one gloved hand, he gestures outward, each step echoing ominously off the polished floor. “It seems someone decided to interfere with my carefully arranged schedule.” His gaze sparks, irritation flickering behind his usual implacable calm. “A fire alarm, of all things. How…pedestrian.”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, tasting blood, anything to jolt myself out of this nightmare. But even the sting does nothing to shake the image of the man standing in front of me. The man who stripped me of every scrap of hope and dignity.

He’s back. He’s here.

“I have to say, I do love a good runway show. Did I tell you I got my start in fashion design?” He links his hands behind his back. The familiar hourglass trinket is still clipped to his belt loop, reflecting off the overhead lights. “Perhaps that’s why you were always my favorite.”

I find an ounce of strength and pull myself to quivering legs. “Please…”

“Please?” he parrots, lifting a hand to his ear. “I see you’ve found your manners again.”

Swallowing hard, I glance over my shoulder, searching for a way out. I wonder how far I’d get if I made a break for it. But my gaze snags on the stranger who coerced me back onto the runway platform moments ago—he stands near the exit door, a hand on his holstered gun.

The Timekeeper clicks his tongue, glancing skyward. “Do you like the song? It’s Erasure.”

My attention pans back to him as I instinctively inch backward, putting distance between us.

“I thought ‘Always’ would be a nice soundtrack to listen to while watching hundreds of people die by hydrogen sulfide,” he says casually. “Of course, it doesn’t hold a candle to the music video. That’s a masterpiece. But sincesomeonestole my grand finale…” His tone hardens again, bouncing between snake venom and playful mockery.

He skips forward, doing a showy pirouette as the song plays.

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