He should run. Leave. Call someone. But something about that voice—her plea—anchored him in place. “Ma’am?” he tried again, forcing the words out. “I’m going to open the door.” He pushed it slowly. The hinges groaned. Inside, the bathroom was pitch-black, the only light coming from the faint glow of the hallway behind him. The tub sat half-filled with murky water, rippling faintly though the air was still. Then he saw it. A hand—wrinkled and pale—rose from the water, fingers trembling. Vincent lunged forward. “I’ve got you!” he shouted, grabbing her wrist. But the moment his skin met hers, the water went still—solid, like glass. Her hand stiffened beneath his grip, and her face emerged just beneath the surface, eyes wide open. Not breathing. Not alive. He stumbled backward, gasping. The reflection in the water shifted. The woman’s face was still there—but it wasn’t hers anymore. It was his.