Lili stood on the rooftop, her silhouette sharp against the city’s shimmering skyline. The night stretched endlessly before her—cold, indifferent, alive. Neon lights bled into the darkness, their glow fractured by glass towers and narrow alleys. Below, the streets hummed with distant traffic and scattered bursts of laughter. Life carried on. Normal life. It should have been calming. Instead, it felt hollow.
Her hands twitched, betraying her tension. Fingers curled and uncurled in a restless rhythm, her body locked in a fight she couldn’t win tonight. Her lips moved without sound, as if rehearsing words she’d never dare to speak aloud. Her breath came in shallow bursts. She squeezed her fists tighter, nails biting into her palms. Pain grounded her—but only barely. The pressure in her chest refused to ease.
She turned her gaze toward the horizon, desperate for something steady. The skyline stretched like a promise she couldn’t touch. Dotina. The name surfaced like a prayer, sharp and fragile. It cut through the chaos spiraling inside her, tethering her to a plan—a lifeline she couldn’t afford to lose.
Dotina might be her salvation. The golden necklace Lili had given her had to mean something. It had to. A key, a thread, a connection—anything to make this feel like more than a slow collapse.
But doubts crept in.
What if it’s not enough?
What if the alley had been the end of her leads? The end of everything?
Lili swallowed against the rising panic. Her shoulders stiffened, but the tension in her neck only pulled tighter. Her mask—the carefully crafted legend of control, precision, and power—felt fragile. And if it shattered, if they saw the cracks…
They would see right through her.
That thought clawed at her worse than failure. The legend had to stand. It had to keep growing tougher, higher, impenetrable.
“Seeing the city at night always calmed me down,” Lili whispered, as if speaking the words aloud might make them true. But they didn’t. Her reflection in the glass was as unsteady as her hands, her black eyes catching the glow of the lights but not the calm she longed for.
Her fingers began to tremble again. Her breath hitched. Panic flared, raw and violent. She pressed her fists harder, forcing herself still. She was losing this fight. Her composure, her control—everything that made her who she pretended to be—was slipping through her fingers like sand.
The sudden vibration of her phone shattered the quiet, sharp and jarring. Lili flinched, dread slicing through her. Not now. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She didn’t need to check the name on the screen. She already knew.
For a moment, she considered ignoring it. Just one moment of silence. But there was no escape. Not from him.
Lili swallowed hard, the phone cold in her trembling grip. She dragged in a breath, then another, before pressing the call to answer.
“I’m listening,” she said at last. Her voice held—steady but brittle, like glass stretched too thin.
Fosin’s voice cut through the line, sharp and commanding. “I want an update on the situation. Now.”
Lili exhaled, her eyes drifting to the skyline as if the city might hold an answer. “I killed three people connected to the attack,” she said. The words left her lips like ash. Empty. Tasteless.
“And why didn’t you report it earlier?”
Lili flinched at the snap in his tone. “I have a feeling something is missing,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t care about your feelings.” Fosin’s disdain cut deeper than she wanted to admit. “Is it over or not?”
The question hung in the air, its weight suffocating. Lili’s grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles turned white. She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears.
She knew the answer he wanted. And the one she didn’t have.
“Yes,” she said finally, the word empty even as it left her mouth. A lie disguised as truth. “It’s over.”
The line went dead. Fosin didn’t need to say more.
Lili lowered the phone slowly, her arms heavy, her breaths uneven. The silence felt louder than before, pressing in on all sides. She stared at the dark screen as if it might offer her something—answers, instructions, absolution…
“It’s over,” she whispered again, but this time her voice didn’t crack. It hardened. An echo of the mask she wore.
But her reflection in the glass still looked fragile. Breakable. And she hated it.
The rooftop suddenly felt too exposed. She stepped back from the edge, her boots scraping against the concrete. The sound grounded her, but the tremor in her hands refused to stop.
No more second-guessing. No more hesitation. She had played her part, and Fosin believed her. That was all that mattered—for now.
But her steps were too quick as she walked away from the edge. Her breath too sharp, her pulse too fast. The weight of his voice lingered, clawing at her ribs long after the call had ended.
Somewhere deep down, she knew this wasn’t over. Not even close.
And if she didn’t find any clue soon, she wouldn’t just lose this game.
She’d lose herself.
***
Dotina stood frozen in the dimly lit office, her breath catching as her wide eyes locked onto the figure sprawled on the floor. Blood smeared the tiles, dark and fresh. For a moment, her mind refused to process what she was seeing. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out everything else.
The woman’s clothes were torn, dirt and grime caking the fabric. It was unrecognizable. Dotina couldn’t place it—not at first. The outfit was in such a ruined state it might have belonged to anyone. And yet, the fear bubbling in her chest whispered otherwise.
Her fingers twitched, nails biting into her palms. She wasn’t used to this—the rawness of it, the closeness of violence. She had always let others handle the dirty work while she watched from the sidelines, calculating and untouchable. But now? Now she was standing in it, breathing it in, and the scent of blood clung to her like smoke.
The woman stirred, a faint sound escaping her lips—a plea.
“Protector… please…”
Dotina’s breath hitched. The voice was faint, trembling, but recognition cut through her, sharp and unforgiving.
“Joyce?” Her voice cracked on the name, disbelief tangled with dread.
She dropped to her knees, the sharp edges of reality snapping back into focus. Her hands moved instinctively, reaching out to lift Joyce from the blood-slicked floor.
Dotina barely registered the weight of her as she half-carried, half-dragged her to the bathroom. Questions burned behind her lips, but she swallowed them for now.
The small bathroom felt colder than it should have, its pale tiles glowing under harsh fluorescent light. Joyce sat on the floor, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around herself as if she might shatter otherwise. Her hair hung in damp strands, plastered to her clammy skin.
Dotina knelt beside her, her hands trembling as she pressed a cloth to the wound on Joyce’s shoulder. Blood seeped through instantly, staining her fingers.
“What am I supposed to do with you?” Dotina muttered under her breath. Her voice was sharp, but it couldn’t hide the tremor. “I told you to be careful. I warned you.”
Joyce winced but didn’t flinch away. “You know I can’t,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Being with them… It’s not that simple.”
Dotina sucked in a breath and focused on the wound. It wasn’t just bad—it was vicious. Jagged edges, torn flesh. Dotina’s stomach churned.
“You have a blade wound.” Her voice shook despite her efforts to keep steady. “It’s deep, Joyce.”
Joyce tried to smile, but it died halfway.
“It was Death.”
Dotina froze. Her hands went still, the cloth pressed too tight against the wound.
“Death?” Her voice came out thin, brittle. The word hung in the air.
Joyce didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. The truth was already there, painted in the blood drying between her fingers.
Dotina’s pulse thundered in her ears. Her hands began to move again, but they shook harder now. If Death knew—if Death even suspected—Dotina’s involvement, it wouldn’t matter how much she’d paid to stay safe.
“Don’t worry,” Joyce said, her voice breaking the silence. “I wasn’t followed.”
Dotina didn’t believe her, but the words offered something fragile—hope, or the illusion of it.
“I would never bring them to you,” Joyce added, her bloody fingers brushing against Dotina’s arm.
Dotina’s breath hitched, and shame curled in her gut. She didn’t deserve the trust, the help, the defense of someone like Joyce. Not after this. Not after the reason for the fear clawing at her ribs.
Dotina had forgotten the path she once believed in. She’d become trapped in her own games, her own hunger for control and survival. And now she was paying the price—the truth that cut too deep to carry…
“I know,” Dotina murmured, but the words felt hollow even to her own ears. Her fingers pressed harder, desperate to stop the bleeding. “Just—hold still.”
She worked in silence, her focus sharp but brittle. She didn’t want to let Joyce die. She couldn’t. But the knowledge burned inside her—no matter what she did, Dotina already knew what waited, and the weight of this night would never leave her…
When the bleeding finally slowed, Dotina leaned back, wiping her hands on a towel that was already stained red. She didn’t look at Joyce, couldn’t. Her eyes stayed fixed on the tiles—cold and unfeeling, offering no answers.
“You need time to heal,” Dotina finally said, but her voice wavered. “Go home. Rest. Do something right for once.”
Joyce pushed herself to her feet, swaying as her legs fought to hold her.
“Thank you, Protector,” she said quietly, but there was no warmth in it. Only exhaustion. “But I can’t. My friend was killed tonight.”
Dotina’s stomach dropped. The words hit like a slap.
Her gaze snapped to Joyce, sharp and panicked. “Killed?”
Joyce nodded, her expression hardening despite the pain etched across it.
“That’s why I need to warn someone else,” Joyce said, her voice low but steady. “There’s no time.”
Dotina stepped closer, her anger flaring.
“If you keep going like this,” she hissed, “your friend won’t be the only one to die tonight!”
Joyce flinched but didn’t back down.
“Then let me go before it’s too late.” Her words were final, cutting through the tension.
Dotina didn’t stop her as she moved toward the door, but her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream, to demand Joyce stay and listen, but no words came.
Joyce hesitated at the threshold, her voice softer now. “Thanks for the help. Take care, Protector.”
The door closed behind her, leaving Dotina alone.
For a long moment, Dotina stood there, frozen.
Protector.
The name mocked her. She didn’t even know why it was hers. All she’d done was guide the Gifted, convince them to trust her, to believe she could keep them safe. Lies.
Then her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor. Her breath came in ragged bursts, but the tears wouldn’t fall.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the bloodied cloth still lying near the sink. She clenched it, the fabric damp and sticky against her skin, and pressed it hard to her face—trying to block out her own helplessness, the memory of Joyce’s broken body, the look in her eyes…
“I’m sorry, Joyce,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Her shoulders shook as the truth closed in, suffocating her. “I don’t have a choice anymore.”
The words tasted bitter, and she hated herself for how easily they slipped past her lips.
Dotina’s fingers dug into the cloth until her knuckles turned white. She could still run after her. Could stop her. Could tell her the truth—about the deal, the danger, how twisted her life had become…
But she didn’t move.
Instead, she sat there, letting guilt hollow her out as the seconds bled into minutes, and the silence pressed down like a weight she couldn’t bear…
Leave a Reply