"Hey…" the man said, his eyes slowly scanning me as if weighing whether I was a threat. "May I help you?"
My gaze darted everywhere. My body was tense, braced for a battle that could erupt at any second. My breath caught in my throat. Words refused to come.
"I… I'm Amilia," I stammered, trying to sound confident, even though I was breaking inside. "Someone's chasing me… Could you just let me in?"
Pressure coiled in my stomach. My ribs tightened. Every muscle froze. Don't fall apart. Not before he closes the door.
He stepped aside and let me in. Without a word. Just one look—the kind that said he wouldn't let me face the situation alone.
I followed every movement—every muscle, every glance. I couldn't trust anyone anymore. But something about him… was too familiar.
It couldn't be someone I'd met. Yet my body reacted like it remembered.
The house seemed normal, but the silence felt heavy. It was as if it wanted to hide something. His gray hair was messy, as if he had woken from a nightmare. His clothes carried a military edge—like a commander who didn't need a uniform to inspire fear.
But his voice… too calm. Too measured. Practiced. His eyes never blinked. Not once. Like an old doll. Or a predator hiding its teeth.
Around his neck hung a thin chain. At the end dangled a small pendant—a child's drawing of a little girl, missing teeth, eyes scribbled in pencil.
My skin prickled.
"Who's chasing you?" He asked, his gaze drifting over my face like a tide.
I looked away, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Some people from the neighborhood. They called me a monster. I don't know if they meant to hurt me or if it was just how they handled what they didn't understand—so I ran."
He didn't answer right away. He walked into the kitchen, poured something into a glass, and set it on the table. In a voice that felt like it had waited years, he said, "What happened to you… is much like what happened to me." It's a shame. Nothing ever changes."
I lowered my eyes.
"Amelia," he whispered, softer now, like recalling something too far away to reach.
My eyes burned. A tear slipped free, as if an ancient memory had clawed its way out. My gaze snapped up—yanked by an invisible string.
That was it. It wasn't just a similar voice. It was the voice. The one from my vision. From that night. From the ending I already knew was coming.
The voice belonged to the rebel leader, who was also Allison's kidnapper. The voice that had haunted my dreams.
It couldn't be. But the voice… and those eyes… they remembered me.
Everything blurred. The shadows melted together. He stood between me and the door—shielding me or waiting.
And then the truth struck me all at once. It's him. I'm not wrong.
But why reveal himself like this? Why now? What's his motive? And if he's a liar—how would I ever know what is real?
My heart pounded like a drumbeat, screaming, "Run."
And just then—the door burst open.
Dylan and Oliver rushed in. Dylan froze, his expression cracking, then bolted down the hall. Oliver didn't speak. But his breath trembled, as if he were wrestling ghosts from long ago. His eyes burned—not with rage, but with something deeper. Ancient fury. Pain I never knew lived inside him.
The man clapped slowly, like an audience member watching a play he had seen a hundred times. A smile stretched across his face. "Credit to you," he said. "You found us."
"You wanted to be caught," I whispered.
He nodded. "And it was surprisingly easy. But really… I just wanted to meet you."
My heart froze. He'd been playing with us all along. He had a plan.
"Why?" I asked. "Why build this whole trap just to see me?"
He stepped closer—only as much as Oliver allowed. Then he paused.
"If we're already naming names…" he said with a smile I couldn't decode, "I'm Peter. Your biological father. Yours and Abigail's."
The world stopped. His name sounded like an old curse. It felt like he'd been waiting for me—not as a daughter, but as an hourglass that had stopped his time.
My hands shook. I didn't know whether to run—or collapse. I didn't know who I was anymore. She was the girl who searched for the truth. Or the one who found that the truth had shattered all she had built.
He said it almost tenderly—and all I wanted was for him to take it back.
Because if it were true… I no longer knew to whom my soul belonged. Or if it had ever been mine at all.