I don't know where this courage started to grow. Was it when I saw that girl whipped twenty times just for stealing bread to quiet her hunger? Or when I had to dig my own mother's grave with my own hands? I don't know. What I do know is that I wanted to be free and to free the other slaves and take back our right to be human.
A few days after the bread incident, I began clearing out a small room at the back of the house. It used to be Gordon's old linen storage. There is no windows here, only one dim yellow light.
Every night, in secret, when everyone was asleep and this rich house sank into silence, we gathered there. And jn that room, I gave them something they had never been allowed to have.
Names.
They sat in a circle on the cold floor, looking at each other awkwardly, as if afraid to touch something too precious to own.
"I… who am I?" asked a thin man with messy hair.
"You're human," I said. "And humans deserve names."
They fell silent. Then, one by one, I gave them theirs.
First, the man who had spoken. "Your name is Joren."
Joren nodded seriously. "Joren. Good. It sounds like someone important."
Next to him was a small woman with hollow eyes. "You are Mila."
Mila smiled widely. "It's short. I like it. Easy to remember."
A large man with a blank expression. "You are Reth."
Reth thought for a long moment. "Reth… that's not a dog's name, right?"
"No," I answered quickly.
"Oh. Good."
A woman with tangled curly hair and burn scars on her shoulders. "You are Siva."
Siva repeated it softly, as if tasting the word. "Si-va. It feels strange in my mouth."
"It usually does at first," I said.
A young boy with a flat nose and an innocent smile. "You are Toma."
Toma laughed. "Toma…"
Then the oldest woman among us. Dark-skinned, slightly hunched, eyes sharp and tired at the same time.
"You are Reka."
Reka nodded slowly in agreement.
And finally, the girl. The one whose back still carried the marks of the whip.
"You are Lina," I said gently.
Lina swallowed. "My name is beautiful.
"Because you are beautiful," I replied.
The room suddenly felt warmer, even though the light was still dim and the floor still cold. They began saying each other's names, awkwardly, sometimes mispronouncing them, then laughing quietly.
Reka looked at me for a long time. "Then," she said, her voice rough but firm, "what is your name?"
All eyes turned to me. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Joren frowned. "You give us names, but you don't have one?"
I scratched my head. "I… haven't thought about it."
Silence.
Reth tilted his head. "Strange. You're the one who's going to lead us, and you haven't even named yourself."
Toma raised his hand. "I have an idea. What about Stone? Because she's stubborn about this rebellion."
"No," Mila argued. "Her name should be Lamp. Because she brings us light."
"Lamp is an object, idiot," Joren snapped.
"What about Mother?" Lina said softly. "Because she protects us."
I paused, then let out a small laugh. "That's too heavy."
Reka tapped her fingers on the floor. "Your name should be short. Easy to shout when we're running." She thought for a moment, then said, "Kara."
I looked at her. "Why Kara?"
"It doesn't mean anything," she answered. "And that's exactly why it's good. You can fill it with your own meaning."
The others nodded, even if they didn't fully understand.
"Kara," Mila repeated.
"Kara," Joren said, testing it.
"Kara," Lina whispered with a small smile.
I took a deep breath.
"Alright," I said. "My name is Kara."
I have some plans that might sound reckless, even stupid. But my first move was clear.
I wanted to kill Gordon.
Not with a knife, not with a gun. Killing him openly would only end with my body on the floor, riddled with Markus' bullets. Gordon dies, I die and everything's over before my plans even started yet.
And I didn't want it to be over, so I chose a slow way.
A way unseen.
Poison.
Slowly, but surely.
I started delegating tasks, like the important people I used to watch from afar. I called Joren first. I told him to go to the chemical supply store in town, disguised as a regular worker needing cleaning products for a rich household. Joren was dumb, but his face was innocent. No one would suspect someone like him.
"What if the seller asks what it's for?" he asked.
"Just say it's to poison rats."
He nodded, satisfied.
I had already thought through how I would poison Gordon. Every morning, I made his coffee. I would just put a tiny bit of poison in it. Not enough to kill him, but enough to start.
Joren returned and handed me the order in the kitchen. No words, no strange looks. I slipped it into my apron pocket and went back to work, as if nothing had happened, as if it were a normal day in this house.
I know it sounds cruel. After all, Gordon was my biological father.
Reka asked, whispering as we tended the backyard, her hands busy pulling weeds. "Why don't we just run away? Why do we have to kill Gordon?"
It was a fair question. I'd thought about it over and over again. Because this isn't about running. If we ran, we'd just become fugitives. And our names would vanish again, replaced with numbers and brands on our skin. But if Gordon died, and his death spread across the country, every slave would see it.
Gordon wasn't just anyone. He was the most infamous slave trader in the nation. His face was recognized and his name feared. If he fell, the world would know that this rotten root could be broken.
It would be the first revolution since those cruel laws were enacted.
Markus might try to carry on his father's business, but he was too stupid to manage it himself. All he knew was how to shoot and command. Julian, clearly smarter than his two brothers, would never touch the slave business. He hated it. He preferred dreaming, writing, living in his own head.
The system was fragile.
And I knew, before everything could collapse, I had to cut the root first.
The poison I chose was Virex-9. An old synthetic toxin, almost forgotten, often dismissed as a failure because it didn't work if the dosage was wrong. Gordon wouldn't die if I didn't give him the exact amount and I didn't intend to kill him yet. I sprinkled it in tiny doses. Tiny, almost nothing. The poison dissolved in his black coffee without changing the taste, without smell, without a hint that anyone could suspect.
Don't ask me how I knew about the poison.
I had stolen Victoria's notes months before all this began. Notes she kept meticulously, like a recipe book. There I found the name of the poison—same one that killed my mother.
Victoria wrote in neat, emotionless handwriting, as if keeping a journal. She documented everything in detail. How the poison worked slowly, how the body reacted before finally giving up. Every step described as if she were experimenting on something, not a human being.
The poison began its work on the fifth day. That morning, like always, I prepared breakfast calmly, even though Gordon occasionally grunted at me when I got too close. Nothing had changed in the routine. I was still called occasionally by Julian for… other matters.
I peeked from the kitchen window as Gordon and Markus were about to leave. Gordon stopped suddenly by the car. He coughed violently, hunched over, I saw blood thick and red spilling onto his palms.
Markus froze, his face went pale instantly, eyes wide like a child who had lost all grip. He screamed for Polar, his voice breaking with panic.
"Take father to the hospital. Now!"
Polar ran, slamming the car door, and the engine roaring. Gordon was put into the back seat, still coughing, still bleeding, his body trembling like it barely recognized itself.
I closed the kitchen curtain and smiled faintly, returning to the table. Washing dishes, straightening cups, working as usual, as if that morning wasn't collapsing in front of the house.
Gordon was hospitalized for three days. I eavesdropped on Markus talking with his two siblings and mother from the hallway. Their voices were low but panicked and broken. The doctor at the hospital said Gordon needed to quit smoking. His bloody cough, they claimed, was caused by cigarettes.
Do you believe that?
The doctor, with all his sophisticated tools, screens, needles, and numbers, couldn't detect the slow-acting poison I had planted in Gordon's body. No one suspected a thing. Not a single soul.
That's when I knew. The plan would go smoothly.
When Gordon finally returned home, his face pale and his steps slower, I replaced the coffee with food. Every morning, without pause, I increased the dose little by little, precisely according to my calculations.
I was patient, because this poison demanded patience.
And if my calculations were correct, by next month Gordon wouldn't be able to breathe.
Victoria found Gordon dead in bed. His body cold, his breath stopped without a sound. His wife didn't even cry. She simply stepped out of the room calmly, then walked to the dining table where Markus was having breakfast with Connor and Julian.
In a flat voice, almost like giving a daily order, Victoria said, "Your father is dead. Prepare the funeral immediately."
Markus' spoon clattered to the floor. He stood, shouting, face red and panicked. Markus was the only one who hysterical, like a child who had lost all control.
Connor only raised an eyebrow, while Julian continued sipping his coffee. No tears from them, no hugs, not even a prayer.
Perhaps in their minds, there was only one thing spinning… their father's wealth now had no owner.
Gordon's funeral was held on Wednesday afternoon, December twelfth. The sky was gray that day, the wind sharp. Many people came, pretending to mourn. Journalists, politicians, officials who had once laughed at his business now stood neatly by the grave.
They spoke his name with respect. What they really respected was his money.
My initial plan went smoothly. The person we feared the most was no longer breathing. Gordon's name remained only on a tombstone and in whispers of the powerful. No more shouting from the office, no more heavy footsteps forcing us to bow.
That night, we gathered again in the secret room. Dim light, door tightly closed. Faces that once feared now dared to look straight ahead.
Joren spoke first. "So… it worked. Now what?"
Mila clasped her own hands. "Do we run? Isn't it the right time?"
Reth shook his head slowly. "Markus is still alive."
The name made the room fall silent again.
Reka looked at me for a long moment. "Kara. Say it."
"Now it's Markus' turn," I stood up.
Toma reacted immediately. "You know he's Gordon's scariest kid, right?"
"Yes," I said.
"That's a bad plan," Siva said quickly.
"Markus isn't like his father. He's impatient."
"And not smart," added Joren. "That's his advantage."
Lina swallowed. "If he dies… who takes the house?"
"Connor," Reth replied. "But he only cares about money."
"Julian too," I said. "He doesn't even want anything to do with the slave business."
Reka smiled faintly. "Then we cut one more."
"Exactly," I said. "Gordon was the root. Markus is the thorn."
Toma raised his hand hesitantly. "If all this ends… what do we become?"
I looked at each of them.
"We become free."
Yes. Free.
And I wouldn't stop at freeing the slaves in this cursed house. I wanted all slaves in this nation to be free. I would do it, even if I had to die.
Markus was the hardest to reach. He hated me more than anything. He barely allowed me or any slave to stand close to him. He often mocked Julian because Julian slept with me. I didn't blame him. The disgust made sense, especially since everyone in this house knew I was their sibling.
And I couldn't use the same method on Markus. Poison wouldn't work. He was too suspicious, too violent, too alive. But I had another option.
I would sabotage his motorcycle.
One of Markus' hobbies, besides being a nasty little asshole, was racing his big black bike every Saturday night. Empty streets, insane speed. If something happened, everyone would call it an accident.
Only one problem. The garage had surveillance cameras, and I couldn't touch his bike without being caught.
We gathered again in the secret room. Tense faces, heavy breaths, waiting for my orders.
"What if we just push it when he leaves?" Toma suggested.
"That's suicide," Siva said.
"Or we cut the brakes in the daytime," Joren said.
"There's a mechanic," Mila objected. "It'll be noticed."
Reth raised his hand. "We could burn the bike."
"That's not an accident," I said coldly.
One suggestion after another came out. All of them stupid, clumsy, loud. I pressed my temples in frustration. Frustration at their stupidity. But I couldn't blame them. They were never taught to think. But sabotaging Markus' bike was the perfect option—except the cameras made it impossible.
Then the door suddenly swung open.
Felix stood in the doorway, and the room froze. He looked at each of us, counting heads, reading faces.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
Everyone panicked and hiding behind me. I stepped forward, standing between Felix and them. I knew Felix hated his job. But I also knew his loyalty to the Gordon family was serious.
"I've noticed your behavior has been… strange lately," Felix said quietly. "I know you're planning something. Or maybe… you've already done something."
No one answered.
Felix entered and closed the door. The sound of the lock echoed in the small room. He stood directly in front of me.
"I'll help you. Count me in."
My chest trembled, but my face stayed calm. I had known the answer long ago since he had slipped the revolutionary books into my cell during those four days I was imprisoned.
"I want to sabotage Markus' bike," I said.
"The problem is the surveillance cameras. Can you help?"
Felix was silent. His eyes scanned my face, as if looking for any trace of doubt.
"I can," he finally said.
Reth would carry out the sabotage. He tampered with Markus' bike on Friday night, cutting the brake cable with trembling hands but neatly. A clean cut, enough to fail when needed, not enough to look suspicious.
Meanwhile, Felix handled his part. He ensured the surveillance footage for that hour disappeared. He went into the control room, distracting the guards at night. I didn't know what he said or did, but I knew Felix always found the loophole. And he closed it calmly.I waited in my room. Lying down, staring at the cracked ceiling, hoping in silence. That Saturday night, Markus' motorcycle roared across the yard. Its black engine growled like always. I closed my eyes and prayed to whatever still listened.
Two hours later, at exactly 12:30 a.m., Connor's scream shattered the house. His voice woke Julian, cut through walls, reached my room.
"Markus had an accident!"
I exhaled long and slow. Relief washed over me, then I got up and went out, pretending to be shocked.
In the hall, Julian was already running. Connor panicked. Victoria appeared with her cold, composed face. Polar started the car, and they rushed off.
When I turned, they were all standing behind me. Joren, Mila, Siva, Reth, Toma, Ma Reka, Lina. Their eyes were alight.
"We did it," whispered Toma.
"Not yet," I said. "We don't know if Markus is dead. We'll know tomorrow."
And yes.
Markus died that night.
The bike sped through the curves, brakes unresponsive. His body was thrown violently. The helmet stayed on, but it wasn't enough. The impact crushed the base of his skull. His neck snapped, massive brain hemorrhage, his lungs collapsed. The doctors called it instantaneous death and nothing could be saved.
We acted sad. Mourned as expected. Heads bowed, eyes feigned red. Inside, we were cheering.
At the funeral, as Markus' body was lowered into the family grave, I glanced at Felix. He stood slightly apart, expression neutral, then gave me a small nod.
I returned the nod.
A week after Markus' death, the house felt emptier. Work went on as usual, but the atmosphere had shifted. No more shouting, no more whipping, no punishments in the backyard. Connor, Julian, and Victoria chose to seclude themselves in their rooms, like corpses who hadn't realized they were already dead.
That night, Julian called me to his room. I entered to find him drinking whiskey, shirtless, wearing only black pants. The air smelled of alcohol and fatigue. He looked at me without emotion.
"Take off your clothes, and lie down."
I hesitated. A strong urge to turn and run. I hated these moments. I was disgusted that he was my brother, yet still dragged me into this cursed relationship. But my body moved first and obeying his order.
As he finally inside of me me, my mind drifted. I didn't think of him. I thought about how to kill him while his penis moved in and out of my vagina. I thought of the cleanest way. Perhaps ending it all at once. Julian, Connor, Victoria. Three names, one grave.
When it was over, Julian lay beside me, breathing heavily. He rubbed his face in frustration, then chuckled without humor.
"Strange," he said. "Father's dead. Markus' dead. So close together, so sudden."
I stared at the ceiling. "Maybe fate."
Julian snorted, then slapped the back of my head. Not hard, but enough to insult.
"Don't be stupid," he said sharply. "Fate doesn't work this damn filthy."
I turned to him, my gaze sharp.
"You don't…" Julian stopped, eyes narrowing.
"Don't what?" I asked.
"You chose the books about revolutions. You didn't…" His voice lowered, uncertain for the first time.
"You think I could start a revolution?" I asked.
Julian gave a short laugh. "Of course not. You're just a dirty slave."
"Your father thought the same," I said softly.
"Don't compare me to him."
"But you live by the same system," I shot back. "You just pretend to hate it."
Julian stared at me long. There was something in his eyes. Not anger, but fear. For a moment, I knew he had begun connecting the pieces.
"You've been strange these past months," he said. "And their deaths… too tidy."
I got off the bed, putting my clothes back on. "People die every day, Julian. You're the one who said fate was nonsense."
He didn't reply.
As I stepped to the door, I knew one thing. Julian was starting to suspect. And that meant I didn't have much time. Once one of them began piecing this together, everything would collapse. And all three of them had to die at once. My eyes twitched as I looked at the rose garden. The flowers were beautiful, meticulously cared for, red and white, but I knew the soil beneath was full of corpses. This place always pretended to be pretty. Always hid decay behind flowers and high fences.
I was lost in thought when a deep voice interrupted.
Felix.
He stood beside me, too close, as if he had been there all along. We stared at each other for a long moment. No greetings, no small talk. Just the same exhaustion in our eyes.
"Have you got another plan?" he finally asked.
I remained silent. Of course I had a plan. Too many, even. But at that moment, my mind was no longer focused on killing. What haunted me was the question after.
After all this is over, after we're free, where do I go?
"Yes," I finally said. "But the problem… I don't know where to go after this."
Felix didn't answer immediately. He looked at the rose garden, then back at my face. "What's your plan?"
I inhaled deeply. "I'll burn this house. With them inside. They won't wake up. I'll mix sleeping pills in their dinner."
Felix was silent. He's not surprised, but not opposed either. He just nodded slowly, like someone mapping a route in his head.
"Once they're asleep," he said, "you can take their wealth. Cash, jewelry, anything portable. That'll be enough for your escape fund."
I turned to him. "Where do I go then?"
"Go north," he said. "Near the abandoned port. There's an old shipwreck there. No one goes, it's a dead zone. Police rarely enter, and you can hide for a while."
I looked at him, asking quietly, almost in a whisper, "Will you come with me, Felix?"
He was silent for too long… too long. He stared into my eyes as if searching for something hard to say.
"No."
"Why?" I asked.
"Everyone knows who I am, Kara," he said finally. "My face is recognized. I need to give statements to the police. I'll stay here. I'll mislead them. Guide them anywhere, just not toward you."
I swallowed. "Can I trust you?"
"By God, I'll help you. I'll catch up once things calm down."
I nodded slowly. "Alright. Thank you, Felix."
I turned to go back inside the house when his deep voice called me again.
"Kara."
I stopped. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry," he said. "For breaking your body."
The words hit harder than any slap. I froze. My chest tightened, but no tears came.
"You're just an executioner doing his job, Felix," I finally replied. "I don't blame you."
For the first time that night, Felix smiled.
"Goodnight, Kara."
"Night, Felix."
I stepped back into the house. Into the house that would soon be ashes.