Chapter 1:

Chapter 1

The Call

Morning arrived quietly over the city, but even daylight could not soften the unease hanging in Room 407 of the Willow Hotel.

Thin gold sunlight slipped through the half-drawn curtains, spreading in narrow bands across the carpet, the edge of the dresser, and the unmade bed. Outside the large window, Lagos was already awake. Distant car horns rose and faded in layers. A generator hummed somewhere below. Street vendors called out in the distance with the practiced rhythm of people who had done it for years. The city moved like it always did—restless, alive, indifferent.

Inside the room, however, everything felt still.

John stood by the window in a white shirt with the top buttons undone, one hand in his pocket, the other resting against the frame. He had been awake for nearly an hour, but sleep still clung to his eyes in the form of faint shadows beneath them. His posture looked calm, almost relaxed, yet there was something rigid about the line of his shoulders.

He was staring outside, but he wasn't seeing the traffic or the buildings or the early sunlight.

His mind was somewhere else entirely.

Behind him, Tina slept on the bed, curled slightly on her side beneath the white hotel sheets. Her breathing was slow and even. One hand rested near her cheek, the other stretched lazily across the mattress as though searching for warmth in her sleep. Her braids spilled across the pillow and onto the blanket like dark ropes.

She looked peaceful.

John envied that.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table.

He didn't turn.

The vibration stopped.

A few seconds later, it began again.

Still, he ignored it.

Again.

And again.

The sound became irritating not because it was loud, but because it was persistent—demanding. It crawled under his skin.

By the seventh call, his jaw tightened. His eyes flicked briefly toward the phone before returning to the window.

He already knew who it was.

Only one person called like that.

Only one person believed the world should answer the moment he reached for it.

His father.

John exhaled slowly through his nose.

The room behind him shifted as Tina stirred.

"Morning…"

Her voice was soft and thick with sleep.

He turned slightly.

She was pushing herself upright, rubbing one eye with the back of her hand before stretching both arms over her head. The blue satin nightgown she wore caught the morning light and shimmered faintly. When she saw him standing there, her face brightened immediately.

That smile.

Easy. Warm. Real.

For a moment, some of the pressure in his chest loosened.

"Morning," he replied.

His voice was gentle, but distant enough for her to notice.

Tina tilted her head, studying him the way people study clouds before rain.

"What's wrong?"

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood barefoot on the carpet.

"You look like you haven't blinked in hours."

John gave a faint smile, but it didn't last.

He glanced at the buzzing phone again before answering.

"Dad wants me back home."

Tina's eyes widened.

"Really?" she said quickly. "That's good, isn't it?"

Excitement flashed across her face at first. She had heard enough stories about the strained relationship between John and his family to know how much distance existed there. If his father was calling him back, maybe something had changed.

Maybe pride had softened.

Maybe old wounds were healing.

But then she saw John's expression.

No relief.

No happiness.

Only suspicion.

Her smile faded.

"…Isn't it?" she asked more quietly.

John looked away.

The city outside suddenly seemed easier to face than her concern.

"With him," he said after a pause, "good news usually comes with a price."

Tina said nothing.

She walked closer and touched his arm gently.

"You don't know that yet."

He looked down at her hand, then back at her face.

He wanted to believe her.

But years of disappointment had a way of teaching caution.

"Let's just get ready," he said at last. "We should leave soon."

His tone ended the conversation.

He stepped past her and disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, the sound of running water filled the room.

Tina remained where she stood.

Her hand slowly dropped to her side.

She hated when he retreated like this—when something troubled him and he locked it behind calm eyes and short sentences.

She turned back toward the bed and reached for her phone.

The screen lit up.

45 missed calls.

Her stomach dropped.

All from Rita.

Tina's breath caught in her throat.

Rita never called that many times unless something was wrong.

She dialed immediately.

The call connected after one ring.

"Rita? What happened? Why are you blowing up my phone?"

Her voice came out sharper than intended.

She listened.

The color drained from her face so quickly it seemed to vanish all at once.

"No… wait, slow down."

She paced once beside the bed.

"When?"

Another pause.

Her free hand gripped the sheet tightly.

"Is she okay?"

Whatever answer came made Tina shut her eyes.

"Okay. Listen to me. Don't panic. I'm coming now."

She ended the call and stood frozen for two seconds.

Then motion returned to her body like a switch had been flipped.

She moved fast.

She threw open her suitcase, pulled out fitted jeans, a cream blouse, a handbag. She tied her hair into a tight ponytail with fingers that trembled slightly despite her speed. Lip gloss. Earrings. Shoes.

Her earlier softness had vanished.

Now there was only urgency.

She glanced once toward the bathroom door where the shower still ran.

Guilt flickered in her chest.

But whatever waited outside was bigger than an explanation.

She grabbed her bag and left.

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft metallic whisper.

Tina stood inside beside two strangers, breathing a little too fast.

She pulled out her compact mirror and reapplied lip gloss automatically, more to steady her hands than for appearance.

Her phone rang again.

John.

She answered immediately.

"John, something important came up."

Her voice sounded strange even to herself—too clipped, too cold.

"I can't go with you to see Madison."

Silence.

She imagined his frown.

"Is everything—"

"I'll explain later."

She ended the call before he could ask more.

The moment the screen went dark, regret hit her.

But there was no time.

Back in Room 407, John stared at his phone.

The disconnected call screen reflected in his eyes.

That wasn't like Tina.

Not even close.

In three years, she had never handled conflict by running from it. She explained everything, even small things. Sometimes too much.

But just now?

She sounded distracted.

Rushed.

Like someone speaking while already halfway gone.

He lowered the phone slowly.

Something wasn't right.

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.

Three quick taps.

He frowned.

"Room service?" he muttered.

He hadn't ordered anything.

Still, he crossed the room and opened the door.

Then froze.

A young woman stood outside.

Black face mask. Dark cap pulled low. Hoodie zipped high.

Only her eyes were visible.

Wide.

Panicked.

Before he could speak, she pushed past him.

"Hey—!"

She rushed inside, spun around, and shut the door behind her with both hands.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

She leaned against the wood as though it were the only thing keeping her standing.

"Sorry…" she whispered. "Please… can I stay here for a while?"

John stared at her.

Every instinct sharpened.

Who was she?

Why this room?

Why him?

"Why?" he asked flatly.

She opened her mouth.

Then her eyes shifted toward the hallway through the peephole.

Fear flooded them.

Without another word, she yanked open the door and ran.

Gone.

John stepped after her.

The corridor stretched empty in both directions, silent except for the distant ding of another elevator.

No footsteps.

No voices.

Nothing.

He stood there for several seconds.

A strange chill moved through him.

"What the hell…"

He shut the door more carefully this time.

The room no longer felt calm.

He checked the time.

10:02 a.m.

"Perfect."

He grabbed his keys, laptop bag, wallet.

Whatever kind of day this was becoming, he wanted no part of staying still for it.

In the hallway, another voice stopped him.

"John?"

He turned.

For a second, he had to search memory against reality.

Then recognition settled.

"Stella."

She smiled nervously.

Seven years had changed her face in subtle ways—more maturity, softer confidence—but he knew her instantly.

"What a surprise," he said.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Work."

He shrugged lightly.

"And you?"

She hesitated, then raised her left hand.

A ring glinted in the light.

"I just got engaged."

John blinked once, then smiled genuinely.

"Congratulations."

Something warm and unexpected moved through him.

No jealousy.

No regret.

Only relief that old stories could end peacefully.

"He must be the lucky one."

A man stepped beside her.

Tall, neat beard, relaxed posture.

"John, this is David. My fiancé."

They shook hands firmly.

"Nice to meet you," David said. "I've heard about you."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Should I be worried?"

David grinned.

"Only that you were always too busy for her."

Stella smacked his arm lightly.

"I did not say that!"

John laughed.

The sound surprised even him.

For a brief moment, the heaviness of the morning lifted.

"It doesn't matter anymore," he said.

And he meant it.

"I wish you both happiness."

Stella's eyes softened.

"Thank you, John."

They entered the elevator together, but silence settled after that.

Not awkward.

Just final.

When the doors opened on the lobby floor, they went one way.

John went another.

The hotel lobby buzzed with morning life.

Rolling suitcases.

Reception phones ringing.

The scent of polished wood and brewed coffee.

A child crying near the entrance.

John barely noticed any of it.

His phone lit up again.

Father.

He stared at the screen until it stopped.

Then it rang again.

His jaw hardened.

"What do you really want from me?"

He let it ring out.

Outside, humid air wrapped around him immediately. Heat rose from the pavement despite the early hour. Security guards nodded as he passed.

His car waited in the parking lot—clean, modest, practical. Nothing flashy. He preferred it that way.

He got in, started the engine, and pulled onto the road.

Traffic moved in jerks and bursts.

Hawkers weaved between cars carrying bottled water, plantain chips, phone chargers.

A danfo bus cut sharply across two lanes.

Someone shouted.

Another horn blasted.

Lagos, in full honesty.

His assistant called.

John answered through the speakers.

"Speak."

"Sir—"

"Why are you calling me? Talk to the artist."

His tone was sharp.

Joseph was clumsy, often dramatic, and frequently disorganized.

But he was also John's oldest friend.

When Joseph lost his previous job, John hired him immediately. Not out of pity.

Out of loyalty.

"It's not about work," Joseph said quietly.

John frowned.

"What then?"

A pause.

"My mother wants to see you."

John sighed deeply.

Of course she did.

Why was everyone suddenly searching for him today?

"What now?"

"She said it's important."

John rubbed his temple at a red light.

His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten.

"I'll be there in one or two hours," he said.

"And get me something to eat before I arrive."

Even Joseph laughed weakly at that.

The call ended.

John drove on.

Traffic rolled forward.

Sunlight flashed across the windshield.

Yet beneath the ordinary movement of the city, a darker certainty settled inside him.

This wasn't random.

Not the calls.

Not Tina's panic.

Not the masked woman.

Not his father's insistence.

Something had started moving beneath the surface of his life.

And before the day ended—

Everything might change.

< Mike Mansion >

11:30 AM

Dining Hall

Late morning sunlight poured through the tall arched windows of the Mike Mansion dining hall, warming the polished marble floor in long golden streaks. The room was vast enough to host twenty guests comfortably, though only five seats at the massive oak dining table were occupied.

Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, their light dimmed by the brightness outside. Fresh lilies arranged in silver vases lined the center of the table, their sweet scent mixing with the aroma of buttered toast, grilled vegetables, roasted fish, and hot tea.

Servants moved silently at the edges of the room, trained to become invisible when family tensions surfaced.

And this morning—

Tension sat at the table like an invited guest.

The soft clink of spoon against porcelain broke the silence.

Every eye shifted toward the youngest member of the family.

Mira.

She sat two seats away from her father, dressed in a pale pink indoor dress with lace at the sleeves, her dark hair pinned loosely with ribbons that matched the color. At fifteen, she still carried the softness of youth in her face, but illness had stolen the healthy glow girls her age usually possessed.

Her skin was pale.

Her lips often lacked color.

And even sitting upright too long could tire her.

Yet none of that changed one fact within the household:

She was adored.

Spoiled by her brothers.

Protected by her mother.

Worshipped by servants who had watched her grow.

And feared by no one except doctors.

Her fingers tightened around the silver spoon until her knuckles whitened.

"What's wrong, sweetie?"

Her father's voice was calm and low, the tone of a man who disliked unnecessary noise. But behind the calmness, his sharp eyes studied her carefully.

Mr. Mike sat at the head of the table, where he always sat.

Even retired, authority clung to him like expensive cologne.

Once one of the most feared businessmen in the city, he had built UB Company from almost nothing into an empire of manufacturing, imports, and technology supply. His investments stretched into hospitals, real estate, and transport. Among them was Parker Hospital, where he held major shares and considerable influence.

But illness had reduced what time could not.

His body was thinner now.

His shoulders not as broad.

His movements slower.

There were mornings his hands shook slightly when lifting tea.

There were nights he disappeared into private pain no one discussed aloud.

Yet at this table, no weakness was acknowledged.

Power still sat in his chair.

Mira swallowed hard.

Her throat felt tight.

Her chest always felt tight lately.

"Why must I go?" she burst out suddenly.

The spoon clattered onto the plate.

Her voice trembled despite the anger inside it.

"I don't want to go under the knife!"

Her eyes glistened instantly.

"What if something goes wrong? What if I die?"

The room went still.

Even the servants froze.

No one touched a plate.

No one breathed too loudly.

The fear in her voice was too real to ignore.

This was not childish dramatics.

This was terror.

Mira's heart condition had ruled her life since childhood. Every staircase was measured. Every school plan canceled. Every friendship limited. Every fever became an emergency.

She had watched other children run.

Watched teenagers gossip outside gates.

Watched the world through windows.

And now the solution everyone celebrated required her chest to be cut open.

Her old heart removed.

A stranger's heart placed inside her.

How could anyone expect courage so easily?

Mike lowered his gaze to his plate before answering, as though this conversation exhausted him before it began.

"We've talked about this."

His voice was quiet.

Final.

No softness.

No reassurance.

Just fact.

Mira stared at him in disbelief.

That was it?

No comfort?

No "you'll be fine"?

No "I'm scared too"?

Her shoulders slowly sagged.

The fight drained out of her.

Defeated, she stabbed uselessly at the eggs on her plate, though appetite had left long ago.

She wanted to cry.

But crying at this table always made her feel younger than she already was.

"Mira."

Bella's voice entered the silence like warm cloth over cold skin.

Gentle.

Firm.

Bella sat elegantly beside her husband, dressed in a cream house gown with pearl earrings and neatly tied hair. Even in private, she carried herself with quiet grace.

Unlike Mike's hard authority, Bella ruled through patience.

"You understand how important this surgery is, don't you?"

Mira didn't look up.

Bella continued carefully.

"After this, you'll finally be able to go to school like other children."

That made Mira's fingers pause.

School.

She had dreamed of classrooms she had never entered.

Friends she had never made.

Ordinary complaints she had never been allowed to have.

Bella's voice softened more.

"You won't be trapped in this house anymore."

Then her gaze moved briefly toward Mike.

"And your father went through so much to secure that heart for you."

That statement changed the atmosphere.

Everyone knew what it meant.

Money.

Influence.

Negotiations.

Pulling strings where ordinary people could not.

A donor match had not come by miracle.

It had been pursued.

Won.

Protected.

"Instead of complaining," Bella said gently, "you should thank him."

Mira's lips pressed into a thin line.

Her large sharp eyes narrowed.

Thank him?

For buying her another chance?

For deciding her fate without asking if she wanted it?

For loving her through control instead of tenderness?

She said nothing.

Because saying it aloud would become war.

Across the table, Mike had already moved on.

"Barnabas. How is the company?"

Barnabas lifted his gaze.

He wore a charcoal tailored suit though it was only morning, his tie perfectly aligned, cuffs immaculate. At twenty-eight, he had inherited not only the company but much of his father's presence.

Where Mike commanded loudly in younger years, Barnabas ruled quietly.

He rarely raised his voice.

Rarely repeated himself.

Rarely lost.

"Everything is proceeding as planned," he said.

His tone was measured and professional.

"We recently secured a contract with a foreign company. They're interested in purchasing our newly developed parts."

Mike nodded once.

Approval.

Small, but valuable.

"Good."

Barnabas returned to his meal, though inwardly he felt nothing.

Another contract.

Another expansion.

Another mountain placed on shoulders already carrying ten.

His life had become meetings, signatures, numbers, expectations.

Even breakfast was a boardroom.

Mike turned to his second son.

Abraham's chair was already moving back.

Bella frowned immediately.

"You haven't finished your food."

Abraham stood, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt.

Unlike Barnabas's composed authority, Abraham carried restless intensity. A respected surgeon with Parker Hospital, he always looked half a second away from leaving.

Because he usually was.

"There's an eye surgery requiring my attention," he said briskly.

"I won't be back today. I'll head straight to the airport afterward."

"Airport?" Bella asked quickly.

"Conference."

He was already walking.

"Eat something later."

"Yes, Mother."

Without waiting for more questions, he left.

The door shut behind him.

Silence returned.

Mira watched enviously.

He could leave.

Everyone could leave.

Only she remained.

"Brother…"

Her voice softened as she turned toward Barnabas.

"Can I come with you?"

He looked up slowly.

She clasped her hands together.

"I promise I won't be a bother."

Her eyes pleaded shamelessly.

She wanted movement.

Cars.

Buildings.

People.

Noise.

Anything but another day breathing luxury like prison air.

Barnabas hesitated.

Instinctively, he glanced toward their father.

Mike waved a hand dismissively.

"Take her."

Barnabas exhaled quietly.

Another responsibility added.

"Fine," he said.

"But you stay close to me at all times. Understood?"

Mira nodded so quickly her ribbons bounced.

"Yes!"

The sadness disappeared from her face in seconds.

Youth was merciful that way.

"I'll go change!"

She rushed from the room.

Barnabas frowned faintly.

He looked after her retreating figure.

"What's wrong with what she's wearing?"

Bella smiled into her tea.

Minutes later, Mira returned.

And somehow looked even more extravagant.

A white flowing gown with layered fabric.

Delicate gloves.

A bunny hat perched on her head.

Small handbag.

And heels entirely unsuitable for walking more than ten steps.

Barnabas stared.

"If that's your idea of looking better…"

Mira huffed dramatically.

"I can't go outside looking like a beggar."

Barnabas said nothing.

But inwardly thought:

If beggars dressed like this, poverty would disappear overnight.

"Let's go."

They turned—

"Barnabas."

He stopped immediately.

He knew that tone.

Family business.

"What do you think about Miss Sonia?"

Mike's voice carried expectation disguised as curiosity.

Barnabas's face remained neutral.

"It went well."

He adjusted his watch.

"She agreed to the marriage."

Bella's head snapped toward him.

"So soon?"

Her concern was immediate.

"You've only just met. Don't you think it's too fast?"

Barnabas met her eyes briefly.

He appreciated her concern.

But concern changed nothing.

As first son, his path had been mapped years ago.

Education.

Responsibility.

Succession.

Marriage.

Love had never been listed.

"Sonia is suitable," he said after a pause.

"She is calm, composed. A fashion designer with her own brand. Easy to talk to."

He did not mention her careful smile.

Her guarded eyes.

The invisible shadow of someone she once loved.

Or the fact he recognized another prisoner when he saw one.

Mike chuckled.

"What's the need to rush getting to know each other?"

He leaned back smugly.

"You have a lifetime for that after marriage."

Bella sighed softly.

Sometimes arguing with her husband felt like arguing with stone.

"After this month," Mike continued, "we'll visit her family and formally ask for her hand."

There it was.

Not suggestion.

Decision.

Barnabas felt the familiar emptiness settle in his chest.

A marriage arranged like a merger.

"…Alright."

"Brother!"

Mira gasped dramatically.

"You're getting married?!"

Her face lit up.

She clapped excitedly.

"Congratulations!"

Barnabas looked at her and, despite himself, smiled faintly.

She was the only one here who could make absurdity feel harmless.

"Come on," he said.

"We're leaving."

She waved cheerfully to everyone.

"Bye, Mommy! Bye, Daddy!"

The doors closed behind them.

And the room quieted again.

Bella slowly turned toward her husband.

"Don't you think this is too rushed?"

Mike leaned back fully, satisfied with himself.

"Sonia is perfect."

He counted on his fingers.

"Beautiful. Well-mannered. Educated."

Then his expression darkened slightly.

"Barnabas is excellent in every way…"

He paused.

"…except one."

Bella raised an eyebrow.

"He's too distant from women."

Rumors had reached him over the years.

Whispers in clubs.

Comments from associates.

Ugly suggestions that his son preferred men.

Mike dismissed them publicly.

But privately?

The thought irritated him deeply.

That was why he arranged the blind date.

A test disguised as matchmaking.

Now hearing Sonia agreed—

He felt victorious.

He snatched up his phone immediately.

One call.

Then another.

Then another.

Announcing the engagement like a man who had just won an election.

Bella rolled her eyes.

Childish.

Ridiculous.

Embarrassingly dramatic.

Yet as she watched him laugh into the phone—

Truly laugh—

Her expression softened.

For the first time in many months…

Her husband looked genuinely happy.

And that, more than anything, made her uneasy.

♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️✋♥️♥️♥️♥️

<

Chapter 3–4:

Chapter 3–4: Better Choice & Shadows of the Past (Expanded)

Better Choice Headquarters – Morning Pressure

The Better Choice building stood in the middle of the business district like a carefully placed statement—modern glass panels reflecting the morning sun, steel frames polished but not extravagant, and a quiet confidence in its design that said we are still growing, but we belong here.

Outside, traffic had already begun its usual chaos. Honking taxis squeezed between buses, street vendors shouted prices over one another, and office workers rushed past with coffee cups and tired expressions. The city did not care who succeeded or failed—it only moved.

Inside Better Choice, however, everything was controlled.

Air conditioning hummed steadily through the corridors. The scent of paper, ink, and faint coffee drifted from different departments. Staff moved quickly but quietly, each holding folders, laptops, or printed manuscripts. There was a rhythm to it—meetings, editing cycles, approvals, publishing deadlines.

And at the center of it all was John.

Better Choice was his creation.

Founded four years ago when he had nothing but reputation, risk, and stubborn ambition, it had slowly climbed into recognition. Not top-tier yet—not among the elite giants of publishing—but stable enough that competitors watched it carefully.

Out of 159 published books, 18 had produced breakout authors. Three had even been adapted into screen productions featuring known actors. It wasn't just luck—it was timing, selection, and John's instinct for stories that people felt rather than just read.

Still, John knew the truth:

One wrong contract could collapse everything.

One scandal could erase years of work.

And the industry never forgave weakness.

Joseph Sood – The Weight Behind Him

"You're late."

The voice came before John even reached his office.

Joseph Sood stood near the stairwell, arms crossed over his broad chest. His build alone made him intimidating—thick shoulders, heavy frame, and a face that rarely softened in public. Many new employees mistook him for security or worse.

But Joseph was neither.

He was structure.

He was discipline.

And unfortunately for John, he was also honesty wrapped in bluntness.

John barely looked at him.

"Hm."

Joseph sighed.

"You didn't eat again."

John walked past him.

"I'm alive, aren't I?"

"That's not the standard."

John waved at a passing guard without slowing.

Joseph followed behind.

"2:34 PM. Interview with Mrs. Madison. Don't forget."

"I won't."

"You always say that before forgetting something."

John didn't respond.

Instead, his eyes scanned the movement of workers—how fast they were moving today. Something about the energy felt tense.

"Your mother left earlier," Joseph added.

That made John pause briefly.

Then continue walking.

"Okay."

Joseph studied his back.

That "okay" meant nothing.

It never did.

Business Pressure & Hidden Problems

As they reached the seventh floor, Joseph opened a file on his tablet.

"KB Company contacted us."

John finally stopped walking.

"Never heard of them."

"New entertainment firm. Aggressive entry into publishing-media crossover. One of their actresses wants adaptation rights from one of our writers."

John frowned slightly.

"Name?"

"Still under negotiation. They want a meeting with you personally."

That alone told John everything.

Small companies didn't request CEOs unless they wanted leverage.

"Check their background," John said quietly. "Everything. Financials. Connections. Debt history. I don't want surprises."

Joseph nodded.

Then hesitated.

"There's also something else."

John exhaled slowly.

"Say it."

"Mrs. Precious had a drunk driving incident last night."

John didn't react immediately.

He just closed his eyes briefly.

"Anyone hurt?"

"No."

"Property damage?"

"Yes."

A long pause.

"Handle it," John said. "Company covers damages."

Joseph watched him carefully.

"And her?"

John's tone dropped slightly.

"She's already been arrested."

Joseph waited.

Then John added:

"I've arranged bail."

Joseph didn't comment, but his expression tightened.

This was the side of John few saw.

Not cruel.

Not careless.

Just… dangerously efficient when dealing with chaos.

Meanwhile – Mira's Uneasy Journey

Far from the corporate building, a black car moved slowly through another part of the city.

The interior was quiet except for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of traffic outside.

Mira sat near the window, her forehead pressed lightly against the glass.

The world outside blurred into streaks of color—cars, people, buildings, movement without meaning.

But her mind wasn't seeing the city.

It was replaying silence.

Clara's silence.

No replies.

No calls returned.

Just nothing.

A void where communication used to be.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her phone.

"Something feels wrong," she whispered.

Barnabas, sitting beside her, leaned back with tired eyes.

"Maybe she's busy."

"Clara doesn't ignore me like this."

"People change."

That answer did not help.

Mira turned toward him.

"Can we check on her later?"

Barnabas exhaled.

"If you want."

Then she shook her head.

"No… you're right. She's probably just busy."

But her voice didn't convince even herself.

The silence inside the car grew heavier.

Outside, the road suddenly narrowed.

Traffic slowed.

Detour signs appeared.

An elderly driver apologized repeatedly.

"About one hour more, miss."

Mira groaned softly, leaning back.

"This is torture."

"Mira," Barnabas warned quietly.

"I know."

But frustration was already building.

Then—

She saw her.

A figure.

Dressed in black.

Standing near the roadside.

Mask covering part of the face.

Hands trembling slightly as she clutched a paper.

Burn scars visible even from a distance.

Mira's body reacted before her mind did.

Her breathing stopped.

Her chest tightened painfully.

The world sharpened.

Then collapsed inward.

"STOP THE CAR!!"

Her scream cracked through the vehicle.

The driver slammed the brakes.

Tires screeched.

A horn blared nearby.

Barnabas jerked awake instantly.

"Mira—what the hell—"

But she was already out.

The Street – Memory Collision

The air outside was harsh.

Dust mixed with exhaust fumes.

People turned their heads in irritation, confusion, curiosity.

Mira stood frozen near the car door, eyes locked on the figure in black.

Her hands trembled.

Her heart pounded so violently it felt like it might tear through her ribs.

Four years.

Four years buried.

But memory doesn't need permission to return.

Barnabas ran after her immediately.

"Mira!"

She didn't hear him.

Or maybe she did—but couldn't respond.

The girl in black had already disappeared into movement of pedestrians.

Lost in the crowd.

Like a ghost.

Barnabas grabbed Mira's shoulder.

She flinched violently.

Her skin was cold.

Sweat had formed at her temple.

"Mira… breathe," he ordered, voice sharp now.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Just shallow, uneven breaths.

People were watching now.

A woman whispered.

A man stepped back.

Barnabas pulled her gently toward the car.

"Back inside. Now."

Inside the Car – Collapse of Control

The driver spoke with a traffic officer nearby.

The officer froze briefly when he saw Barnabas.

Recognition flickered.

Then respect.

Then unease.

"M-Mr. Barnabas…"

Barnabas didn't answer.

He helped Mira into the seat carefully.

Her body felt weightless.

Too fragile.

Like something held together by thin glass.

"Hospital?" the driver asked.

"No," Mira whispered immediately.

Her voice was weak.

"I'm fine."

Barnabas studied her face.

He didn't believe her.

But he nodded anyway.

The car door closed.

The vehicle moved again.

Silence returned.

Except now it was heavier.

Mira stared at her lap.

Her fingers trembled.

That girl…

Why now?

Why here?

Barnabas opened a small pill case from his pocket without looking at her.

"You scared me," he said flatly.

"I know."

He handed her water.

She swallowed her medication obediently.

The bitterness made her flinch slightly.

But she didn't complain.

Barnabas watched her carefully.

"You need to stop reacting like this."

"I didn't choose it."

"No," he said. "But you can control it."

She didn't answer.

Then quietly:

"I thought she was gone."

Barnabas stiffened slightly.

Neither spoke for a moment.

The Question That Shouldn't Be Asked

"Mira."

His voice turned lower.

"Let it go."

But she wasn't ready.

Not anymore.

Her eyes lifted slowly.

"Brother…"

Her voice shook.

"What happened to that girl four years ago?"

The car felt colder.

Barnabas didn't respond immediately.

Outside, the world moved on as if nothing mattered.

He tightened his jaw.

"It's been five years."

A pause.

"Forget it."

But Mira's expression changed.

From fear—

To certainty.

"That girl…" she whispered.

"Did she really die?"

Barnabas finally turned toward her.

His silence was the answer she didn't want.

And the one she feared most.

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