Danna:
My eyes fluttered open to the faint glow of a dimly lit room, the icy bite of the floor seeping into my skin as my bound wrists ached and my legs, tied so tightly they throbbed with every small movement, screamed with pain, a warm trickle of blood slipping down my arm where the skin had been split open, and through the haze of pain I remembered with sudden, horrible clarity how it began—how I had decided to rest until Dante returned, how I had reached for a glass of water despite the dull pulse in my legs, only to be approached by a tall, impeccably dressed man who carried the kind of quiet authority I thought belonged only to Dante's inner circle, and so I had foolishly followed him without question, my mind convinced he was one of ours, until his voice twisted into mockery and his hand clamped down on my arm with cruel force, dragging me into shadows I didn't recognize, where a flash of silver caught the light and a cold blade kissed my skin before slicing into it, the sharp sting making me cry out, only for the sound to be smothered as he pressed a cloth over my mouth, and the darkness rushed in, swallowing me whole—until now, when the creak of the door pulled me from the blur of half-consciousness and a voice, deep and unsettlingly familiar, wrapped around me like a ghost I had once loved, making my heart stutter painfully as my head pounded and my eyes, still unfocused, caught the silhouette of a man I could have sworn was gone from this world forever, and when he stepped closer, the flickering light painting his features, I felt my breath shatter in my chest, my lips barely shaping the muffled word "Daddy" as he opened his arms with a sickeningly warm "come here, my little girl," and I closed my eyes, praying I was delirious, that this was a dream I could wake from, but when I opened them again and saw him standing there—him, and yet impossibly not him—I felt the ground tilt beneath me because they had told me he was dead, because I had cried over his still, lifeless body, because I had watched them cover him, and now here he was, alive or a cruel mirage, studying me with eyes that didn't seem to recognize me, and when he stepped forward, his voice dripping with an unfamiliar menace as he told me I had made his daughter cry and that it carried huge consequences, I squirmed in confusion, because I was his daughter—wasn't I?—and who else could he mean, who else in the world but me had once called him father, until the thought crashed against my mind like a cold wave: perhaps this wasn't my father at all, perhaps this was a man who merely wore his face, and as the rope cut deeper into my skin, I could only stare at him in horror, my mind a whirl of memories, laughter, and the sound of his boots drawing closer across the floor.
His grip was rough when he released my chin, the sting of his fingers lingering on my skin as the coarse rope bit deeper into my wrists, each movement carving the fibers against tender flesh. I could taste salt at the back of my throat, the heat of unshed tears burning in my eyes until one slipped free, sliding down my cheek. My voice was fragile, almost breaking under the weight of my disbelief, yet I forced the words past trembling lips.
"Is your name… George Wilson?"
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to freeze. His eyes widened, sharp with suspicion, yet shadowed by something far older and deeper, something that flickered like a memory he couldn't quite grasp.
"How do you know my real name?" he demanded, his gaze searing into mine, searching for answers I wasn't sure I could give.
And then—something inside me shattered. My breath caught, my voice cracked, and the dam I'd been holding back gave way.
"Dad!"
It was like the air itself faltered, the silence between us swelling until it pressed against my ears. His lips parted, but no words came at first, only the faintest tremor in his stance.
"Who… are you?" His voice was low, uncertain, as though afraid of the answer.
I swallowed hard, the name clawing its way out of my chest like a plea for salvation. "Danna Wilson."
He recoiled as though the sound had burned him, his head shaking, his eyes wide, his disbelief palpable.
"No… it can't be. You're lying… right?"
I shook my head slowly, tears now streaming freely. "Dad, it's me. Danna."
For an instant, I swore I saw the sheen of tears in his eyes before his composure fractured completely.
"My Danna… my precious… my gold… my everything," he whispered, his voice breaking, and then he was on me—pulling me into his arms with such desperate force it almost hurt, pressing frantic kisses against my tear-streaked face as if to convince himself I was real.
"My Danna… my Danna… it's you," he kept repeating, his words trembling as though he feared that if he stopped speaking, I might vanish.
He tore at the knots with shaking hands until the ropes fell away, and then he was holding me again, his arms like a shield against everything that had happened.
"Dad!" My voice cracked as I clung to him, and together we wept—years of grief, confusion, and longing spilling into that single moment.
"I thought you died," I choked, the words barely more than a breath.
His hand cupped my cheek as he pulled back, his thumb wiping my tears, his own eyes red. "Me too…"
"You too?" I asked, and he nodded, his expression heavy with the weight of the years we had lost.
"I saw you… and Mom also," I whispered.
"You… saw me and your mother dead?" His brow furrowed deeply, confusion etching lines across his face.
I nodded slowly, my voice small.
"It can't be… because she never had an accident."
The air in the room seemed to thicken as I stared at him, my pulse pounding in my ears. "Where is Mom?"
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing before he forced the words out. "She's gone."
"You mean—"
He nodded solemnly. "In 2022… me and your mother got a divorce. My boss… gave me a woman to take care of, and she had a daughter your age. I married her. We lived together… and then in 2024, I got the news that your mother died."
My heart lurched violently in my chest, the truth striking me like a blade. She had been alive all along? The woman I mourned, the face I thought I'd lost forever—she had lied?
His voice trembled, the pain raw in every word. "She told me that you and your sister were dead too… and then she asked for a divorce. I broke down. I lost my daughters. But… she lied. Why?"
I had no answer. Only the hollow ache of betrayal spreading through my ribs, the shattering of the fragile world I had built in her absence, and the devastating truth that nothing—absolutely nothing—had been what I thought it was.