She was dressed like a predator who understood city lights: a dark, tight suit that swallowed sound and a mask that hid the bottom half of her face. The mask made her seem less human and more fable, an avenging shadow that had learned how to move, how to silence, how to become what nightmares were made of.

  “I turned into a woman capable of taking from you the exact thing you took from my parents,” she said, her voice low, precise. The words landed like deliberate strikes.

  Jeff took a step back, the chair catching his weight. “I was not part of those who killed your parents,” he said, the words brittle, a statement thrown at a tide instead of something firm. The lie had been part of him for a decade; stacked like plates, heavy and necessary. He had believed the lie too; that had been the point that allowed him to sleep with swaggering illusions of absolution.

  “True,” Lia said. “But you are part of the people who covered up their death.”

  The room tilted. Jeff closed his eyes as though someone might strike before he could speak, as though he might wake up from this with his pulse normal, the lie intact. “And I have not been able to live with it since then,” he said at last. “I thought you were dead, I saw the burned body and we all believed it was you. I’ve blamed myself for pushing things that night.”

  Lia’s laugh was quiet and cold. It had no mirth in it. “That won’t stop me from killing you,” she said. “Maybe I will just end your misery.”

  Jeff’s fingers dug into the back of the chair. The legs of the furniture scraped like a fingernail. “It wasn’t meant to stop you, it was meant to advise you,” he blurted, the excuse falling from his lips before his mind caught up. He had rehearsed nothing, no clever speeches, no pleas of mercy. His voice trembled, and his face, in the moonlight, was white and hollow.

  “You are still a young woman, you have a bright future ahead of you. I do not think you should tread this path.” His words, meant as counsel, came out clumsy. Guilt had loosened his tongue into strange chimings of conscience.

  Lia’s patience fractured like glass under pressure. “Who are you now to advise me?” she snapped, and the strip of calm fractured into a thin blade of outrage.

  “I am one who has lived the last ten years in guilt,” he said. His voice had the low quality of confession. The room filled with the tiniest sounds: the little whirr of the refrigerator, the distant hum of a truck on the avenue, the dry whisper of a page of a forgotten book shifting in a draft. Jeff’s eyes filled with unshed tears; his chest tightened as though each breath were another weight.

  Lia studied him. For a moment the person he saw was not merely the man who almost pulled a trigger on her ten years ago but an animal too, caged by fear and regret. The chemistry of years of avoidance had built this encounter into a furnace of pain.

  “I will spare your life,” Lia said finally, each syllable careful, measured, merciful in a way that was almost more terrifying than anger, “but tell Stephen that he would be next.” She stepped back into the shadows before he could digest the sentence. The mask swallowed her features; her figure blended with the night like ink into fabric. Jeff’s throat worked. The skin on his arms prickled as though someone had walked over them.

  Silence filled the house again, dense and ringing. For a long time, he just stood there, fingers white where they clenched the chair back. He hadn’t cried yet, but the flood came then; quiet at first, then hot and raw. He sank down, head bowed, breath ragged. The room spun around him. He had lived ten years under a false calm. He had told himself stories that explained away the charred body, the misidentified remains, the papers filed and the boxes tucked into cold file cabinets. He had slept with the warm blanket of certainty, but certainty now had been ripped away.

  The house hummed. He listened to the same sounds, a distant siren now, faux-normal, the refrigerator’s soft pitch, a car tire crunching gravel outside. He waited for the drain to open, for more footsteps, for the decisive end that would justify the decade of terror. Instead, after two minutes, power was restored to the apartment.

  Jeff picked up his phone with trembling hands and placed a call to Director Stephen. His voice cracked as he whispered, “Please, pick up.” The line rang once, twice but there was no answer. He tried again. Still nothing. The silence on the other end felt heavier than death itself.

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  He lowered the phone, staring at the floor. His chest heaved. The house was quiet, but his thoughts screamed. Every sound outside, the rustle of trees, the barking dog down the street, all felt like her presence creeping back to finish what she started.

  When the clock struck midnight, Jeff lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his pillow soaked with tears. Lia’s mercy had cut deeper than a knife. He would rather she had killed him than let him live with the unbearable truth, that she had spared him. That she still had a heart after what they did to her family. That she, the victim, had shown more humanity than all of them combined. He cried himself to sleep, whispering her name like a prayer. “Lia, I’m sorry.”

  The next morning, his phone rang violently, dragging him from uneasy sleep. The name flashing on the screen made his heart skip with urgency, Director Stephen. He snatched the phone up. “Hello, Director,” Jeff said, his voice hoarse. “She was here last night.”

  There was a sharp silence on the other end. Then came the faint sound of Stephen’s breath hitching. He didn’t ask who she was. He already knew. His hand tightened around the phone. The color drained from his face. Without a word, he leaped from his bed, threw on his coat, and stormed out.

  Minutes later, his car screeched to a halt in front of Jeff’s house. The knock that followed was harsh, and urgent, almost violent. Jeff flinched, then hurried to open the door. Stephen didn’t even wait for a greeting. His eyes were wild. “What time did she come?” he demanded. Jeff stepped aside, startled. “At night. Around ten p.m.”

  Stephen pulled a small notepad from his pocket and scribbled the time down. Then his gaze lifted, cold and studying. “If she was here,” he said, “why are you still alive?” Jeff’s lips trembled. He swallowed hard. “We, talked,” he said quietly.

  Stephen froze mid-scribble. “You talked?”

  “Yes. She wanted to kill me. She had the gun right in my face,” Jeff said, his voice shaking. “I begged her, I told her I was sorry for what we did to her parents. I told her I have regretted it for the last ten years.”

  Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

  “She couldn’t do it,” Jeff whispered. “She said she would spare my life, on one condition.” Stephen leaned closer. “What condition?” Jeff hesitated, his eyes clouding with fear. “That I deliver a message to you.” The air between them thickened.

  “A message to me?” Stephen asked slowly. Jeff nodded. “She said,” he stopped, his voice breaking.“she said you’re next to die.” For a moment, Stephen said nothing. His jaw clenched, and his face went pale. His pulse thundered against his neck as he looked around the room, suddenly aware of every shadow, every creak. “She said that?” he murmured.

  Jeff nodded again, guilt heavy in his voice. “I wish she hadn’t. I think she means it.” A long silence followed. The only sound was the distant hum of the ceiling fan. Stephen’s gaze drifted to the window, where light filtered in through the curtains. He exhaled sharply, his shoulders stiffening. “Did you see her face?”

  Jeff shook his head. “No. She wore a mask. It was dark. But I could tell she’s no longer the girl we once knew.” Stephen’s voice grew low. “How did she sound?”

  “Calm,” Jeff said. “Educated. Like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.” Stephen’s jaw tightened. That calmness frightened him more than anything else. It meant she wasn’t killing out of rage anymore, she was killing with purpose. “I think you should leave the country,” Jeff said suddenly. “You’re in danger, Stephen. She won’t stop.”

  Stephen gave a faint, humorless smile. “I can’t leave.”

  “Why not?” Jeff asked, alarmed. “Because running won’t save me,” Stephen said, standing. “If she’s coming, I’ll be here to receive her.” He turned toward the door, the determination in his step masking the dread inside him. But deep down, his heart raced with a truth he couldn’t ignore, he could feel death closing in, slow and certain. Lia Sundell was coming, and nothing would stop her.

  As he walked out, Jeff called after him, “Stephen, please, don’t underestimate her.” But the door had already closed. Stephen stood outside for a long moment, staring at the sky. It was a quiet morning, but to him, the silence felt like the calm before a storm. He could feel her shadow already crawling across his fate.

  Across town, the world moved on as if nothing had happened. Nathan sat in his home, the hum of the city outside barely reaching him. Files lay scattered across his desk, crime scene photos, forensic reports, and the growing list of the mysterious assassin’s suspected victims. But his mind wasn’t entirely on the case. It drifted to Nancy.

  Their relationship had become complicated. She hadn’t said “yes” officially, but her actions spoke louder than words. She smiled when he entered the room, called him late at night just to hear his voice, and her messages always ended with hearts. She treated him like something fragile she didn’t want to lose.

  And Nathan, he was falling even harder. He sent her flowers every morning. Sometimes lilies, sometimes roses. She always texted back, “You made my day.” But lately, work had kept him away. The investigation had deepened, the assassin’s trail twisting into unexpected corners. Nathan barely had time to breathe, much less visit her.

  And that has made Nancy miss him. So, one quiet afternoon, she decided to return the gesture. She sent him a bouquet of blue tulips, his favorite, and tucked inside a handwritten note.

  It read:

  “I think about you always.” When the delivery boy handed it to Nathan, he smiled, warmth spreading through him. He set the flowers down, inhaled their scent, and opened the note.

  But the moment his eyes landed on the handwriting, his smile vanished. He froze.

  Not because of the words. But because of the handwriting. Something in his gut twisted. The letters, the strokes of the ink, it was too familiar. His mind flashed back to the crime scenes, the notes left beside each victim, scrawled in the same precise hand. He stared at the note, his heart racing. “No,” he muttered. “That’s impossible.”

  Still, the thought wouldn’t leave him.

  He reached for his phone, but his hand shook. He tried to dismiss it, he told himself he was overthinking, but the image of those old notes haunted him. The same curling S. The same sharp T.

  He couldn’t ignore it. “Could it be her?” he whispered. “Could it be Nancy all along?”

  He shoved the thought away, pacing the room, but it clung to him like smoke. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed his coat and headed to the station. When he arrived, he made sure no one saw him. Moving quickly, he unlocked the evidence cabinet and pulled out the plastic folders that contained the killer’s notes. One by one, he laid them across his desk, the black ink, the slanted handwriting, the message left in the various crime scene. The Defence Chief of staff, the vice president, and the minister of finance.

  He took out Nancy’s note from his pocket and placed it beside them.