ARSHILA POV
The footsteps stop.
Right in front of the curtains.
A pause.
Long.
Still.
Like whoever it is is standing there… listening.
My stomach drops straight to hell.
I'm fucked up.
For the first time since this stupid investigation started, a very sincere prayer forms in my head.
Please don't open the curtains.
Please don't open the damn curtains.
I press my hand over my mouth to keep my breathing quiet, fingers covering half my face like that will somehow hide me from whatever nightmare is standing on the other side of the fabric.
The room is completely dark except for the thin line of moonlight leaking around the edges of the curtains, and the silence feels so thick it almost hurts my ears.
This is not the reckless thrill from before.
This is real fear.
The kind that turns your bones cold.
I stay frozen, muscles tight, heart slamming so violently against my ribs that I am convinced the person outside can hear it. My lungs burn from holding my breath too long, but I refuse to inhale loudly.
Another second passes.
Then another.
Then the footsteps move.
Slow.
Measured.
Retreating.
My brain refuses to believe it at first. I keep standing there behind the curtain, pressed against the cold glass like a criminal hiding from the police, waiting for the sound to come back.
But it doesn't.
The footsteps fade toward the living room.
Then nothing.
Absolute silence.
I blink in the darkness, trying to process it.
What?
Did they really just… leave?
That makes absolutely no sense.
If someone knew there was a person inside the bedroom, why would they not search the room? Why stop right in front of the curtains and then just… walk away?
That question sits in my chest like a ticking bomb.
I stay behind the curtain for a full minute, listening carefully. Every nerve in my body stretches outward, hunting for even the smallest sound.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No doors.
No breathing.
Which somehow scares me even more.
Because silence in a place like this never means safety.
Slowly, carefully, I pull the edge of the curtain aside and peek out.
The bedroom is empty.
The doorway stands open.
The living room outside is dark and quiet.
No shadow.
No movement.
No human being anywhere in sight.
A shiver crawls down my spine.
I step out from behind the curtain slowly, like the floor might explode if I move too fast. The room feels different now, like the air itself knows something I don't.
I don't waste time questioning it.
My feet move quickly through the bedroom and into the living area. I grab the door handle, step into the hallway, and head straight for the elevator without looking back.
The ride down feels endless even though it only takes seconds.
My reflection in the mirrored wall looks pale, eyes wide, hair slightly messy from the panic. My chest is still rising and falling too fast.
The elevator doors open and I step out into the empty staff floor.
Then I move.
Fast.
Down the quiet corridor.
Through the back door of the outhouse.
The cool night air hits my face the moment I step outside and I realize I have been holding tension in my shoulders so hard they actually ache.
The garden behind the mansion stretches out in soft moonlight, trees casting long shadows over the stone paths.
I cross it quickly, cutting through the side entrance instead of the main one.
Inside the mansion the air is warmer, quieter, polished to that same eerie perfection this place always has. But my heart is still pounding so loudly that it feels like I dragged the chaos from the outhouse all the way inside with me.
And one thought keeps circling in my head.
Whoever came into that penthouse knew someone was there.
They stood right in front of the curtains.
They listened.
And then they left.
Why?
I move through the corridor toward our room, still trying to slow my breathing. My pulse refuses to calm down, hammering in my chest like it wants to escape my body entirely.
Then I see light spilling from the doorway of the study.
I slow down instinctively.
Through the half-open door I can see Zayan inside.
So he wasn't the one.
The realization hits me immediately.
He is standing near the desk, one hand resting casually against the polished surface. Something small glints in his fingers.
A lighter.
He flicks the lid open.
Clink.
Then closes it again.
Clink.
Over and over.
Slow.
Distracted.
I stare from the hallway, confusion creeping into my head. Zayan doesn't smoke. He doesn't drink. The man runs his life like a machine that rejects bad habits.
So why he need a lighter?
His eyes suddenly lift from the desk.
Straight toward the hallway.
My stomach jumps and I duck back behind the wall instantly, pressing myself against the cold surface like a kid hiding from a teacher.
Shit.
I don't wait to see if he noticed me.
I hurry down the corridor and slip into my room, closing the door behind me quickly. The moment it shuts I lean against it and let out a shaky breath.
Okay.
Focus.
I move to the desk and grab my journal from the drawer, flipping it open with slightly trembling hands. The pen moves fast as I write everything down before my brain can forget details.
Izar's penthouse.
The hidden panel.
The orphanage funding.
Alexander Reed's file.
The photograph of the boy.
And the mysterious person who walked into the room but never searched it.
My handwriting gets messier the longer I write because my thoughts are racing faster than the ink can keep up.
Finally I reach into my pocket and pull out the pendrive.
The tiny piece of metal suddenly feels heavier than it should.
I plug it into my laptop.
The screen lights up, casting a pale glow across the room.
One folder appears.
Inside it are dozens of files.
My curiosity spikes again.
I open the first one.
A photograph fills the screen.
A man's face.
Below the image, text appears.
Name: Dominic.
My eyebrows pull together slightly. The name doesn't ring any bells at all. I grab my journal and flip through the pages where I listed the vigilante's known victims.
No Dominic.
Not even close.
"Okay… weird," I murmur under my breath.
I scroll through the folder and open another random file.
Another photograph appears.
And the moment I see the face, my brain freezes.
It is the same boy from the photograph in Izar's cabinet.
Exactly the same one.
Younger.
Same sharp eyes.
Same building behind him.
My hand rubs across my face slowly.
At this point I genuinely have no idea what I'm doing anymore.
Am I investigating a murder?
A secret charity?
Or some weird hidden family history?
Before I can dig deeper, a sudden knock on my door explodes through the quiet room.
My entire body jerks so hard I almost throw the laptop off the desk.
My hand flies to my chest as my heart tries to escape my ribcage.
Fucking Hell.
I quickly close the laptop, yank the pendrive out, and shove it beneath a stack of books on the desk. My fingers smooth my hair quickly before I walk to the door.
When I open it, Zayan is standing there.
Tall.
Calm.
Looking directly at me.
"Ha—what?" I blurt out before forcing an awkward laugh that sounds completely unnatural even to my own ears.
His eyes move slowly over my face.
"Are you alright?" he asks, voice low and casual.
"Of course I am," I reply quickly. "Why are you asking?"
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. "Did you come to the study just now?"
My stomach tightens.
"No," I say immediately.
The lie slips out smoothly even though my brain is screaming.
He hums quietly, gaze still on me. "I thought I saw you there."
I laugh again, forcing the sound out of my throat. "You must be hallucinating."
Another quiet hum leaves him as he nods slowly.
Then his eyes drift down slightly.
"Why are you sweating so much?" he asks. "Do you have a fever?"
"No way," I say quickly. "The room is just a bit hot."
His gaze shifts past me to the wall.
The air conditioner is running at the highest setting.
Then his eyes return to my face.
"You're sure?"
I laugh again, this time more desperate than amused. "Can I close the door? I actually have something to do."
He studies me for another second.
Then nods.
"Of course."
I shut the door the moment he steps back and lean against it, letting out a long breath I didn't realize I was holding.
My mind spins with the same terrifying question.
Did he buy that?
I stay against the door for several seconds after Zayan leaves, listening carefully until his footsteps disappear down his door. Only when the silence settles back into the room do I finally move.
The laptop is still sitting on the desk, the black screen reflecting my pale face back at me like an accusation.
My fingers move quickly. I pull the pendrive from beneath the books and slide it back into the port.
The folder reappears on the screen exactly where I left it, dozens of files stacked together like secrets waiting to spill.
This time I scroll deeper.
The next file opens into a long list.
Numbers.
Dozens of them.
Each line is followed by two small details.
Age.
Location.
At first the numbers don't register. My eyes skim down the page automatically, reading without understanding.
Then my brain catches up.
Thirteen.
Twelve.
Ten.
Fourteen.
None of them older.
My stomach tightens slowly as the realization sinks in. Every single entry belongs to a minor.
Some of the numbers have small photographs beside them—kids with awkward smiles, school uniforms, birthday pictures, messy hair, missing teeth.
Normal children.
The cursor blinks at the bottom of the screen.
My throat suddenly feels dry.
I open another file.
The image that appears is grainy and dark, like it was taken somewhere underground. At first it looks like nothing more than a wide hole in the earth, a deep circular pit surrounded by crude metal railings and concrete steps.
Then the rest of the picture loads.
People stand along the edges.
Well-dressed.
Expensive suits.
Hands gripping stacks of cash.
Below them, inside the pit, two small figures face each other under harsh floodlights.
Children.
Bruised.
Bleeding.
Bare fists raised while men above them lean over the railings, shouting and throwing money into the air.
The pit looks less like a place and more like a cage built for entertainment.
The cursor blinks again on the silent screen while the image burns itself into my memory.
Am I really searching for Vigilante?