The boss climbed into one of the black jeeps and drove off, his taillights fading into the night.
Two of the men seized Sophie by the wrists, dragging her to the very edge of the cliff. Her shoes scraped against the gravel as she kicked and fought, but their grips were unyielding.
At the edge of the cliff, they released her just enough to make her stumble and to make it perfectly look like a suicide instead of murder.
Sophie staggered, her body teetering dangerously above the abyss.
They now loosened their hold, pretending to grant her space. Then, with a well-aimed boot, one man nudged a scatter of loose stones beneath her feet. Sophie gasped, her balance slipping away. To any distant eye, it would look like she had stepped forward on her own one final, desperate leap into the darkness.
Her scream was swallowed by the night as her body vanished into the void. Wind tore past her ears, stealing the deafening scream from her throat.
Branches slashed at her arms and face as she crashed through them, tears rolling down her cheeks as she thought if this was where her life would end.
But fate had other plans.
Instead of plunging straight into the rocks below, her body slammed hard into the thick branches of an old oak clinging stubbornly to the cliffside. The impact tore the breath from her lungs, the jagged wood cutting into her skin making blood gush out intensely , but it slowed her fall just enough to spare her life. She dangled there, half-conscious, her arm caught in the fork of a branch, blood dripping down onto the leaves.
The tree groaned beneath her weight, creaking as though deciding whether to hold her… or let her go.
However, the men drove quickly.
They erased every trace of their presence the imprints of their shoes, the tire marks of their jeep leaving only Sophie's Bentley behind. Sliding into the driver's seat, one of them placed a carefully folded farewell letter in the glove compartment. The other ripped out the dashcam, shoving it into a bag.
No witnesses. No cameras. No evidence.
By morning, the world would believe Sophie Langford had indeed committed a suicide.
....
Miles away, another sound came the heavy thud of fists striking a punching bag in an empty gym.
The heavy bag jolted with every strike, swinging wildly as fists pounded into it. The dim gym reeked of sweat and leather, its silence broken only by the crack of knuckles and the sharp rhythm of breathing.
Talia Cross stood before it, fists wrapped tight, sweat slicking her skin.
The bag groaned under her fists, chains rattling with every blow. Each strike landed with the kind of force that made everyone flinch. She didn't just fight she dominated, as if the leather itself had insulted her.
Talia body was built from discipline: tall, broad shoulders tapering into lean muscle, arms carved from years of training. Sweat glistened along the ridges of her toned abs beneath a loose tank, the fabric sticking to her frame.
She blew at the leather bag like it wasn't just about the training but like what was running through her mind was far beyond the training. Her long dark hair was pulled back tightly, strands damp with sweat. She wore a plain tank and boxing shorts, attire that clung to her lean frame. There was nothing flashy about her, but she carried herself with a quiet authority the kind that made people look twice without knowing why.
It wasn't only her strength that drew attention, but it was the way she wore it. The ink that peeked out from under her tank strap, the glint of a silver chain at her throat, the sharp, almost cocky curve of her smirk when she landed a perfect hit. She radiated that untouchable tomboyish heat the kind of girl who could walk into any room and instantly become the axis it spun on.
Tomboyish? yes. Handsome? Absolutely. Pretty? A hundred percent.
But in the gleam of her eyes there was something else something restless, something unspoken. And with that, she kept blowing at the leather bag like it was an enemy.
With one final blow, she let the bag swing and stepped back, chest heaving. She wiped her face with an handkerchief, tugged on her hoodie, the fabric darkening with sweat, and slung her gym bag over her shoulder.
On her way out, she clasped hands with the few who lingered her grip firm, unyielding, the kind that left knuckles aching long after she had let go.
She left the gym and stepped into the night Outside, the city was quieter than usual. Talia Cross adjusted her hoodie, exhaling into the cold night.
She was walking home with her gym bag slung over her shoulder, when she decided to take a shortcut near the cliff. The night air was cool, sharp with the scent of pine, and her footsteps crunched softly against the gravel path.
Her route home often took her down the narrow gravel path that curved close to the cliffside. Most nights, she liked the quiet of it the way the city lights faded behind her, replaced by the cool bite of pine and the endless stretch of darkness below. Her small two-bedroom apartment sat further down the slope, tucked not far from the cliff's base, so the shortcut was faster than circling the main road.
But Tonight she was only a few minutes to her humble abode when the silence broke with a sharp, unnatural crack the sound of branches snapping under heavy weight. Talia froze mid-step, her pulse quickening. It wasn't the scatter of a bird, nor the light rustle of a fox. This was heavier. Slower. Wrong.
She glanced down the slope where the cliffside trees clustered thickly, shadows swallowing their trunks. "Probably just a very big animal," she muttered to herself and turned to leave.
But… something about it made her skin prickle. She turned back, deciding she needed a clearer look at what animal it was or why it had made that sound.
Shifting her bag higher on her shoulder, she stepped closer to the big tree she switched on her phone light to get a clearer look
Her heart lurched as the beam of her phone's flashlight cut through the dark.
Wedged awkwardly in the branches, torn between life and death, was the crumpled figure of a woman. One arm hung limply, a gold chain glinting faintly against her skin, while the other was trapped in the crook of the oak, keeping her from plunging further. Her cloth soaked in blood