The rain started sometime after midnight.
Soft at first—like a whisper.
By morning, it had turned into a steady downpour, drumming against the roof of the mansion and blurring the windows with mist. The world outside looked like a painting smudged by grief—gray, shapeless, cold.
Elara stood by the window, her fingers tracing invisible shapes on the glass. The flash drive sat on the nightstand behind her, heavy with secrets she wasn't sure she was ready to carry.
She hadn't slept. Not really. Sleep was dangerous now. In sleep, the memories came crawling—half-formed images, voices she didn't recognize, a hand yanking her backward while she screamed her sister's name.
Maris.
It felt like a ghostly echo every time she thought it. A name that should've brought comfort but instead left her chest hollow.
"She used to braid your hair."
Elara turned. Ares stood in the doorway, a coffee mug in his hand.
"What?" she asked softly.
"Your sister," he said, stepping into the room. "She always braided your hair before school. You hated it. Said you looked too soft."
She let out a bitter laugh. "And now softness is the only thing I have left."
He handed her the mug. Their fingers brushed. She didn't flinch.
Not anymore.
He didn't speak, didn't press her for thoughts. He just stood there, watching her. Protectively. Quietly.
Like he always had.
But now she knew he had watched her bleed too.
She took a sip of the coffee and turned back to the window.
"I want to remember all of it," she said. "Even the ugly parts."
Ares nodded once. "Then we start today."
—
The room he led her to was unlike the others. It wasn't polished or grand. No velvet curtains. No crystal chandeliers. Just concrete walls, dim lights, and a single chair facing a screen.
"A panic room?" she asked.
"No," he said. "It's where I keep things I don't want found."
She sat. He plugged in the flash drive.
The screen came to life.
Dozens of folders. No labels. Just dates.
One caught her eye—3.7.2022
Her hands shook as she clicked.
The first video played.
Her own voice filled the room. A little breathless. Rushed.
"If you're watching this… something went wrong."
Elara's chest tightened.
On the screen, she sat in a dark room, whispering into the camera. Her eyes were red. Her hair was messy. There was blood on her blouse.
"I found the files. I found his list. Names. Women. Accounts. It's bigger than I thought. Luca's not working alone. There's someone funding him. Someone with reach."
She paused, glancing behind her in the video like she heard something.
"If I disappear, it's because I got too close."
The screen glitched.
And then it went black.
Elara's breath caught in her throat.
That girl—her—was terrified. Desperate. But there was fire in her too.
"I think that's enough for now," Ares said gently.
"No," she whispered. "Play the next one."
He hesitated, then clicked.
This time, the camera was in motion. Shaky. Someone was running.
Gunshots in the background.
Elara's voice again—screaming. "Maris! MARIS!"
The screen turned black again.
She sat back, eyes burning.
"I was there when it happened," she said. "I saw her die."
Ares sat beside her but didn't touch her.
"You ran. You tried to get to the police. But someone intercepted you before you could."
"Luca?"
He nodded slowly. "He made it look like you disappeared. Like you were dead too. The fire covered the evidence."
"But you found me?"
"I followed the trail. I've been watching Luca's group for a long time. I never expected to find you at the center of it all."
She looked down at her hands.
"I was scared," she said. "But I wasn't weak."
"No," he said. "You were never weak."
She met his eyes.
"I want to finish what I started."
His jaw tightened. "That means going public. Exposing people who kill to stay hidden."
She didn't blink. "Then I'll have to make sure I'm louder than their silence."
—
That night, Elara walked the halls of the mansion with a new kind of fire in her veins.
Not fear.
Purpose.
The journal was back in her hands. She flipped to the blank pages, whispering the memories she could now piece together.
"Maris told me to run."
"She said Luca was going to kill her if she left."
"She begged me not to trust him."
Ares found her there, cross-legged on the floor in the hallway like a child with a diary.
"You're not alone in this," he said.
She looked up. "I know."
He extended a hand. "Come with me. I want to show you something."
She took it.
—
He led her to a hidden passage behind the wine cellar. A narrow staircase descended into darkness.
At the bottom was a vault.
Inside, were files.
Photos.
Stacks of documents—ledgers, receipts, videos, screenshots.
And more names.
So many names.
"You collected all this?" she asked.
He nodded. "Every person Luca hurt. Every transaction that went through the shell companies. Every cover-up."
She picked up a photo—of a girl not older than fifteen. Her face was bruised. Her eyes dead.
"Her name was Safina," Ares said. "She disappeared two years ago."
Elara put the photo down.
"I'm going to destroy them," she said. "All of them."
"You'll need help."
She looked at him.
"Will you help me?"
He nodded once. "To the end."
—
Later that night, Elara sat in her room staring at a blank screen.
She was going to start writing again.
This time not a journal—but a full exposé. A manifesto. A list of names and truths.
And at the very top, in bold letters, she wrote:
"If you're reading this, it means I survived. Or I didn't. Either way, they'll know everything now."
She hit save.
Then backed it up twice.
And sent a copy to a cloud server Ares had helped her set up.
—
Rain still fell the next morning.
But Elara wasn't the same girl staring out the window anymore.
She was preparing for war.
And this time, she wasn't running.