The rain drizzled down in fine, chilling needles, soaking Ghost and Soap as they examined the crime scene, their breaths visible in the damp night air. They both stood in the bedroom, a sense of haunting silence lingering, even though police tape fluttered in the doorway and forensic officers scurried in and out. The room was a stark contrast to the horror it contained—a woman lay lifeless on the bed, her face pale, an expression of terror frozen in her open, vacant eyes.

A search of the victim’s belongings revealed little—credit cards, scattered notes, and a half-packed suitcase. It was only when Soap nudged open a drawer and uncovered an old, battered journal with a lock and dark sticker-peppered cover that things took a chilling turn. It was unmistakably the diary of a teenager, likely the missing child mentioned in initial reports. They exchanged glances, Soap’s face a mix of curiosity and worry.

Flipping through the pages, Ghost noted the writing. The entries started out simple, everyday observations from the teen boy—mundane remarks about school, idle thoughts about the neighbors, mentions of a distant but supportive mother. But the tone seemed off somehow. Even in recounting joyful or sad moments, there was a cold detachment, a flatness that struck Ghost as eerie. It was as if the boy were documenting his life not as a participant, but as a distant observer.

Then, as Ghost turned to more recent entries, the tone shifted starkly. A trace of fear seeped into the words, his thoughts marked by a growing tension and paranoia. Entries hinted at whispered conversations overheard in the hall, shadowy figures lingering by the front door, and glances exchanged with his mother that he couldn't fully interpret but found unsettling. “She’s hiding something,” one entry read. “Mom thinks I don’t see it, but I know she’s scared. I’m scared too.”