Chapter 1 — The Perfect Facade

Clara

The faint hum of the city below seeped through the glass walls of my apartment. I sat at the edge of my bed, staring at my Precision Watch. Its smooth, stainless steel surface gleamed under the ceiling light, casting a cold, sterile glow. The second hand ticked forward with mechanical precision. I inhaled slowly, counting the seconds, syncing my breath to its rhythm. Order. Control. Everything had its place.

6:30 AM. Two hours before the office. Enough time to rehearse the presentation again. This wasn’t just another project—it was a defining one. The downtown cultural center could cement my reputation as not just competent, but visionary. Success would be more than professional accolades; it would silence the whispers, the doubts I pretended not to hear.

I pushed myself off the bed. My heels clicked against the polished hardwood floor as I moved to the kitchen, each step deliberate, measured. The air carried the faint lavender from the diffuser I ran every night—calming, neutral, predictable. I poured black coffee into a white ceramic mug, the liquid steaming faintly. No sugar, no cream. The first sip burned my tongue, sharp and grounding.

The laptop was already open on the marble counter, displaying my slides. I scrolled through them, muttering key points under my breath. My voice was calm, deliberate. I pictured their faces—nodding, impressed, maybe even smiling. This wasn’t just about the project; it was about proving, yet again, that I was untouchable.

By 7:45, I was dressed. Tailored gray slacks, a crisp white blouse, and a black blazer. My hair was swept into its usual neat bun, not a strand out of place. I stood before the full-length mirror by the door, scanning my reflection. My gray eyes met my own gaze, sharp and unyielding. A faint smudge of mascara framed them, just enough to appear polished but not ostentatious. Perfect. Controlled. Professional.

The elevator carried me to the lobby in smooth silence. A neighbor nodded politely as I stepped out, and I returned the gesture, my smile automatic. Outside, the city greeted me with its usual chaos—honking cars, hurried footsteps, the faint metallic whine of the tram gliding down the tracks. The air was crisp, tinged with the metallic scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. I tightened my grip on my leather bag and wove through the crowd toward the office.

The architecture firm occupied the 32nd floor of a sleek glass tower downtown. Its reflective surface mirrored the overcast sky, a perfect facade hiding the relentless ambition within. As I stepped into the open-concept office, the hum of conversation and the sharp clatter of keyboards surrounded me. My colleagues barely glanced up as I passed. Good. I preferred it that way.

“Morning, Clara.”

I turned to see Mark leaning against the edge of my desk. His tie was slightly askew, and his usual crooked smile played at his lips.

“Morning,” I replied, setting my bag down. My tone was clipped, signaling I wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

“Big day, huh? The cultural center presentation?”

I nodded. “Yes. And I have a lot to finalize before the meeting.”

“Right, of course.” He straightened, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Well, good luck. Not that you need it.”

“Thanks,” I said, my smile tight.

Mark lingered a moment longer, his presence a faint irritation, before finally walking away. I let out a breath and slid into my chair, opening my laptop.

Mark’s casual demeanor grated at me. How could someone approach their work so carelessly? His desk always looked like a tornado had hit it, papers scattered, coffee-stained sketches peeking out from under piles of folders. It was a stark contrast to my own: clean, orderly, efficient. Some of his ideas had merit, but he lacked follow-through. I didn’t have time to indulge his inefficiencies today.

The minutes blurred into a flurry of emails, last-minute adjustments, and mental rehearsals. I checked my watch periodically, the steady tick grounding me.

Then I saw her.

She stood at the far end of the office, partially turned away. Her dark brown hair spilled loosely over her shoulders, a striking contrast to my tightly bound bun. Her posture was relaxed, almost languid, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. For a moment, I thought I was looking into a mirror—she looked exactly like me. But the resemblance ended there.

Something about her presence was… wrong. A chill ran down my spine as I stared, my chest tightening. The office noise faded into the background, my focus narrowing to her. She turned slightly, just enough for me to glimpse her smirk—confident, almost mocking.

I blinked.

She was gone.

The empty space where she had stood felt wrong, like a gap in a puzzle I hadn’t noticed until now. My breath quickened. I shook my head, forcing myself to dismiss it. A trick of the light. Stress. Lack of sleep. I didn’t have time for distractions.

The presentation went exactly as planned. The board members nodded approvingly, their questions easily deflected by my rehearsed answers. My voice was steady, my gestures deliberate. By the time I returned to my desk, the tension in my shoulders had eased slightly. Another success. Another point scored in the endless, invisible game I played with myself.

But even as I packed up for the day, that strange feeling tugged at the edges of my mind. The smirk. The chill. The gap in the room where she had stood.

The walk home was a blur of noise and movement. The city seemed louder than usual—car horns blaring, voices shouting, the rumble of the tram echoing through the streets. I tightened my grip on my bag and quickened my pace, eager to shut out the chaos.

When I stepped into my apartment, the sterile silence greeted me like an old friend. I set my bag down and kicked off my heels, flexing my toes against the cold floor. Relief washed over me in a wave, but it was short-lived.

A note sat on the counter.

Three words, written in my handwriting.

“It’s my turn.”

My chest tightened. I looked around the apartment, half-expecting to see someone lurking in the shadows. But everything was as I had left it—immaculate, untouched.

I picked up the note. The paper was smooth, uncreased, as though it had just been placed there. I turned it over, but there was nothing else. Just those three words, taunting me.

My fingers trembled as I reached for my watch, desperate for its steady rhythm to anchor me. But the second hand was off. It ticked forward, then back, caught in a loop.

Impossible.

The Precision Watch never malfunctioned.

I checked the locks on my door, then the windows, moving methodically, my breath shallow. Every latch was secure. Every surface was pristine. And yet, the air felt heavier, the faint hum of the city below louder, more insistent.

I clenched the note in my fist, my knuckles whitening. This was nothing. A mistake. A coincidence. There was no reason to panic. No reason to lose control.

But as I stood there in the sterile silence, the words echoed in my mind, relentless and unshakable.

“It’s my turn.”