All Chapters of Until The Last Day: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The mirror shook. Camela’s breath caught in her throat. Her reflection stood still, her eyes wide open and her face pale. But behind her, a shadow loomed—a tall figure of a man with the red glove glowing like fire. “No,” she whispered, backing away unsteadily. “Not here…not again.” The overhead lights hummed too brightly, feeling too real. The scent of dust and smoke lingered in her room. She was awake; this was reality. She could feel the rough floor beneath her bare feet and hear her own heartbeat. This wasn’t the void. This wasn’t a dream. He was inside. Her hand darted towards the door, but she froze when the man’s voice filled the silence—low, sharp, and certain: “Bride.” The word struck like a knife piercing through her. Her legs trembled. “You don’t belong here,” she responded.The man didn't move, his face stayed hidden in darkness, but he raised the glove higher. Its red surface shimmered in the light like blood. Camela pressed her back against the wall. “Vincent…” he

The sirens faded away. The officers had left. Camela stood at her apartment door, her fingers shaking so much that she almost dropped her keys. The street was quiet now, but it wasn’t the kind of comforting quiet. It was the kind that pressed against her ears, making her heart beat louder than the sound of her footsteps. She touched the scar on her chest, which still felt hot and pulsing. Her whisper broke the silence. “Don’t…don’t follow me here…” But deep down, she knew he already had. Camela inserted the key into the lock, and it turned too easily. She froze and breathed out, “It was locked. It was locked.” Her hand trembled as she pushed the door open. The hinges creaked slowly and heavily, as if something was waking up. The hallway light flickered on. Then she saw it—a single red stain smeared across the white paint on her front door. It wasn’t words or a handprint; just a thick stroke, like a brush dipped in blood dragged across her home. Her knees felt weak, and she stu

The first sound she heard was the rustling of paper. Camela’s eyes shot open. She gasped for air as if she had just been rescued from drowning. She sat up straight, her hands gripping the bed sheets tightly. The scar on her chest burned hot and then gradually cooled down. She looked around. It was her room—the real one: white walls, a cracked ceiling, and the faint dripping sound of water from the bathroom sink. The window stood open with the curtains fluttering in the night wind. This was reality. For a long moment, she stayed still. Her fingers clenched the blanket tightly, worried that if she moved even a little, everything would vanish again and she would fall back into darkness. “Vincent?” she whispered. There was no response but silence. Her throat felt tight. She placed her hand over her scar to steady her breathing. She was here; she was alive. But he wasn’t here. Then—she saw something. On the desk by the window lay a small package. It was wrapped in plain brown pape

The scream broke the silence. Camela’s eyes snapped open. She realized she wasn’t in the void or the ghost's chamber. Instead, she was lying on her bed, the sheets were sweaty and the scar on her chest burned like fire beneath her skin. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as if she had been running for hours. Outside her window, she could hear birds chirping, cars passing by in the street, and a dog barking. Reality hit her. She pressed her trembling hands against her chest and whispered hoarsely to herself, “...I’m back.” The door creaked open. Her heart raced. For a brief moment, she feared it would be him—the shadowy figure, the ghost, the stranger with the glove. But it was only her mother, with her hair tied back and a worried expression on her face. “Camela? You’re awake?” she softly asked.Camela stared at her, unable to speak. Her mother hurried to her side and placed a hand on her forehead. “You’re burning up! You were screaming again last night. I almost called the doc

The air felt unusually fresh. Camela sat upright in bed, her heart racing and the sheets sticking to her sweaty skin. Morning sunlight streamed through the blinds—real sunlight, not the eerie red light from the ghost’s realm. There were no chains, no screams, and no locked doors. She pressed her palms against her face and murmured, “I’m here. I’m here. This is real.” However, the scar on her chest throbbed like a silent mark of pain. The clock on the wall ticked steadily and harmlessly. She should have felt safe, yet her chest tightened as if the shadows still lurked in the corners, waiting for her to look away. Her phone buzzed with a message from a number she barely recognized: “First day today. Don’t be late. People are counting on you.” Camela let out a slow breath. Her new job was part of the deal, a chance to live as someone else: Elira—a new name and a new face in the crowd nobody needed to know the truth. But the words Vincent had last spoken to her echoed in her head: