Never forget who Made you alive
The Burial
Days after her escape, Emma found him.
The guard who saved her—the one man who saw her as human—lay discarded in the dirt, his body dumped behind the compound like waste.
Emma stood over him, motionless. Her fists clenched, jaw tight. No tears. No words. Just fury simmering in silence.
She knelt and checked his pockets. An old, worn ID card slipped into her palm. She turned it over. His name. His face. And the words: Father of Eliza.
His daughter. The one Vencor had taken.
Emma swallowed hard. She said nothing. Instead, she bent down, wrapped her arms under him, and lifted.
Her body screamed. Her injuries burned. But Emma didn't stop.
For hours, she carried him. Through mud. Through stone. Through quiet woods where even the animals seemed to bow their heads. Her breath was ragged, but she kept going.
Finally, she found it—a small graveyard. She saw the stone: Eliza. His daughter's name.
Emma's knees buckled. She dropped beside it.
Slowly, she dug. With her bare hands at first, then with a jagged shovel she found nearby. Dirt caked her fingers, blood mixed with soil. She didn't stop until the earth was ready.
She lowered him into the grave. Carefully. As if he could still feel her touch.
Emma sat back, chest heaving, staring at the two graves now side by side: father and daughter.
For the first time in days, she spoke—her voice hoarse, quiet:
Emma: "…Thank you. For saving me."
She bowed her head, eyes shut.
Emma: "…And I'm sorry… I never hugged you back."
Her voice broke at the edges. But no tears came.
She pressed her forehead to the soil, letting silence be her offering.
When she finally rose, her eyes were empty again. Hard. Focused.
Emma left the graves behind, but her whisper lingered on the wind:
"Rest. I'll handle the rest."
The Abandoned House
Emma's boots crunched against the broken floorboards. Dust stirred in the air, drifting through thin streaks of moonlight breaking in from shattered windows.
Her old house.
The place it all began.
She stepped past the rusted stove, the collapsed table, the torn wallpaper still hanging in shreds. Her hand brushed the wall—the one that once held childish scribbles, where she and Diana had drawn together before everything was taken.
Her breathing slowed. Memories pressed against her chest—her parents' screams, Vencor's shadow, the weight of blood on her hands.
Emma sat in the corner where her bed used to be, her mask hanging loose at her neck. For the first time in years, her shoulders slouched, her body small, almost like that child again.
She slowly opened her mother's closet, the faint scent of old fabric and memories drifting out. Her fingers brushed against the hanging clothes until they stopped at a familiar set—her mother's black skirt, short enough to rest against the thighs, and a dark blue shirt. She pulled them out carefully, almost reverently, and after a long pause, decided to wear them. Not for style, not for comfort, but simply to remember her mother—if only for a moment.
After she wore them, and getting fully cleaned.
Then—
Creeeak.
The front door open. A sliver of night leaked in.
Emma's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. Her hand instinctively hovered near her blade.
Footsteps. Careful, hesitant.
Emma rose, back straightening, expression cold, ready to silence whoever dared step into her past.
But then—
A familiar voice broke the silence. Soft. Uncertain.
"…Emma?"
Emma froze. Her eyes widened.
In the doorway stood Diana. Her face pale, her eyes wide, like she'd seen a ghost.
For a moment, neither moved. Just silence between them, thick with years of loss and unanswered questions.
Emma's lips parted slightly, but no words came. Her chest rose, fell. Her fingers trembled once—then steadied.
Diana took a single step forward, voice breaking.
Diana: "…It's really you."
Emma didn't reply. Her eyes—once empty—flickered with something fragile. Something she thought she buried forever.
Diana stood in the doorway, her breath shaky, eyes locked on Emma like she might vanish at any moment.
Emma didn't move at first. Her gaze was steady, unreadable, as if she were still calculating whether this was reality or another ghost clawing at her memory.
Finally, Emma stepped forward. Her boots echoed on the hollow floorboards until she stopped right in front of Diana.
Her hand rose—not for a hug. Not for comfort. But for a handshake.
Emma extended it calmly, almost businesslike.
Emma (Smiling): "…It's been a long time."
Diana blinked, disbelief flickering in her eyes. For a moment, her throat tightened, torn between laughing or crying at how Emma could still be this formal, even after everything.
But she took the hand anyway. Their palms pressed together.
For Diana, it was like touching someone pulled from the dead. For Emma, it was… something else. A quiet acknowledgement. A bridge she wasn't sure she could still cross.
Their hands lingered longer than a normal handshake. Emma's fingers twitched once—barely, like she almost wanted to grip tighter—but then she let go.
Diana exhaled, her lips trembling.
Diana: "…That's all I get? After all these years?"
Emma looked away, hiding the smallest flicker of warmth in her eyes.
Emma: "…For now."
Chapter End