On the paper in front of me, the crime dates and his passport dates match.
My breath turns uneven, dragging in and out of my lungs like the air is suddenly heavier than it should be.
I stare at the lines again, hoping my eyes are playing tricks on me, hoping I misread a month or switched two numbers without noticing. Coincidences exist.
Rich men travel. Powerful men attend meetings in dangerous cities. Just because he was there does not mean he pulled a trigger or ordered someone to do it.
He does not need money.
He does not need revenge on random elites across the world.
He does not need anything.
He is the heir to the most powerful family alive.
So why does almost every country he steps into bleed while he is there, or right after he leaves?
Not every country.
But almost every one.
The pattern looks ugly. It looks intentional. It looks planned.
My stomach twists so hard I feel sick.
I close my phone abruptly, like the screen itself is accusing me. The silence in the room grows louder, pressing against my ears.
I grab the journal and throw it across the room without thinking. It hits the wall and falls open on the floor, the page with the dates exposed like evidence.
My hands fly to my hair. I grip it at the roots and lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the marble tiles beneath my feet. My thoughts spin too fast. I try to slow them down, try to breathe like a normal person.
This is insane.
This is just theory.
This is me being dramatic.
He travels. Crimes happen. The world is violent. That does not mean he is.
I press my palms together and whisper a quick prayer under my breath, asking God to let this be nothing but overthinking. Let it be my imagination. Let it be a stupid coincidence that looks worse on paper than it actually is.
A knock hits my door.
My head snaps up.
I wipe at my face quickly, not even realizing tears had slipped down until my fingers come away damp. I inhale, clear my throat, and stand up. I cross the room, open the door, and try to look normal.
He is there.
Zayan stands outside my room, leaning one elbow against the doorframe like he owns the air around him. The lighting from his room casts shadows across his face, making his eyes darker than usual.
His gaze moves over me slowly.
He pushes off the frame and steps inside without asking.
I step back automatically.
He notices.
His hand lifts and cups my cheek gently, thumb brushing just under my eye. His expression shifts, not angry, not cold, just focused.
"Did you cry?" he asks quietly.
"No," I answer too fast.
I try to move away from his touch, but his fingers slide down and catch my wrist. He pulls me closer with controlled strength and places his other hand against my forehead, checking my temperature like I am something fragile.
"No fever," he murmurs. "Then what is it?"
"You are overreacting," I say, forcing a small laugh that does not sound like mine. "It is just the air conditioning. It is freezing in here."
He studies me for a long second, like he is searching for cracks.
Then his eyes flick toward his bed in his room before returning to mine.
"You can sleep there," he says, voice low. "If you are cold."
If I had not seen the passport, if I had not written those dates, I would have said yes without thinking. I would have crossed the room and slid under his blanket like I always do when he offers without saying it directly.
Instead, I shake my head.
"I am fine," I reply. "You do not have to worry."
His jaw tightens slightly, but he nods once.
For a moment it feels like he wants to say something else.
Before he can, I step back into my room and close the door between us.
I stand behind the closed door for a long time after he leaves.
The silence feels different now. Not empty. Watching.
I try to lie down. I try to close my eyes. The ceiling above me looks unfamiliar, like I am sleeping in a stranger's house. Every small sound makes my body tense.
The air conditioner hums. A branch brushes the window. Somewhere in the hallway a clock ticks, steady and patient.
Sleep does not come.
It stays far away from me, like it knows I do not deserve it tonight.
After almost an hour of turning from one side to the other, I sit up. My heart is still restless, still racing in short, sharp beats. I swing my legs off the bed and walk across the room, my feet cold against the marble floor.
I pick up my laptop from the desk.
Then I kneel and grab the journal from where it fell. The page is still open. The dates are still lined up like quiet accusations.
I place the journal on the couch, sit down, and open my laptop.
The screen lights up my face in the dark room.
My fingers hover above the keyboard for a second before I start typing.
Vigilante murders worldwide past five years.
Articles appear immediately. Forums. News reports. Conspiracy blogs. Anonymous threads filled with speculation. I open everything.
The world calls him a hero.
The media gave him a name two years ago. They call him the Vigilante. Some people call him a monster. Others call him justice.
Over fifty murders in five years.
Fifty powerful men. Millionaires. Politicians. Business owners. Directors. Influential figures.
Almost all of them accused secretly of hurting women or children.
Molestation. Trafficking. Abuse. Exploitation.
Every case follows a pattern.
They disappear first.
Kidnapped quietly. No witnesses. No ransom.
Days later, a video appears online from an untraceable source. The man is tied to a chair in a dark room. His face bruised. His voice shaking. He confesses everything.
He lists his crimes in detail. Names. Dates. Locations. He cries. He begs. He admits what the courts never proved.
The next day, he is found dead.
Sometimes shot. Sometimes staged like suicide. Sometimes left in a public place like a message.
And then something stranger happens.
All his assets vanish.
Bank accounts drained. Companies transferred. Properties seized under anonymous buyers. Investments dissolved.
Within forty-eight hours, the man is nothing.
No money.
No power.
No legacy.
Just a body.
I scroll through case after case.
Thailand.
France.
Italy.
Switzerland.
South Africa.
Mexico.
Singapore.
America.
My chest tightens as I open another article.
The last one this year.
Damien Cross. Former director of DC Group. Powerful. Untouchable. Rumors of child exploitation buried for years under lawyers and settlements.
Official report says he was killed by Black Wraiths, the most feared hit group in the world. Professional. Precise.
But the pattern in his case feels wrong.
He disappeared first.
Two weeks later, a video surfaced of him confessing.
Two days after that, he was found dead.
And his assets?
Gone.
Completely wiped.
Exactly like the Vigilante cases.
The room feels colder.
I close my laptop slowly.
The screen goes black, and for a moment I see my reflection staring back at me, pale and wide-eyed.
I want to laugh at myself. I want to call this madness. I want to say I am building a thriller story inside my head because I am bored and dramatic and obsessed with patterns that may not even exist.
I want Zayan to be innocent.
I want this to be coincidence.
I shut the laptop completely and stand up.
My room is inside his room.
To leave mine means stepping into his.
I open the door quietly.
The lights in his room are off except for the dim lamp near the bed. He is lying there on his back, one arm under his head, the other resting loosely on his chest. The blanket is pushed down slightly, and the soft light cuts across his face.
He looks peaceful.
Too peaceful.
I walk closer, slowly, like I am approaching something fragile. I stand beside the bed and look down at him.
His breathing is deep and steady.
His lashes rest against his cheeks.
His jaw is relaxed.
There is no tension in him. No sign of darkness. No sign of blood or secrets or hidden rooms where men beg for mercy.
Just my husband.
Sleeping.
I sit carefully on the edge of the bed.
My fingers hover near his face but do not touch him.
I study every detail as if I am trying to memorize it.
The sharp line of his nose.
The faint shadow of stubble on his jaw.
He shifts slightly in his sleep but does not wake.
The room is quiet.
The world outside is quiet.
And as I stare at him lying there, calm and unbothered, only one question stays in the air between us.
Did Zayan really kill them?