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Finn was dreaming, and he felt the gravity of it before he could see anything at all. A nameless pressure settled on his chest, as though he were descending a dark staircase. The air was thick with a silence that felt somehow laden with sound. He wanted to wake, but the dream held him, guiding him by unseen hands.

He found himself in the corridor of The Monarch Club, though it was different than when he had last walked there. The carpet under his feet was the same plush burgundy, but the walls seemed oddly warped, extending and retracting like they were breathing. Brass sconces flickered with a dim light that cast dancing shadows. Each flicker distorted the corridor’s length, making it feel both endless and claustrophobic.

In the distance, Finn heard the soft murmur of conversation, low voices blending into the hush. He advanced carefully, each footstep muffled by the thick carpet. The corridor felt cooler than usual, as if all the warmth had bled out of the building. When he passed a small table by the wall, it was set with a lone teacup, steam curling upward, but the steam rose unnaturally slowly, as if time had stalled.

“Hello?” Finn called. His voice was swallowed by the corridor. He tried again, louder: “Who’s there?” The conversation he’d heard moments before died abruptly, and silence slid back in like a blanket.

Ahead, the outline of Sir Richard Doyle’s private study came into view, the heavy door slightly ajar. Golden lamplight seeped through the gap, a wedge of illumination cutting across the patterned rug. Finn felt his mouth go dry. Something about the partially open door unnerved him. The handle turned on its own, squeaking softly, inviting him in with a slow, deliberate creak.

He stepped inside. The study was bathed in a haze of amber light that gave everything a sepia tone. The furniture seemed partially distorted: chairs were a shade too tall, the desk’s edges curling like old parchment. Off to one side, he noticed a portrait on the wall—at first glance, it looked like Sir Richard. But as Finn drew closer, it wasn’t Sir Richard at all. It was a woman with rigid features and stark, disapproving eyes. Her presence loomed over the study, glaring down at him with silent condemnation.

“Hello?” he murmured. The face was somehow both familiar and disturbingly unrecognizable, as though the paint were shifting beneath his gaze. The eyes in the portrait seemed to track him, their intensity unrelenting.

No voice replied, but Finn detected a whispering noise. It was barely audible—a swarm of hushed voices overlapping. The sound came from near the tall window where the thick velvet curtains hung. His breath quickened. He remembered how they suspected someone had hidden behind curtains in the real crime scene. Could this dream be dredging up that memory?

He moved slowly, each step resonating with a dull thud that didn’t match the softness of the rug. It was as if the floor, or the entire study, had a heartbeat—thump… thump… thump. The curtains, a deep crimson in this half-glow, swayed gently, though there was no breeze. The whispering intensified, a thousand overlapping voices that made no sense at all, just a swirl of half-formed syllables.

Finn reached out to grab the curtain’s edge. His hand trembled, but he pulled it back in one swift motion. The fabric glided aside.

Behind it stood a figure, slumped and motionless. At first, Finn’s mind told him it must be Sir Richard’s body again, as in real life. But it wasn’t Sir Richard. His heart lurched, dread coiling in his stomach. The figure’s hair was a burnished red, fanned out over the collar of a jacket he recognized too well. Amelia. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale.

“No,” he gasped, stumbling back. Amelia's face was drained of color, a slight smear of blood at the corner of her mouth. For a split second, her eyelids twitched, as if she might wake, but then her body sagged further.

Finn tried to scream her name, but his voice wouldn't come. The study’s walls seemed to close in on him, the flickering lamp overhead dimming to a single pinpoint of light. He reached out, wanting to touch her, to see if there was any life left, but his limbs felt like lead. The whispering turned into a roaring hush.

Suddenly, the entire dream world flickered as though someone had switched off a projector. The study warped, the curtains vanished. Then another voice cut through the cacophony—a playful, real-world voice.

“Wakey-wakey,” it said, followed by a soft thump against his cheek.

Finn’s eyes flew open. He was in bed, tangled in rumpled sheets, his heart pounding. His mind took a few seconds to comprehend the transition from nightmare to morning. Someone was hitting him in the face with a pillow, a light, teasing smack. He blinked the last vestiges of dream from his eyes.

Amelia stood by the bedside, half-dressed in jeans and a simple t-shirt, her hair swept up in a quick ponytail. She wore a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes—eyes that were very much alive and bright. Relief and disorientation crashed over him in equal measure.

“You looked like you were wrestling a ghost,” she remarked, giving him one more gentle pillow thwack. “And you’re clearly not winning.”

Finn exhaled in a rush, heart still hammering. “It was… a dream,” he managed, pushing himself upright. “A nightmare about that club. I… saw you—” He bit back the rest, not wanting to place that image into words.

Amelia gave him a curious look. “A dream about me? Keep those thoughts to yourself, mister.”

He forced a chuckle that came out shaky. “It was… intense,” he settled on, rubbing his eyes. He tried to steady his breathing, reminding himself that the real Amelia stood safe and unhurt in front of him.

She tossed the pillow onto the bed, then checked her watch. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to get ready, or it won’t just be a pillow fight.”

He raised an eyebrow, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Fifteen minutes? Why so pressing?”

Amelia’s smile faded to a more serious expression. “We just got word there’s been another murder.”

Finn stared at her. The dream’s residual horror still clawed at him, but now reality hit like a cold slap. “Another… from the same killer? Something to do with Sir Richard’s death?”

“We’re not sure,” she admitted, grabbing a jacket from a nearby chair. “Rob called while you were still thrashing in your sleep. He wants us at the new scene ASAP.”

A swirl of dread and determination churned inside Finn’s gut. One murder at The Monarch Club was bad enough, but a second homicide—? He sighed, finally pushing himself off the bed. “Alright. Let’s do it.” But a hint of dryness returned to his voice. “Though you might have to drive if I don’t get my act together. I’m not sure my old corvette and I can handle an adrenaline rush quite yet.”

She snorted. “Don’t tempt me. Your car is a marvel of questionable engineering, but I’m more than happy to get behind the wheel. But at least shower first. You’re practically drenched in sweat.”

He ran a hand over his forehead, discovering it was indeed damp. “Fair enough,” he muttered, heading toward the bathroom. At the threshold, he paused and glanced back. Amelia was zipping up her boots, evidently ready for action. He hesitated, wanting to say something about the nightmare, about the image of her crumpled behind those curtains. But the moment felt fragile.

She sensed his gaze. “You okay?” she asked, gentler now.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Just groggy.”

She straightened. “I'll make you a coffee while you're in the shower.” Her tone suggested she’d guessed the gist of his nightmare—Finn was never good at hiding worry. “Now hurry. We’ve got a crime scene waiting for us.”