Chapter 1 - The Observation

A Dark Psychological Horror. (CW: Graphic violence, medical horror, and mature themes. 18+)

---

---

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Earlier that morning, my assistant Claire handed me the documents for signing, but they remained untouched for almost an hour. My arms felt sluggish, and the walls of the clinic seemed to move closer, smothering and foggy. The smell of the clinic disappeared; even the sound of the people outside seemed drowned out by the isolation and the voices in my head.

The most dominant sound was my mother’s concern about my future. I was trying to protect my sanity from my family’s expectations, especially Papa’s. Mother had been relentless in urging me to settle down with someone, an idea I had repeatedly rejected. To her, thirty-three was a deadline, a biological expiration date she believed I was ignoring.

She would never understand my reasons for objecting. Unbeknownst to her, I had already shifted my focus to someone else. I saw this woman in the quiet section of a bookstore while I was browsing an art book. I could still see the fine layer of dust she disturbed as she moved along the shelves. I even remembered the cashier, a girl with hair like rusted copper, standing irrelevant in the background while my focus narrowed onto her.

I kept my distance, content with the silence of a birdwatcher. She lacked the weary gaze of the women I had tracked before. Her frame was steadier, not hardened by flaws or stress. Her skin is supple and glowing, with no visible lines. Some people might say online dating was better at meeting new people, but I never had the patience to try. I preferred to see the canvas in the flesh rather than interact through chat.

One day, I followed her after an errand. She stayed at a café on Rue de Rivoli for an hour, reading. I sat there as a customer and watched her from across the room. I planned to do it again, leaving early that evening, though I wasn’t sure if she would be there.

Meanwhile, as I was deep in thought, the sound of the intercom suddenly rang, disrupting the silence. It was my assistant’s voice; the static almost reverberated in my head.

“Doctor Hoffmann? Miss Crawford booked an appointment for tomorrow morning. Should I inform her that you’re unavailable and move it to Wednesday instead?” she asked.

“Yes, please. I’ll be in Berlin tomorrow,” I said, crossing my arms. “And please note that I’ll be at the Langenbeck-Virchow-Haus.”

“Got it,” Claire said, typing the details on her laptop. “I’ll update your calendar.”

“By the way, I’ll be leaving early for a personal matter.” I paused and smiled. “Before I go, didn’t you mention you had a commitment to attend this evening?”

“Yes, Doctor, I was just preparing,” she murmured, her tone dropping to a shy whisper.

“I see. Have a wonderful time, and please don’t forget to email me a detailed research report on Class I psychotropics for the conference,” I said, disconnecting the line.

Before leaving, I finally signed the documents, organized them, and checked my email. I rehearsed the time and my routine, just in case I forgot something. Most of my colleagues were trauma surgeons, working more than twelve hours a day. I had not chosen a career that would collide with my personal time.

In the next room, my assistant was still typing at her keyboard, her eyes fixed on the monitor. Small pink feline figurines cluttered her desk. Patient files were piled on the side, a chart hung on the wall, and more documents were organized inside a glass cabinet. Claire looked up and smiled when she noticed me hanging my coat on the rack. I waved before closing the door behind me; she gave a quick nod and went back to her typing.

In the hallway, Doctor Halbrecht spotted me, waved with a smile, and came over.

“You leaving early, Lucian?” he asked, smirking. His face was sweaty.

“Yes, I’ll be running a personal errand,” I said, my tone dry.

“Okay,” Doctor Halbrecht responded, wiping his face with a checkered handkerchief. “I wish I were an ENT surgeon so I could leave early.”

He laughed, giving me a quick grin before returned to the nursing station. Their eyes darted in my direction as I stepped into the elevator, their smiles almost distorted in contrast to the white-painted walls of the hallway. I had never trusted my co-surgeons, even when they tried to be friendly. It felt rehearsed; their laughter was more of an insult than genuine amusement. I was the last person to enjoy their little get-togethers. I wasn’t going to waste my time with them when I could just be with Rose. Their voices faded as the door closed.

On Rue de Rivoli, the low evening sun glinted off the shop windows, casting a harsh amber glare. By this time, I had already changed my clothes into a large grey parka, along with thick-framed glasses and brown checkered trousers. In case a municipal camera ever captured me, I had placed a small, flat stone beneath the heel of my right shoe to fake a limp.

At the café, there was a long line of people, and the barista stood at the register, frantically taking orders. Meanwhile, I kept on gazing at the crowd, looking for Rose, my eyebrows narrowing, hoping she was there. When it was my turn, the barista greeted me and quickly took my order.

While waiting for my name to be called, I sat near the bookshelves, holding a newspaper, scanning the crowd. I almost did not recognize her because she was wearing cat-eye glasses. She tied her golden hair in a ponytail and wore a baby-blue satin dress.

Fifteen minutes later, I was called back to the counter.

“Double espresso for Jean!” the barista called.

Returning to my chair, my eyes never left her corner. Her reflection flickered in the window.

Rose sat there quietly, unbothered. Her figure held the stillness and beauty of Aphrodite, and her profile caught the light like a subject in a Renaissance oil painting. Eventually, her focus will be exclusively on me.

It wasn’t hard for me to learn her name. Monsieur Robert, her manager who always called on her loudly, was the cause. I wondered if she ever noticed just how grim her life was. One time, I caught him touching her shoulders while she was busy arranging books, just behind the back door. Rose suddenly stopped, stiffened from his touch, and the books fell to the floor. Her face faltered as she drifted away. I didn’t stop him, though my fingers dug into my palm and my jaw tightened.

Her name was like a broken jazz record, looping relentlessly in the back of my head. I even dreamed about her. She was with me, with her books, as if we were living together. I was contemplating our future together, not as husband and wife, because that felt too performative. It was more than that.

An hour had passed; Rose’s notebook lay open, her eyes wandering over the scattered scribbles. She touched her chin with an index finger, as if deep in thought. I took a slow sip of my coffee, letting my eyes pass over her in a way that wouldn’t draw attention.

She reached into her bag for her cellphone and opened her messages, a soft laugh slipping out at whatever she read. The sound was faint, almost lost beneath the low hum of the café.

I finished my coffee, set the cup down, and continued to observe her. Rose finally packed up her things, pulled several bills from her pocket and left them in the tip jar, and left.

I trailed her from behind, keeping my distance by ducking down a parallel street. Already familiar with the area, I used the alleyways to outpace her, careful not to draw a glance. When she finally stepped onto the pavement, I was waiting, tucked into the shadows of an old building, pulling out a camera to capture her every movement. As Rose turned and walked away, I followed, keeping myself hidden in a dark alley. My eyes quickly scanned the area for bystanders while I moved in her direction, my hand slipping into my pocket to pull out a handkerchief, pretending to wipe my face.

Then I shifted my attention back to Rose. She was caught up in her phone, still unaware of my presence, her arms clinging to her shoulder bag, until she vanished into her apartment building. She lived in an old building, completely unadapted for modern security.

I stopped for a moment, cautious of the area. I immediately moved to the other side of the building and checked the mailboxes to learn which floor she lived on. The apartment was an eight-story building, and finding Rose’s mailbox was a struggle; there were two Fontaines living there. One mailbox was labeled R. Fontaine, 412, and the other W. Fontaine, 622. Assuming that R. Fontaine was hers, I quickly checked the other Fontaine before anyone returned to the building. It belonged to a William Fontaine.

After an hour had passed, my eyes became dry and heavy. I had a sudden impulse to knock on her door and introduce myself, because I was certain she would like me. But I knew it was too early to do that, and I might run into someone who knew her. Just the thought of another man in her life made me feel resentful. Of course, I never wanted her to be touched by another man before I even had the chance.

Back at the Louvre, tourists swarmed the area, captivated by the grandeur around them. They snapped photographs here and there. I passed them, letting their laughter fade behind me as I made my way to the parking lot.

At 20:00, I was in the study and continued searching for Rose on the internet, expecting to find something of importance. There were several other Rose Fontaines in the search results, but I still managed to find her social media account.

The account itself was dormant. The last post had been five years ago. There were tagged photos shared by a profile named Alena Ivanov. Using a fabricated account, I clicked on Alena’s profile and moved through her albums. In a photo from 2021, I found a group picture where Rose’s head was tilted back in a genuine laugh, her hand resting on a girl’s shoulder with a familiarity she hadn’t shown anyone in Paris.

Further down the timeline, the tone shifted.

A comment thread caught my attention.

“WHORE. SLUT.”

The words sat on the screen like an open mouth mid-scream. The account belonged to Yvonne Lee. She had been part of the same circle. Group photos confirmed it, and each face was neatly tagged with their names. Rose had not been an outsider. She had been inside something that later turned against her. The accusation was predictable.

Another photograph held my focus longer than the rest. Rose stood beside a man identified as Franz Moroz. He was tall, brown-haired, athletic, and blue-eyed, the type who mistook arrogance for confidence. He had his arm around her waist, possessive and familiar. Seeing Rose with a man I considered beneath her was a shock. I had not expected her to lower herself to this riffraff. A sharp stab of anger pierced my chest; I was so revolted. It was unexpected that Rose would allow this.

Certain ideas crawled into my head; they almost choked me. If Rose were here, I would remove that man’s presence from her life. She did not need anyone. Not ever. And I wondered if this Franz Moroz had ever visited her in France, and whether they were still in contact. The thoughts spiraled. I had to know.

The thoughts disrupted my focus. My hand was trembling as I gripped it. Forcing the thoughts out of my system, I continued scrolling down her feed, where older photos surfaced. Childhood photographs. A modest birthday celebration. Rose sat on a woman’s lap, and a man clapped nearby, smiling with unguarded pride. I assumed these people were her parents. The location metadata pointed to Polotsk, Belarus. An aging neighborhood.

Her family did not appear wealthy; they seemed ordinary. Before I retired for the night, I looked up her neighbor, William Fontaine. Filtering the search by the address and name, and the university letter I had found in the mail, I discovered that he was a deceased professor who had an only son who lived in Italy and was not related to Rose.

In the bedroom, sleep never came easily because my mind was still clouded with visions of him touching her. I had to take a pill.

Early in the morning, I got up, started packing, and left at 04:00. At that hour, the Paris streets were a skeletal version of themselves, allowing me to reach Charles de Gaulle well ahead of my 07:00 flight. The conference at Langenbeck-Virchow-Haus was scheduled to begin precisely at 11:00. I had no intention of being late. Because I knew the three of us were invited to the conference, only I showed up. Weber and I were the candidates to be promoted, but she suffered from a chronic lack of discipline, and her total collapse of professional decorum with Halbrecht served as the final proof of her unsuitability. I did not think that he would put in a good word for her.

The terminal was already surging with the morning rush, a sea of travelers dragging suitcases like heavy anchors. I bypassed them entirely, following the red SkyPriority signage toward the dedicated Business Class check-in area. I would not bore myself with waiting.

The flight was uneventful. After almost two hours of travel, I arrived in Berlin. Outside the airport, I hailed a cab. The driver helped me with my luggage, and I settled into the back seat.

At the conference, Doctor Weiss was finalizing his presentation notes. I seated myself near the front, alongside surgeons from various international clinics. By 11:00, the Langenbeck-Virchow-Haus was at capacity, the air thick with the scent of espresso and the rustle of leather-bound files.

The session lasted three hours before the first break.

“Doctor Hoffmann, you made it to Berlin. How are you finding the symposium so far?” a colleague asked.

“It’s good, thanks to our researchers. The expected results for the clinical trials were highly encouraging for Phase III. But honestly, I’m here to support Doctor Weiss. He was a remarkable mentor,” I said, nodding as I held a cup of coffee.

“Ja, excuse me. I’m Doctor Bauer.” He reached out his hand.

I extended my hand, but Bauer’s grip was an unnecessary display of force that felt more like restraint than greeting. He held my gaze with a fixity that was almost pathological, as if he were assessing me.

“Herr Doctor Weiss has a keen eye for potential, ja? He always mentions you as a future mentor, a senior,” he said, his voice calm but reassured. “I had to see it for myself. Your palms say it all. Congratulations.”

Everyone here seemed buried in their own lack of observation. Naturally, I was the only one with true potential, and perhaps that was the only thing I wanted to know.

“Danke,” I said, turning my attention to the other doctors before looking back at him. “But I hadn’t thought of that. I was simply dedicated.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, before leaving.

That afternoon, following the conference, I occupied an empty chair at a café and had a quick lunch. I repeatedly checked the time. The long wait made my eyes feel heavier, and I was almost falling asleep, so I bought another cup. Exhaustion had been taking over me, and even the background noise felt more pronounced. When the bell chimed four times, I stood up and left for the airport to catch my flight back to Paris. I wondered what Rose was doing at this hour. If it weren’t for that promotion, I wouldn’t have attended this conference. But my position was no longer a matter of debate; it was an established fact.

It was midnight when I got back to the manor. My limbs were fatigued. After a quick shower, I went straight to bed.

The next morning, the groundskeeper, Mr. Dubois, was already pruning the hedges. I called his attention before leaving.

“Mr. Dubois, can you please instruct Mrs. Moreau to buy some groceries this afternoon and also get new flower seeds for the garden?” I instructed before starting the engine of the car.

“Oui, Doctor Hoffmann. Which particular flower seeds would you like in the garden?” Mr. Dubois asked.

“Asters,” I responded, then left.

I departed the manor at exactly 06:00, driving my car to the hospital.

On the boulevard, two vehicles had collided, a mess of shattered glass and twisted metal born from a biker’s impatient overtaking. A loud whistle pierced the air from the sidewalk, where a traffic enforcer waved his hands frantically at the swelling tide of motorists. I glanced at my wristwatch, counting the seconds lost to the chaos.

Just a few blocks’ walk, or should I wait for this traffic to clear?

I maneuvered the car into a public parking lot, then stepped out and continued on foot. A crowd had gathered around the two motorists as they traded insults, while a traffic enforcer wrote a ticket. Impatient horns blared, adding to the chaos.

The cold morning air brushed against my face as I moved along the sidewalk. Leaves swayed peacefully, a stark contrast to the commotion around me.

When I reached the hospital, people were lined up along the hallway. Nurses moved briskly back and forth, assisting patients as they went.

“Good morning, Doctor Hoffmann,” Doctor Elie Weber greeted, her usual demeanor seeming a little more positive today.

“Morning, Doctor Weber.” She followed me to the elevator, clearly trying to start a conversation.

“Have you seen Weiss’s assistant? She nearly handed me a sedative instead of a chart this morning. I don’t know where her head is, but it certainly isn’t in the ENT ward,” she said, her left hand holding a freshly bought coffee.

“Maybe the girl was just nervous, or it was her first job,” I responded, staring at the elevator’s LCD screen as I waited impatiently to reach my floor. Though I didn’t really care about the person she was referring to, I had to respond to her nonsense.

“You’re too nice, bless your heart. But I’m not sure about that, because she always seemed to be preoccupied,” she murmured. “If she were my assistant, she wouldn’t last a week.”

“What a tragedy,” I replied, clearing my throat, trying to cut through this gibberish nonsense. “She should consult you, Doctor, to be more efficient.”

She scoffed at my remark and stared at the LCD screen. “This is my floor. Bye, Doctor Hoffmann.”

I watched her as the elevator doors closed. I couldn’t help but laugh at her reaction. She was insufferable.

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

---

---

Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.