He didn't recognize her face. But her silence? He flinched like it used to scream his name.
The lab wing was quiet—clean and cold, typical of a tech-forensics facility funded by billionaires
The walls were all glass and steel.
Modern.
Clinical.
Soulless.
As if it held no history.
No guilt.
But with every step Ezra Villanueva took, the air grew heavier.
He moved like someone used to command, sharp jaw, calculated pace.
He held a tablet in one hand, a security escort behind him, and project files in the other.
He didn't expect to be impressed.
The intern batch was supposedly new.
Geniuses, according to the supervisor.
Too spotless—almost suspicious.
But sometimes, the world has a way of reintroducing people you were never meant to meet again.
They reached the end of the corridor.
Glass doors slid open.
"Dr. Cruz," the supervisor called. "Meet Mr. Villanueva, project head for bio-memory mapping."
Selene turned.
She was dressed in a clean white coat, her hair pulled into a bun, dark eyes cool and unreadable.
Professional.
Simple.
Detached.
Ezra's eyes met hers.
And in that split second—the world narrowed.
He said nothing.
As if he didn't know her.
But his body… froze
His chest clenched.
His breath hitched.
His fingers tightened slightly around the tablet.
Something in him flinched.
Not at her face—But at her silence.
Ezra nods politely. "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Cruz."
She only gives a small smile, lowering her eyes.
Composed.
Controlled.
Flawless.
But inside her, a storm of memories was surging."
Not hers.
His.
Because Ezra—Ezra was still staring.
And he didn't know why.
Why did it feel like something was missing? Why did her silence… sound like something.
A silence that didn't echo, but haunted.
Ezra blinked.
A strange ache bloomed in his chest.
Like he missed a sound that used to save him.
Then protocol took over. He offered his hand.
Selene stared at it for one breath too long—then took it.
Skin against skin.
Brief.
Firm.
But enough.
Ezra's smartwatch vibrated—almost violently.
He lowered his hand slightly to glance at the screen, trying not to draw attention.
[BIOMETRIC RESPONSE: CRITICAL]
Emotional Memory Detected.
SUBJECT: UNIDENTIFIED.
Tension Index: 91%
Core Reaction: LOSS / FAMILIARITY / FEAR
His heartbeat spiked on the screen.
What the hell...?
She let go.
He held on to the air where her hand had been.
His throat tightened.
There were words he wanted to say, but no reason.
No name
Just a feeling.
Something buried.
Something unfinished.
And then, in the lowest voice he didn't even mean to whisper.
"Strange… you feel like someone I've lost."
Selene paused.
But only for a beat.
She looked up, smiled faintly.
Cold.
Elegant.
A ghost in full control of her resurrection.
"People lose things all the time, Mr. Villanueva."
And just like that—She turned away.
Leaving Ezra staring at the door as it slid shut between them.
And in his chest, something began to stir.
Not memory.
But guilt.
Some faces you forget.
But some silences?
They haunt you forever.
Some betrayals wear lip gloss and smile like they didn't break you.
The welcome mixer was held in one of Argent Tech's private lounges—modern, intimate, and intentionally intimidating.
Mahogany walls.
Crystal glasses.
Strategic lighting.
Everyone was in business formal, but the real dress code was power and perception.
Selene stood near the far end of the room, her figure half-lit by the warm glow of a modern chandelier.
A glass of red wine rested lightly in her hand, untouched.
Only the ice inside clinked softly as she fought the urge to tighten her grip around the glass.
She wasn't here to socialize.
She was here to listen.
Observe.
Disappear into the noise.
Until a woman walked in.
The air shifted like the click of a trigger.
It's Tasha Rivera.
A Social media darling.
Fashion enthusiast.
Influencer.
Heiress to a cosmetic empire.
And once upon a time—Selene's best friend.
Now?
A serpent in silk.
A betrayal in designer heels.
She walked in like she owned the room, hips swaying, lips painted blood red, laughter like perfume that lingered too long.
People turned.
Men smiled.
Women adjusted their dresses.
Tasha linked her arm around Ezra's casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Selene felt her stomach twist—not in jealousy, but in memory.
Because that girl?
That girl once held her secrets like sacred things.
And threw them into the fire when it counted.
Tasha scanned the room.
Her eyes flicked over executives, interns, and waiters—until they landed on her.
Selene didn't flinch.
But she felt it.
That gaze.
That sting.
"Oh..." Tasha purred, loud enough for nearby ears to catch. "They're letting ghosts dress up as interns now?"
She smiled sweetly, her voice lined with sugar and venom.
Selene didn't answer.
But her knuckles whitened around the stem of her glass.
Subtle. Controlled. Deadly.
There it was again—Tasha's favorite game:
Humiliate. Dismiss. Belittle.
All while smiling for the camera.
Ezra turned slightly, oblivious—or pretending to be.
He didn't seem to register the ice in Selene's stance.
His attention was on the conversation behind him, but Selene's was on the whisper.
Because she saw it.
Tasha leaned in. Whispered something to Ezra.
A quick sentence.
A smirk.
It was small.
Subtle.
But Selene caught the micro-expression on Ezra's face.
Something planted.
A seed.
A suspicion.
Tasha wasn't just here for PR.
She was here to guard something.
Or someone.
Like a rivers that flows, memories flash...
Rainy hallway.
College corridor echoing with secrets.
Selene's voice raised.
Betrayal thick in her lungs.
Tasha, calm. Cold.
Leaning against a locker with lip gloss perfectly intact.
"Friends don't burn friends…Unless they light the match first."
Selene stepped back, breathless.
And Tasha walked away, heels clicking like the final nail in a coffin.
Back in the lounge, Selene slowly raised her wine glass.
She met Tasha's eyes.
Didn't blink.
But her heart was already scanning for the next move.
This was a war she thought she buried.
Apparently, Turns out, the war wasn't over. It just got dressed up, wore lipstick, and came back holding champagne.
Tasha leaned in again.
This time, toward Ezra.
Kissed his cheek softly, smugly, deliberately.
Then turned back to Selene.
She tilted her head slightly, eyes glinting with challenge, like a queen inspecting prey in her court.
You should be careful, she warned silently to herself. You're swimming in waters you already drowned in once…
Selene didn't move.
But inside, something rose like smoke.
Not fear.
Not pain.
Just fire.
Some wounds don't scar.
They smile in red lipstick and call themselves your past.
Sometimes the man who once begged you to stay… hands you the knife with a smile.
The lounge was quieter now. Most of the guests had left to join the next panel. The dimmed lights cast a soft, golden hue across the room—warm, expensive, too perfect.
Selene stood near the window, pretending to admire the skyline.
But in truth, she was counting the exits.
One.
Two.
Three.
One behind the velvet curtain.
One near the hall.
And one now slowly approaching her—dressed in a black suit, holding a glass of water instead of wine.
Ezra Villanueva.
There was no entourage this time.
No camera flashes.
Just him—alone.
And dangerous.
She didn't turn to greet him.
But she knew the rhythm of his steps.
Her body remembered before her mind did.
He stopped beside her.
Silence stretched for a beat too long—then, casually, he said: "I'm impressed. Your credentials are… impossible to ignore."
Selene turned, just slightly.
Enough to meet his gaze, but not enough to give anything away.
He was studying her.
Not just her face—her composure.
Like she was a memory on the tip of his tongue he couldn't quite place.
"You're on the new AI-anthro trauma project, right?"
Selene nods, calm.
Professional.
Controlled.
"That's correct, sir."
Sir.
A word that once made her laugh in his arms now tasted like venom in her mouth.
Ezra gave a faint smirk.
Polite.
Polished.
But in his eyes—may something unreadable.
A flicker.
A glitch.
Like something was off, but he couldn't name it.
"I'd like to personally orient you to the team structure."
His tone was smooth, almost gentle.
But Selene heard something else.
She heard the voice of a boy younger, desperate, raw—once whispering against her skin in the middle of a storm: "Stay in my life. I'll make it safe."
Now, he was here.
Offering an opportunity.
Extending a hand.
Unaware that the woman in front of him was the very ghost his company buried.
What he didn't know—what he was never meant to know—was that the AI-anthro trauma protocol he kept boasting about… was built from the mind of the woman he once left for dead.
Selene was the original mind behind it.
Before she died.
Before they stole her work.
Before someone took her name and buried her brilliance with her blood.
Now, fate had looped in a perfect circle.
Ezra—unknowingly—was giving her access again.
Not out of trust.
But out of underestimation.
She smiled slightly, lips barely parting.
Calculated.
Razor-thin.
She leaned in, the distance between them narrowing to something intimate… but deadly.
Her voice—low, composed, deadly-sweet.
"Some things, Mr. Villanueva…are easier to steal when you think they're buried."
Ezra didn't react right away.
But his fingers tightened slightly around the rim of his glass.
Like his subconscious understood something his brain hadn't caught up to yet.
And Selene?
She turned away first.
Like a ghost that didn't need permission to haunt.
Some invitations are written in ink. Others? In ash and unfinished war
Revenge doesn't always scream. Sometimes, it whispers—and it's louder that way.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
Selene stepped in first, quiet and composed, like she belonged there.
Ezra followed, eyes still scanning the digital notepad in his hand, completely unaware that the most dangerous person in the building was inches beside him.
The doors closed behind them.
Silence.
Not the kind that's empty.
But the kind that's thick.
Loaded.
About to break.
Only the faint hum of the moving elevator filled the space between them.
Fifty floors to descend.
Two people.
And one history neither of them could speak of.
Selene stood at the corner, her gaze focused straight ahead.
Unmoving.
Composed.
Ezra adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in his chest.
But the air felt…different.
Heavy.
"Why does the silence feel like it's watching me?*
He glanced sideways at her—just once.
There was nothing threatening about her posture.
No glaring eyes.
No smirk.
Just stillness.
But that was the problem.
Still waters drown deeper.
Floor 38.
Selene tilted her head slightly.
Then—without turning to him, her voice soft, steady, and dangerously calm.
"You should be careful, Mr. Villanueva," she murmured.
The words floated between them, barely louder than the air.
But they landed like thunder.
Ezra blinked.
His head turned toward her, frowning slightly.
"About what?" he asked.
His tone was light.
Curious.
But there was a strange tension in his eyes—Like he had just heard something he wasn't supposed to.
Selene turned her head fully this time.
Her eyes met his.
Dark. Calm.
Unblinking.
She looked at him like she was memorizing a dead man.
Then she answered—"Some things you bury…still breathe."
Ezra's breath hitched.
Just a flicker.
But it was there.
His hand lowered the notepad slowly, unconsciously.
And just as he tried to decipher what she meant—he heard the sound of Elevator alarm.
Floor 31.
The elevator doors opened.
Selene didn't wait for him to respond.
She stepped out with silent grace, her heels barely making a sound, her posture tall—like a queen leaving a burning court.
Ezra stood frozen inside the elevator.
Not because he didn't understand what she meant.
But because some part of him did.
And for the first time in seven years…
Ezra Villanueva felt fear.
The kind you can't name.
The kind that comes without logic.
The kind that stays in your bones.
And for the first time in seven years… Ezra Villanueva felt fear—without knowing why.