The city had returned to its usual rhythm or as usual as it could be with someone like her awake in it.
Sienna stood on the balcony of our house, rain-washed streets below, neon flickering in puddles like fractured memories.
It really seemed like the rain didn't want to stop.
She wasn't just watching; she was cataloging, analyzing, calculating. Every camera, every security guard, every digital footprint already weaving together a map of who had touched her life and who still thought they could dictate it.
I watched her quietly from behind, coffee in hand, letting her move without interruption. I'd seen that look before. It wasn't anger. Not yet. It was precision, patience, hunger.
"You're quiet," she said without turning. Her voice didn't need accusation just observation.
"Someone has to keep track of what we can't see yet," I replied.
Her laugh was low, tired, and almost approving. "I like it when you don't say too much."
"Noted," I said, and I meant it.
She finally turned, eyes sharp in the dim light, the glow of the city reflecting faintly in her pupils. "Mr and Mrs Hart (Her fake parents)" she said. "They are first."
I nodded. "I have what you need to approach him. Carefully. Publicly. Observation first, confrontation later."
She tilted her head, hair brushing against her cheek in the wind. "Observation isn't enough. They need to feel it coming. They needs
to know someone remembers. Someone remembers everything."
I felt the edge of a grin tug at me. Dangerous, yes but the right kind. "Then they will see you. They will see the storm before it hits."
Her lips pressed together in a thin line. "Good,"
she said softly. "I don't want to scream yet. I want to make them wonder. Make them fear. Just enough to let them know they are untouchable."
I moved closer, careful not to crowd her, letting her presence command the space. She didn't need protection.
She needed a witness. Someone who saw the storm, knew its full breadth, and wouldn't flinch.
"And Cyrus?" she asked, voice low, almost vulnerable. "Promise me you'll be honest. Always."
"Always," I said, knowing she meant it in every way. Not just about her fake parents. Not just about the past. Not just about me.
She needed truth. Everything else was secondary.
She nodded, eyes dark and shining with the weight of memory and fire alike. "Then let's start. Quiet, deadly… but make it feel like a reckoning before the first word is even spoken."
I smiled, careful. "That's my girl."
She glanced at me then, as if making sure I was there not leading, not following, just there. And I swear I saw that storm finally choose its form. Not fear. Not pain. Just inevitability.
The city stretched below us, blind to what was coming. Cars hummed over wet asphalt, pedestrians hurried with coffee cups, and neon signs blinked obliviously. Life went on. Ignorant. Innocent.
Unaware.
Sienna's hand curled lightly over the railing, knuckles white. I could feel the energy in her, coiled tight and dangerous. A storm that had spent years gathering strength, poised to strike.
"You'll see," she whispered, almost to herself. "They always underestimate the quiet ones. The patient ones. The ones who survived everything and still walked forward."
I nodded, feeling a chill of pride, fear, and awe all at once. This wasn't just about revenge. Not yet. This was about reclaiming every stolen second, every stolen memory. Every piece of her life they'd thought they owned.
"And," she added, her voice firm, "I'm done running in shadows. I'm done pretending to be afraid."
I stepped closer, letting my presence ground her without dimming her light. "Then let's move," I said. "The first door waits. And when it opens… there's no turning back."
She exhaled, a soft, measured sound that carried everything she'd been holding in for years anger, grief, pain, and a fierce, unyielding clarity. Then she straightened, lifted her chin, and turned toward the city.
Her silhouette, framed by the early morning light and the wet streets below, was terrifying. Not because she was dangerous though she was but because she was deliberate. Focused. Every scar, every memory, every ounce of fire distilled into one person ready to reclaim the world.
I followed her gaze, silent. Witnessing her rise was almost as dangerous as the storm she was about to unleash. And I would stand beside her through it all. Not in front. Not behind. Beside.
The first door was waiting. And Sienna… Sienna was done knocking.