The Healer of Hollow Street

Chapter 4 — Shadows in the Glass

The rain returned to London like an uninvited guest, soft at first, then relentless. Hollow Street gleamed beneath the streetlamps, a mirror of blurred halos and restless ghosts.

Maya Thompson sat in her car, fingers tapping her laptop keyboard, eyes flicking between open tabs: Dempsey Foundation, Project Seraph, Marcus Cole.

Nothing concrete, just whispers buried in the corners of medical journals and black-budget rumors. “Come on,” she muttered. “Who funds you?”

Her phone buzzed. Private number. She hesitated, then answered. “Thompson.”

A man’s voice. Smooth, low. “You’re looking in the wrong places, Ms. Thompson.”

“Who is this?”

“Someone who knows what happened to Marcus Cole. Stop digging, or you’ll end up like him.”

The line went dead. Maya stared at her reflection in the rain-streaked window, eyes sharp, jaw set. “Guess I’m in the right place, then.”

Across the city, Rashford packed a duffel bag in silence. “Where are you going?” his mother asked from the doorway.

“Somewhere quiet.”

“Running doesn’t make shadows disappear.”

“They already found us once.”

Evelyn reached out, gripping his wrist. “Your father thought he could outrun them too. But he left me with nothing but a folded coat and a funeral no one could attend.”

Rashford swallowed hard. “I’m not him.”

“No,” she whispered. “You’re better. That’s why they’re afraid.”

He looked down at her frail hands. “I’ll call every night.”

“You won’t have to if you stay alive.”

He hugged her tightly, then stepped into the rain. By dawn, Rashford was on the train to Brighton, far enough to disappear for a while, close enough to return if needed.

His phone vibrated again and again. Unknown numbers. Reporters. Strangers. Offers. He switched it off and stared out the window.

The reflection in the glass shifted, and for a split second, he saw someone else staring back. A man in a dark coat with pale eyes. Then it was gone.

He rubbed his face. “Sleep. I need sleep.”

But sleep didn’t come. Only the low hum of his pulse, echoing like static.

Meanwhile, Maya’s car rolled through Southbank’s business district. She’d traced the last known location of “Dempsey” to a glass tower labeled Rovian Biotech, a front for half a dozen shell foundations.

She parked across the street, camera ready, pretending to sip coffee while snapping photos of every ID badge that entered.

Her phone rang again, this time a familiar voice. “Cole speaking.”

“Rashford? You actually answered.”

“I saw something on that train, Maya. I think they’re following me.”

“Describe it.”

“A reflection. Wrong face.”

“You’re just tired.”

“No. I’ve seen that face before, when I was a kid. The night my father died.”

Maya’s breath caught. “You remember it?”

“Every second.”

“Then I need you to tell me everything.”

“Not over the phone. Brighton Station. One hour.”

Maya grabbed her camera bag and bolted. Traffic snarled along the Thames, horns blaring, rain turning to mist. She slipped through alleys until she reached her car.

As she started the engine, the passenger door clicked open. She froze. Dempsey sat beside her, umbrella still dripping. “Ms. Thompson,” he said pleasantly. “You’re persistent.”

“Get out of my car.”

He ignored the command, glancing at her laptop. “Curiosity is dangerous. Especially when it exposes operations best left unseen.”

“You mean Project Seraph?”

His smile didn’t waver. “That word shouldn’t be in your vocabulary.”

“You can threaten me, Mr. Dempsey, but I’ve got backups. If anything happens to me”

He chuckled. “No one needs to harm you. You’ll stop on your own.”

“Because I’m scared?”

“Because the truth isn’t what you think.”

Before she could answer, he opened the door and vanished into the rain. Her heart hammered. She looked at the seat, dry. No wet marks. No trace he’d been there at all.

Rashford waited outside Brighton Station, hood up, duffel at his feet. The air smelled of salt and diesel. He scanned the platform. No sign of Maya.

A voice behind him said, “Expecting someone?”

He turned. Dempsey again. “How do you keep finding me?” Rashford asked.

“Because you’re not hiding. You’re walking straight toward us.”

“You mean your ‘foundation’?”

“Call it what you want. But your power isn’t a gift, Mr. Cole. It’s a remnant.”

Rashford frowned. “Of what?”

“Something your father helped create.”

“Liar.”

Dempsey smiled faintly. “Ask yourself why your hands burn after every healing. Why you see faces in reflections.”

Rashford’s voice hardened. “You think fear will make me join you?”

“I think truth will.”

Dempsey held out a small black cube no bigger than a matchbox. “Place your hand here. See for yourself.”

Rashford hesitated, then, before he could move, a shout broke through the air. “Rash!”

Maya came running from the station steps, breathless, soaked. “Don’t touch it!” she yelled.

Rashford looked at her, then at Dempsey. But Dempsey was gone. Only the cube remained, sitting on the wet pavement, humming softly. “Did you see where he went?” Maya gasped.

Rashford shook his head. “He was right here.”

She crouched beside the cube, camera flashing. “What is that thing?”

“I don’t know. But I think it’s alive.”

The cube pulsed once, then unfolded like origami, panels sliding apart to reveal a glowing, liquid core. Maya stepped back. “Is it…breathing?”

Rashford reached toward it. The glow flared, reflecting in his eyes. Images flickered, his father’s face, a hospital room, a child screaming, a symbol carved into glass: SERAPH-7.

He stumbled backward, shaking. “What did you see?” Maya demanded.

“My father,” he whispered. “He was working with them.”

“Working… how?”

“Testing on people. On me.”

The cube dimmed, then dissolved into nothing, just a wisp of silver mist curling away into the air. Maya stared at him. “Rashford, whatever this is, it’s bigger than a miracle. It’s a cover-up.”

He exhaled, trembling. “Then we tear it open.”

That night, they hid in a cheap hostel near the pier. Wind rattled the window. The sea outside was black glass.

Maya sat on the bed, typing furiously. “If we leak this, Seraph-7, the foundation, your father, someone will notice.”

“They already have,” Rashford said quietly, pulling the curtains shut. “They always do.”

“Then we move fast.”

He turned toward her, eyes haunted. “You said you wanted a story. This one might kill us both.”

Maya’s voice was steady. “Then let’s make it worth dying for.”

Lightning flashed outside, and for an instant their reflections merged in the window, two silhouettes surrounded by shadows. But behind them, just visible in the glass, stood a third. Watching.