There are scents you never forget. Like danger. Or someone you used to die for.
The air between them was thin.
Too thin.
As if the room itself forgot how to breathe.
Ezra stood dangerously close—his presence large, commanding, but no longer steady. His posture was relaxed, but his fingers betrayed him—twitching once at his side like his own skin didn't know how to respond.
Selene didn't move.
She didn't need to.
Because she was the gravity in the room now.
She had become the center of a silent storm—elegant, untouchable, and glowing with something only fire survivors carried: Stillness.
The kind that didn't mean peace.
The kind that meant aftermath.
He tilted his head slightly.
His gaze was sharp, studying her face like it was a déjà vu he couldn't place—an itch he couldn't scratch.
Then he breathed in.
And stilled.
A flicker passed through his eyes. A confusion. A pulse of something he couldn't name but couldn't ignore.
He spoke before he understood why.
His voice dropped, hushed like it didn't want to be heard.
"You smell like… fire."
The words hung in the air like smoke that refused to rise.
Selene's lips curled—slow and deliberate.
Not surprised.
Not startled.
But... amused.
It was a smile that didn't scream.
It whispered.
It knew secrets.
It was the kind of smile you give before lighting a match.
She raised her chin, her gaze never leaving his.
Poised.
Calm.
But there was heat in her stare.
Not just anger.
Not just memory.
But knowing.
The kind that could ruin a man.
"Maybe I was born in it," she replied.
Her voice was low, laced with velvet and venom.
"Maybe I was forged in it."
A flick of shadow passed across her face as the overhead lights shifted—making her look less like a woman... and more like a myth.
Ezra blinked.
His body reacted before his mind could catch up.
He took a step back.
Not far. But enough.
Enough for Selene to see it.
The shift.
The crack.
Ezra Villanueva—CEO, untouchable, feared by boardrooms and power brokers alike—had just flinched.
Not in fear of her.
But in fear of what she might awaken.
And Selene?
She noticed.
Every subtle twitch in his jaw.
The way his hands clenched slightly behind his back.
The breath he didn't mean to hold.
It was all there—raw and unfiltered.
She didn't gloat.
Didn't react.
Because she didn't need to.
This wasn't a victory yet.
It was an omen.
Ezra opened his mouth—like he was about to ask something.
Demand something.
But he couldn't.
Because deep inside, something primal whispered to him:
This isn't just another intern.
This isn't coincidence.
This is gravity returning to settle a score.
And worse?
You lit the match.
You left her burning.
Selene turned.
Smoothly. Silently. No haste, no fear.
She walked to the door like the room didn't matter.
Like he didn't matter.
Like she already won something he didn't even realize was up for grabs.
Her heels echoed once, twice, before she paused at the exit.
Hand on the handle.
She didn't look back.
Not yet.
Just one beat. One breath.
Then—calm, lethal, and beautiful as fire:
"Careful what you try to bury, Ezra. Some things crawl back."
She tilted her head, just slightly.
Eyes sharp. Unblinking. Alive with memory.
"Flames remember who lit them."
And then she was gone.
Leaving only her scent behind—
a mix of smoke, danger, and the unmistakable perfume of unfinished business.
Ezra stood frozen. Still.
Burning with a question he couldn't ask out loud: Was she a ghost…? Or just the consequence of everything I tried to forget?
You don't always need a ghost to haunt you. Sometimes, a single question is enough to bring the dead back to life.
Argent Tech Forensics Wing – Observation Lounge
The whole room was quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that soothes—but the kind of silence that suggests someone is listening, watching, waiting.
The lights were sterile white.
The walls were steel and silence.
And in the corner of the room, Detective Leon Alcantara stood.
Silently drinking coffee, slowly sipping the hot coffee.
He held not just a cup.
He also held a case file that had been closed several times—but never forgotten.
One-way glass.
Beyond it, a group of new interns were visible—young people who looked intelligent, too neat, too clean.
All wearing white coats, like innocence you can buy and sterilize.
But that's not what Leon was looking at.
Not the résumés.
Not the credentials.
But what you don't immediately see.
The tension in their shoulders.
The deliberate avoidance of eye contact.
The movements that seemed programmed—but with a hint of the past.
Then his gaze landed on one woman.
Slim. Controlled. Precise.
Bowed while working, but her mind didn't seem to be there.
As if she held a memory she was trying to hide between protocols.
It was Selene V. Cruz.
He blinked slowly.
As if something struck his memory—an image he couldn't yet articulate.
To the side, the admin assistant approached.
"New transfer?" he asked, his voice casual but his tone calculated.
"Yes, sir," the admin replied, cheerful but clueless. "From a private lab in Singapore."
Leon nodded once, slowly.
But his mind—didn't stop.
He opened the file in his hand.
The paper rustled.
Like the sound of stories that tried to be buried.
CASE #0939-A
Subject: Luna Velasquez
Status: Deceased.
Burned beyond recognition.
Body recovered from a car engulfed in flames.
No autopsy.
Family requested immediate burial.
Case marked as suicide.
Attached: a suicide note.
He looked at the paper.
The handwriting was gentle—but there was pain. Anger hidden in every signature letter.
Next, he pulled out a new document—an onboarding clearance form from HR.
Name: Selene V. Cruz.
Leon bit the inside of his cheek.
Handwriting check.
He carefully laid out the two papers side by side.
The furrow in his brow deepened.
Same slant. Same curve of the 's'. Same tiny heart on the 'i'.
Like the signature of one person. He suddenly felt a chill...
"Shit..."
A detail that would go unnoticed.
Unless you're used to lies.
Unless you're a detective who has lived for seven years with cases that won't let you sleep.
He slightly leaned back and slowly sipped his coffee.
The surroundings were still quiet.
But in his ears, the name on the paper stood out.
And the woman on the other side of the glass.
Selene.
Or Luna?
Then came the flashback.
Without warning.
Like a cold rain that struck his memory.
An eighteen-year-old girl.
Bleeding forehead.
Burning car.
Screams.
Rain.
And then—silence.
And now?
Standing before him was a woman who didn't look burned,
didn't look dead, but seemed to be digging something up with every move?.
"Are you a ghost… or something that shouldn't have lived..." he spoke in a low, gravelly voice.
Leon didn't move.
He didn't need to shout.
He didn't need a revelation.
All he needed… was an answer.
And at this moment?
He planned to watch. Wait. And confirm.
Because sometimes, the dead don't stay buried. And sometimes, the truth comes back—wearing a white coat and a name that doesn't belong to her.
The truth is, not everything is killed. Sometimes, it's just hidden under a different name.
Argent Tech HQ, Level 7 – Restricted Archives.
The surroundings were quiet.
It was night. The lights were dim, as if time itself intended for him not to see the truth completely.
In the corridor, Selene's every step sounded daring.
She was quiet.
But nervousness was felt.
This wasn't the nervousness of fear.
But the nervousness of someone ready to live again—just to dig up a corpse long presumed dead.
She stopped in front of the retinal scanner.
She took a deep breath.
Not to calm down.
Just so the system wouldn't hear how wildly her heart was beating.
In her hand, a keycard—not hers.
It came from a former ally.
Someone long gone from the system.
But not erased from the debt.
She slides it in.
Beep.
Red light.
The world stopped.
Then—Green.
Access granted.
The door slid open.
Metal. Cold. Sterile.
She entered like a shadow that never asked permission to return.
ARCHIVE ROOM – LEVEL 7
There were hundreds of drawers and holographic terminals.
All labeled: Deceased, Closed, Sealed.
But she was only looking for one.
She was breathless.
Tired.
Sleepy.
But she couldn't turn back.
Even though she felt that the hell she was digging was getting deeper.
She stopped at Terminal 3.
She typed in the code.
FIRE. CASE NO: 0309 – L.V.
Victim: Luna Velasquez
Date of Incident: March 9, 2018
The screen stopped.
Nothing came up.
One second.
Two.
Then—ERROR.
FILE CORRUPTED.
Manual Backup Found. Proceed? [Y/N]
She pressed Y even though her fingers were cold.
A scan flickered onto the screen.
Old file.
Digitized from paper.
With fold marks.
As if it came from a burned folder.
She stared.
She was looking for the name.
Line after line of forensic notes, rescue team logs, medical disposition.
Until she saw it.
Witnesses on Site:
— Ezra Villanueva.
CIVILIAN STATUS – PRESENT AT SCENE.
The name felt like a stab.
WHAT. THE. HELL.
Selene stopped.
She stepped back slightly.
She grabbed the edge of the table.
But not to lean—to stop the shaking of the truth.
Ezra? Witness?
This wasn't a minor detail.
This wasn't a simple bystander.
Why didn't he say anything back then?
Why, in all the press releases, reports, and eulogies—did his name never appear?
She scrolled further.
Timestamp:
March 9, 3:22 AM – Ezra Villanueva reported by emergency responder as "present and in shock."
There was also a comment:
"Subject declined to provide statement. Left site before responder could re-engage."
Left the scene?
He left?
He saw the fire.
The stretcher.
The blood.
And walked away?
Selene's breath trembled.
He wasn't just a witness.
Ezra was there…
When everything was on fire.
When she had no name.
When the world thought she was dead.
And for seven years?
He said nothing.
She leaned closer to the screen, her voice shaking not with weakness—but with clarity.
"You weren't just there, Ezra…
you were there when I burned. And if you were there… What's the truth? What did you hide?
Suddenly—A light blinked on the scanner.
SOMEONE LOGGED IN.
Another user was accessing the archives.
Selene's eyes widened.
She had no more time.
She pulled out a data chip—downloaded the scan—then ejected it.
Behind her, she could hear the sound of the elevator.
Unknown footsteps.
Selene turned off the terminal.
She walked down the opposite hallway—just before a shadow turned the corner.