The city hummed with life, the streets alive with movement as Zara navigated her way through the winding alleys. The neon lights overhead flickered against the night sky, reflecting off the damp pavement, while distant voices and honking cars painted a chaotic symphony of urban existence.
But none of it mattered.
She wasn't here for the city. She wasn't here to get lost in the crowd or to become another nameless shadow among the thousands.
She was here to begin.
And that began with the house.
The House No One Knew About
Zara turned into a quiet, dimly lit street, her fingers tightening around the keys hidden inside her pocket. She walked past a row of aged buildings, their brick walls worn and covered in faint traces of graffiti.
At the end of the lane stood an old two-story house. It looked abandoned to the untrained eye faded wooden doors, a rusting mailbox, and a front yard overgrown with weeds. The windows were curtained, the gate slightly ajar, creaking as the wind moved through it.
But this was hers.
She had bought the house weeks before she even arrived, using a name that wasn't hers an old woman from her childhood town had helped her, a kind-hearted yet shrewd lady who knew how to keep secrets. As far as the records went, Zara Kane did not own any property in this city.
She had made sure of it.
Zara stepped through the threshold, locking the door behind her.
The interior was sparse, but she had furnished it enough to live in. A simple wooden table, a couch covered in a dark sheet, a bed in the next room. The air was thick with dust, but it was safe.
And more importantly no one knew she was here.
She let out a breath, pressing her forehead against the door for a moment before pushing away the exhaustion creeping into her limbs. She had work to do.
Building a Secret
Zara moved quickly, retrieving a box from the corner of the room. Inside were tools ones she had bought discreetly. A drill, wooden panels, a lock mechanism. She had spent nights planning this, drawing out the dimensions, figuring out where she could create a hidden space.
Because the diary, Hannah's diary, couldn't just sit in a drawer.
It was too important.
She cleared the floor near the back wall, pulling away an old rug to reveal the wooden planks beneath. Carefully, she used the drill to loosen them, prying one up and setting it aside. Beneath it was an empty space just wide enough to store documents, USB drives, anything she needed to keep hidden.
She worked methodically, securing the small compartment with precision, lining it with cloth to protect the pages from dampness. Once she was satisfied, she placed the diary inside, her fingers lingering on the leather cover before sealing it away.
As she adjusted the floorboard back into place, she let out a long exhale.
This was it.
Her sanctuary.
Her war room.
She sat back, wiping sweat from her forehead, feeling the weight of what she had just done. It wasn't just about the diary. It was about everything, the past, the truth, the fight ahead.
She had come here for the O'Sullivans. But already, she was beginning to wonder if she had stepped into something much bigger than she had anticipated.
And then—
A knock at the door.
Zara froze.
Her breath hitched as she turned toward the sound.
9:34 PM.
Who the hell was knocking at this time?
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She wasn't expecting anyone. No one should even know she was here.
Silently, she moved toward the door, pressing her eye against the small peephole.
A man stood outside.
His face was pale, his expression unreadable, but something about him felt… wrong. He wasn't just another neighbor stopping by. There was something unnatural about the way he stood, his shoulders tense, his gaze shifting as if scanning the street.
Zara didn't open the door.
But the knocking came again.
Louder.
More impatient.
Then the man spoke. His voice was low, almost casual. "Miss, your voice is disturbing us."
Zara's brows furrowed.
What?
She hadn't been making noise, no more than any normal movement inside a house. Something about his words didn't make sense.
Her fingers curled into fists. Before she could second-guess herself, she unlocked the door but just as she opened it, she struck first.
Her fist connected with his face in a sharp, precise hit.
The man stumbled back, eyes widening in shock.
Before he could recover, Zara grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back in a painful hold. She pressed him against the doorframe, her voice low and firm.
"Why are you here?"
The man groaned, trying to pull away. "What the hell"
Before he could finish, movement caught her attention.
Two more men.
They stepped forward, eyes dark with intent.
Zara didn't wait.
She shoved the man in her grasp toward them, knocking them off balance, and with one swift motion, she kicked the nearest one square in the chest. He stumbled back, cursing.
Adrenaline surged through her veins as she slammed the door shut and locked it.
Her heart raced as the pounding began.
They were trying to break in.
The wood shook under their force, the frame rattling with each hit.
Zara's mind whirled. She couldn't call the police that would expose her, put her right on the radar of the very people she was trying to avoid.
Think.
Think.
The pounding grew louder.
She took a step back, her fingers twitching toward the closest weapon she could find an old wrench she had left near the tools.
But then—
The pounding stopped.
Silence.
And then—a different sound.
A low, muffled grunt.
Then another.
A thud.
Zara's breath hitched. She moved to the peephole, her pulse hammering in her throat.
Outside, the three men who had tried to break in were on the ground.
Another man stood over them.
Tall, broad-shouldered. A dark beard shadowed his jaw, his clothes slightly disheveled as if he had been caught in a fight.
His stance was steady, his presence unshaken.
Zara didn't recognize him.
But something about him sent a cold shiver down her spine.
He bent slightly, gripping one of the injured men by the collar. His voice was low, but the words sent the others scrambling in fear.
They ran.
Bleeding.
Broken.
The bearded man stood there for a long moment, watching them disappear into the night.
Then, slowly, he turned.
His gaze lifted.
And he looked straight into the peephole.
Zara's breath caught.
His eyes were fierce, piercing in a way that made her step back instinctively.
Like he knew she was watching.
Like he was waiting for her to react.
She stumbled away from the door, her hands shaking slightly.
What the hell had just happened?
What had she walked into?
She came here for the O'Sullivans.
But it was clear now..
Something else had already found her first.
The Debt of Power
The silence inside the room was suffocating, heavy like a weight pressing against the damp, cold walls. The air reeked of blood, sweat, and something far more sinister the scent of fear.
A single, flickering bulb hung from the ceiling, casting weak, swaying shadows across the rough concrete floor. The abducted man sat slumped in a chair, his wrists raw from the tightly wound restraints. His head drooped forward, his breathing shallow and uneven. He was barely conscious, his body held upright only by the cruel grip of the ropes that bound him.
Then—
A creak.
The door, heavy with rust, groaned as it was pushed open just an inch.
A shadow slipped in. Fast. Silent.
No hesitation.
The figure moved swiftly, a gloved hand reaching for a blade, sleek, sharp, and waiting. With practiced precision, the knife sliced through the thick ropes binding the abducted man's hands. The sound of frayed fibers snapping was barely audible over the rhythmic hum of the dying bulb.
The man didn't stir.
His body remained slack, unresponsive.
The shadow crouched, fingers searching for a pulse against his clammy skin. A heartbeat faint, weak, but there.
Without pause, the figure grabbed a small metal flask from their belt, uncapped it, and in one swift motion—splashed the freezing liquid across the man's face.
A strangled gasp.
The man's body jerked as the icy water shocked him back to reality, his chest heaving as if he had been pulled from drowning depths. His half-lidded eyes flickered open, unfocused, panic-stricken.
A firm grip caught him before he could fall forward.
"Move."
The whisper was barely a breath, but it carried authority. A command.
The man was too weak to resist, barely comprehending what was happening as his rescuer hoisted him onto their back. His limbs hung uselessly, his mind still fogged from whatever torment had kept him here.
The shadow did not wait.
They turned, moving swiftly, carrying him out of the room, disappearing into the darkness beyond.
A minute later, the door creaked once more.
And this time—it wasn't a rescuer who stepped in.
The Chase Begins
The air shifted as another figure entered the room, footsteps heavy and unhurried.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black with a presence that demanded attention. His eyes flicked to the now-empty chair, the frayed ropes hanging loosely from its arms.
Gone.
His expression darkened, jaw tightening.
Then—
The gas hit.
A sharp, acrid scent filled the air, burning his throat as it crept through his lungs like poison. He staggered back, his body reacting before his mind fully registered the attack.
His vision blurred.
Breathing became impossible.
"Gas!" he choked out, stumbling toward the exit. "MASK—NOW!"
The door burst open behind him as his men rushed in. One of them shoved a gas mask into his hands, and he yanked it on without a second thought, sucking in a desperate breath of filtered air.
The fog inside the room swirled, curling against the light like a living thing.
But the room was empty.
The chair sat there, still marked with traces of blood, but the man—the captive—was gone.
A guttural curse tore from his lips.
"Who took him?" His voice was sharp, dangerous. "Where were you dogs when this happened?!"
The men behind him flinched. No one spoke.
Silence.
Unacceptable.
His hand twitched toward his side, where a gun rested beneath his coat.
"Find him," he growled. "If he's still near, I want him back in this chair before sunrise."
His men scrambled, disappearing into the night like shadows on command.
But deep inside, a thought twisted in his mind like a blade.
Who knew?
Not many had knowledge of this place. Not many could have found it.
The O'Sullivans.
His expression darkened.
Liam.
His hands curled into fists as the realization struck him.
He had underestimated Liam O'Sullivan.
And that was a mistake.
One he wouldn't make again.
"Liam," he muttered, the name like venom on his tongue. "I will not let you win… even if it costs me my own life."
Then—
A voice.
Low, amused, crackling through a nearby device.
Liam O'Sullivan was laughing.
The sound slithered into the room, laced with quiet confidence.
"You really mean that?" Liam's voice echoed through the air, calm and taunting. "Because I can make sure that wish comes true."
Before the words had even settled, the man felt it—
A sharp pain.
Deep.
Cold steel burying itself into his back.
His breath hitched, eyes widening as he staggered forward, the device slipping from his grip.
Betrayal.
His body convulsed as the knife was twisted deeper, his mind struggling to grasp the reality of what had just happened.
He had been played.
Betrayed.
As his vision blurred, the last thing he heard was Liam's voice, still coming from the device, a smirk evident in his tone.
"Some debts… must be paid in blood."
And then—
Darkness.