Chapter 2: The Impossible Return

Alister sat at his desk, pretending to review old research papers, but his mind raced. Marcus Kingsley was still babbling about hospital gossip, but it was just noise. Alister was stuck on one thing: Lily’s body was gone from the observatory. He had left her there, arranged like a gruesome floral centerpiece, but then the police found nothing. Just the scent of ozone and odd humming sounds, Marcus had said. Alister clenched his jaw. Those police incompetents, they must have missed something. Or maybe they did not understand what they were looking for? After all, his art was for the connoisseur, not for some average policeman. He thought that this was the most logical explanation. No one could have known. No one could have moved her. That was just impossible. He was too good at this kind of thing.

He had started small, just to scratch that itch. Years ago, it was rats, then stray cats. Their little systems, so fragile, so temporary. He explored their insides, just basic anatomy at first. It calmed him when the world felt too loud, too disorganized. Then it became more complex, more refined. He moved to larger animals. Each time, he pushed the boundaries more and more. He wanted to see how far he could go while keeping it all so neatly hidden. He learned about poisons and sedatives. He also learned about the human body, learning from different anatomy books. He was a master of his craft. He knew how to break a system, how to rearrange it into something new. The transformation, that was the art.

His first human subject, well, that had been an accident. Or what he told himself was an accident. It was a mugger, late one night in a quiet park. Alister had been walking home when the man jumped him. The man had a knife, but Alister had always been prepared. He had a small bottle of a powerful sedative, just in case. He subdued the mugger. He took him back to his basement, and explored him. It was then, when he realized, that human system was so much more intricate, so much more satisfying. The detail, the complexity, the sheer scale of it all compared to a rat. The patterns of the blood, the way the muscles arranged, the delicate workings of the heart. He felt something click inside him. This was his true calling. He was an artist, and the human body was his canvas.

After that, he sought out people, those who wouldn't be missed right away. Travelers, runaways, the lonely ones. He left no trace, nothing to connect him to the disappearances. He always chose his victims carefully, those who would not cause too much of a stir. It was an art form, a dance between creation and concealment. He was the master of both. He thought he was untouchable. He was always in control.

But this, this disappearing act by Lily, was shattering his carefully constructed illusion. His control was slipping. Someone had dared to interfere with his art. He just could not believe it. How could he not have been in control? How could something like that happen? He felt his breath getting heavy. His heart pumped really fast. He must have looked normal, but inside he was a mess, going crazy. The rage was a hot coal in his stomach. He picked up his coffee cup; his hand still trembled a little. He forced himself to take a slow sip. He needed to be calm. He needed to think.

"Did your father mention anything else?" Alister asked Marcus, his voice a little too tight, he thought.

Marcus, lost in his story about some hospital administrator's affair, blinked. "About the observatory? Nah. Just that it was a waste of time. They even sent a few units out, just to be sure. Nothing. Probably just some kids pranking, you know? Like the time someone reported a unicorn sighting in Hyde Park." He chuckled, completely missing Alister's dark mood.

Alister just nodded. A prank. Yes, a prank. A very elaborate, very personal prank. It mocked him. It insulted his art. He had spent hours on Lily. The precise cuts, the placement of the flowers, the delicate staging. It was his finest work yet, a celebration of life and death, vibrant and macabre. And now it was gone. He felt his face twitch. He could feel his eye twitching. His rage was getting harder to contain.

He had to get out of there. The sound of Marcus's voice was an irritating buzzing against his ears. The hospital felt too bright, too public. He needed to be alone, to process this insult, this unheard-of abomination.

"Marcus," Alister said, starting to push back from his desk chair. "I just remembered I have a... an urgent consultation. I need to leave."

"Oh, another one of those top-secret research things, huh?" Marcus grinned, still oblivious. "Alright, mate. Don't work too hard. Remember what I said about getting out more."

Alister just grunted in response. He almost ran out of his office. He nearly crashed into a nurse’s cart in the hallway, but he managed to stop himself just in time. The plastic wheels squeaked loudly against the polished floor, causing a few people to turn their heads. He mumbled a quick apology. He probably looked like a madman to them, rushing like that. His hands were shaking. He could feel it. The rage was burning, but underneath it, a cold, unsettling fear began to creep in.

Someone had stolen his art. That was the first thought. No, that was too simple. Someone had *undone* his art. Reversed it. Made it vanish. This was beyond a simple theft. It questioned his very understanding of the natural order of things. Bodies did not just disappear. Especially bodies that he had specifically prepared for display. A shiver went down his spine. The air in the hospital suddenly felt too thin. He needed to breathe. He needed to get away.

He walked quickly through the hospital corridors, his mind racing. He nodded to colleagues, offering small, strained smiles that he hoped looked normal. He could feel the eyes on him, though, or imagined them. He was paranoid. He was losing it. He was always one step ahead, always in control. This was new. This was horrifying.

He got to his car, fumbling with the keys for a moment before unlocking the door. He threw himself into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut. The confined space felt safer, somehow. A cocoon against the impossible. He started the engine, pulling out of the hospital parking lot without a second glance. He just drove. He needed to go somewhere dark, somewhere quiet, where he could truly think.

He drove aimlessly for a while, the familiar London streets blurring past. He didn't care where he was going. His mind was trying to make sense of something that made no sense at all. Lily was dead. He killed her. He knew he killed her. He had seen the life drain from her eyes. He had felt the axe cut through her. He had arranged her body. There was no doubt in his mind. But then why was she gone? Where was she?

His thoughts drifted from fear to confusion, then to pure, unadulterated fury. Someone was playing a game with him. A sick, twisted game. But who? And why? No one knew his secret. No one. He had been so careful for all these years. His reputation was flawless. Dr. Alister Finch, the philanthropic anatomist. The generous donor. The brilliant researcher. The upstanding citizen. No one suspected the darkness underneath. And he protected that darkness with his life.

He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. This person, whoever they were, had touched his art. They had defiled his masterpiece. This was unforgivable.

He eventually found himself on Carmichael Street. He saw the sign "Lily's Bloom." He stopped his car a few blocks away, hidden in the shadows of a large tree. He knew it was Lily’s flower shop. She had told him the name. He remembered her face when she talked about her shop, all bright and passionate. She had told him she lived above it. His stomach twisted. He expected the shop to be closed, maybe a "For Sale" sign in the window, or a "Gone Fishing" sign. He definitely didn't expect to see a single light on inside. His eyes narrowed.

Who would be there? Her parents, maybe? They would be picking up her things. Or perhaps some friends, mourning her. He felt a flicker of cruel satisfaction. Yes, that was it. They would be grieving. They would be confused. They would be asking questions. And then he would be able to watch it all from afar, a silent observer of the chaos he had wrought.

He sat in the dark car for a long time, watching the shop. The light stayed on. He saw movement inside. A shadow crossed the window. A man? A woman? He could not tell. He felt the cold fear start to creep back in. This wasn't some simple grieving process. This was something else. Something wrong.

He got out of his car, moving slowly, cautiously. He kept to the shadows, his footsteps silent on the pavement. He was like a hunter now, stalking his prey. But who was the prey? And who was the hunter? The lines felt blurred, shifting.

He reached the shop; the door was old, made of wood, painted green. He could see through the window now, into the shop. Rows of flowers, meticulously arranged. Vases filled with vibrant colors. It all looked so normal. Too normal.

He pushed the door open. A small bell tinkled overhead, announcing his presence. The familiar scent of fresh cut flowers hit him, mixed with something earthy, like overturned soil. The shop was small, cozy, and filled with a quiet hum of life. He expected to see strangers, sad-faced relatives. He expected to hear hushed voices.

But then he saw her. She was standing at a counter, her back to him, arranging a bouquet of bright yellow sunflowers. Her hair, that warm brown color, was tied back with a simple ribbon. She hummed a soft tune to herself. It was a familiar tune. She had hummed it last night.

It was Lily.

The blood drained from Alister's face. His heart stopped. He felt like he had been doused in ice water. He stared at her, his vision tunneling. It was impossible. He knew it was impossible. He had killed her. He had felt her last breath. He had taken her life. He was sure of it.

But there she was, alive, humming, arranging sunflowers. The sight of her, so normal, so completely whole, broke something inside him. His carefully constructed gentleman facade shattered, revealing the churning madness beneath. A guttural sound escaped his throat. It was not a laugh, but something higher, wilder, filled with disbelief and terror. His eyes, usually so composed, widened. They turned red, the capillaries near the surface of his eyes bursting from the pressure inside his skull. His face contorted, a mask of pure horror and insane amusement. He knew he looked crazy. He probably sounded crazy. He felt crazy.

Lily turned, the sound of the bell and his strange gasp alerting her. She looked at him, her eyes, those same warm, inviting eyes he remembered, registering surprise. No fear. No recognition of the monstrous act he had committed against her just last night. Just simple curiosity.

"Oh, Dr. Finch!" she said, her voice light, innocent. "I didn't expect to see you here! Are you here about those plants? I was just about to close, but I can certainly help you." She smiled, that shy, charming smile he had admired just hours before. The one he had thought would be forever extinguished.

Her words, her smile, they were like sharp needles pricking at his brain. He saw the flicker of yesterday, his suave gentleman persona in the bar, asking about plants, touching her hand, leading her back to his townhouse. The careful seduction, the whispered words, the brutal finality of the axe. And now this. This impossible, horrifying reality.

He couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He felt like he was caught in a nightmare, a cruel joke played by an unseen, malicious entity. The air felt thick, heavy with the impossible. He could not, he would not, believe it was her. It could not be her. It must be some trick. Some elaborate, monstrous trick. Maybe it was some form of hallucination. He had not slept very much yesterday. He definitely had not slept enough. He should have gotten more sleep.

His mind screamed, a cacophony of fear, confusion, and raw, savage fury. He had been so proud of his work, so meticulous. And now it was undone, mocked by her very presence. This was an insult of cosmic proportions. He barely registered her words. All he saw was her alive, her vibrant smile, her untouched skin. The image of her broken, bleeding body was so vivid in his mind, it clashed violently with the reality before him.

He heard her take a step towards him, that familiar, pleasant smile still on her face. "Is everything alright, Dr. Finch? You look a little... pale."

That snapped him back. Pale. Yes, he was pale. And mad. He was completely mad. He couldn't let her see him like this. He couldn't let her see the raw, exposed madness he felt. He had to run. He had to get away. Before she could say another word, before she could truly register the deranged terror in his eyes, he spun around.

He stumbled backwards, knocking over a small display of potted herbs near the door. Dirt and leaves scattered across the wooden floor. He didn't care. He burst out of the shop, the bell jingling wildly behind him.

He ran. He ran blindly, down the street, through the growing evening crowds. He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to escape. Escape the impossible. Escape the horrifying truth that was Lily, alive and well.

He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs ached. He didn't stop until he found himself in a narrow alleyway, dark and damp, hidden between two towering brick buildings. The smell of garbage and damp earth filled his nostrils, but it felt safe. The darkness, the anonymity, the grime—it was a comfort compared to the impossible brightness of Lily's flower shop.

He leaned against the cold brick wall, gasping for breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. The world spun. He closed his eyes, trying to clear his head, but her face, her innocent smile, kept replaying in his mind.

Fear. It washed over him, cold and suffocating. Not the fear of being caught, not the fear of exposure. No, this was a primal, existential fear. The fear of the unknown. The fear of something that defied all logic, all reason. His carefully constructed world, built on order and control, was crumbling.

How? How was she alive? Was he dreaming? Was he insane? He pinched himself, hard. The pain was real. The alley was real. Lily was real. But she was dead. He killed her. He knew it.

Fury. A hot, violent wave of it. Someone had done this. Someone had taken his victim, his art, and thrown it back in his face. This was an act of war. A challenge. And Alister Finch did not back down from challenges. He would find out who was behind this. He would make them pay. He would make them regret ever interfering with him. He would make them regret ever existing.

He shook his head, again and again. It was just not possible. He was a man of science. He believed in what he could see, what he could touch, what he could dissect. And he had dissected Lily. Or rather, he had been about to. But he killed her. He definitely killed her. He remembered the feeling. He remembered the sound. He remembered the blood.

This wasn't just a challenge. This was a mystery. A truly fascinating, utterly terrifying mystery. His academic mind, buried deep beneath layers of madness, began to stir. What really happened? Where had she gone for those hours? How had she returned? Unharmed. Unremembering.

He had to unravel this. He had to know. This was bigger than just his artistic endeavors. This was something extraordinary. Something that threatened the very fabric of his understanding. And Alister Finch, the man who always sought to control, to command, to understand, could not let this go. He would investigate. He would find the truth. And when he found it, he would eliminate any loose ends.

A grim smile slowly spread across his face, replacing the earlier terror. His eyes, though still bloodshot, now held a glint of manic determination. Yes. He would uncover this. He would find out who or what orchestrated this impossible event. And then, he would end them. Every single one of them. He would use his axe, again. And again. And again. Until every piece of this unbearable puzzle was destroyed, and his control was restored. He would make sure they would pay for doing this. They would pay for undermining his art. No one interferes with his art. No one.