The sunlight slipped through the gaps in the curtains, casting pale gold lines across the carpet. It was nearly 10 a.m. when Sara stirred awake, her body heavy from yesterday's emotional collapse. She hadn't changed—still in the same shirt and jeans, creased and faintly smelling of the old perfume she'd worn.
Yawning, she rubbed her eyes and sat up, her mind still foggy. The mansion was unusually quiet inside, but distant, rhythmic sounds pulled her back to alertness—sharp cracks, like gunfire.
Her heart lurched.
She threw off the blanket and rushed out of the room, barefoot, her hair messy from sleep. As she descended the staircase, the echoes became clearer—controlled, repetitive shots, followed by muffled orders and the low thump of boots on concrete.
Her body froze mid-step.
The sound hit her like a memory—loud, chaotic, cold. Her breath quickened. Her vision blurred at the edges. The steps beneath her feet wobbled.
Layall blinked. She stood still for a moment on the staircase landing—her posture straighter, chin lifted, the tremble in her limbs now vanished as if it had never existed. Her eyes—once wide and gentle—had sharpened into something cold and calculating.
She began to descend the stairs, unhurried. At the bottom, she stepped into a long hallway—spacious and silent. Apart from the antique furniture lined neatly against the walls, the space was empty.
Following the faint sound echoing from ahead, she walked forward until she stopped in front of a tall, heavy door. She was just beginning to assess whether the sound was coming from within when a maid approached nervously.
"Ma'am, you shouldn't be here—"
But the words died in her throat the moment she met Layall's death stare. Silenced without a sound, the maid froze.
Layall turned her attention back to the door. She studied the lock—only a dummy handle, useless and merely decorative. Her gaze swept the surroundings, narrowing in on a marble statue positioned just beside the doorway.
She might have dismissed it entirely—had she not noticed the way the maid kept glancing at it, only to look away quickly, as if afraid.
Layall turned.
Without warning, she delivered a powerful kick to the statue.
The statue rolled aside with a hollow thud before springing back into place, and with an audible click of an electric mechanism, the door creaked open.
A devilish smirk curled on Layall's lips, her eyes flashing with quiet triumph. She cast a sideways glance at the maid—taunting, victorious—and without another word, stepped barefoot through the door, vanishing into the darkness beyond.
The hallway darkened as the door creaked shut behind her.
Cool air licked at Layall's bare feet as she stepped forward, her breath steady, controlled. The scent of oil, metal, and spent gunpowder hung in the air—sharp and familiar, like the lingering memory of violence. Overhead, harsh white strip lights buzzed, some flickering like dying nerves, casting her long shadow across the concrete floor.
The space opened into a vast underground firing base—walls lined with weapons racks, targets at varying distances, and scorched marks from endless training. Bullet casings scattered like brass flowers underfoot. Each step echoed.
Then—Bang. Bang. Bang.
Rhythmic. Calculated.
The space was alive with activity—rows of armed guards in tactical gear taking position, firing into targets with precision. The echo of gunshots was amplified by the acoustics of concrete walls surrounding the area.
At the far end of the range, Li Cheng stood, sleeves rolled up, eyes hidden behind sleek glasses reflecting the muzzle flash of a black matte pistol. His movements were mechanical, elegant. Fire. Reload. Fire. Not a word, not a breath wasted.
After 5 minuts:
Within minutes, Li Cheng was seated with Sara in the quiet lounge.
She took a sip of water, then placed the glass back onto the table with trembling fingers. Her breathing was still uneven, shallow and strained, and her hands continued to shake faintly despite her efforts to appear composed.
Across from her, Li Cheng stood silently, watching.
His gaze was calm, unreadable—but nothing escaped him. He observed every nuance in her posture, every flicker in her expression. Sara, seated with her head lowered on the sofa, was clearly trying to pull herself back to normal.
Without a word, Li Cheng moved to sit beside her on the adjacent sofa.
"Ms. Sara," he said gently.
She glanced at him, just once. Her voice cracked.
"Mr. Li… can you tell me what just happened a few minutes ago? Wh-what did I... do?"
Her stammered words, the confusion clouding her eyes—Li Cheng needed no further explanation. He didn't even ask the question he had been intending to. He simply answered:
"You approached me... and..."
He trailed off. Stopped. He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't clarify what he meant.
Sara bowed her head again, both hands covering her face.
For the first time in a long while, she wished the earth would swallow her whole. Her heart felt heavy with a shame she couldn't explain. She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"I... I'm sorry, Mr. Li. I didn't mean to. I—I really am sorry..."
Li Cheng leaned forward slightly. His voice remained calm but direct.
"It's okay. Now tell me the truth."
He already knew about her condition—knew she struggled with Dissociative Identity Disorder—but what he didn't know was who the other personality was.
And in the next five minutes, Sara told him everything.
A condensed version of her truth. A fragmented confession.
By the time she fell silent, she dared a glance at his face, searching for a reaction—judgment, disgust, surprise. But there was nothing.
Li Cheng's face was a mask. Emotionless.
Sara felt the weight in her chest grow heavier. Even sitting beside him became unbearable. She shifted uncomfortably, her posture tightening with anxiety.
Li Cheng noticed.
He stood slowly and spoke with composed warmth. "Alright, Ms. Sara. Go to your room and get some rest. I'll send something for you to eat."
But before he could even finish the sentence, Sara had already risen to her feet.
"You're right..." she said quickly, avoiding eye contact as she turned.
And without another word, she hurried up the stairs—desperate to escape the moment, and herself.
_________________________________________________________________>>>>>
The TV was on. A movie played in the background, flickering dim light across the room.
The door was closed. A bowl of popcorn sat untouched on the table.
Something in the air felt off—unspoken, heavy.
Max and Hazel sat side by side on the sofa. Outwardly, Max seemed to be watching the screen, but in truth, his eyes were vacant. He wasn't really seeing anything. His mind was far away, drifting in silence, the noise of the world muted.
Hazel, meanwhile, sat hunched, flipping through a small collection of photographs she had found in Sara's drawer—old pictures of Sara and Maera together. Their faces smiling, their arms around each other. On the back of each photo were small handwritten notes: delicate, beautiful, sometimes painfully broken lines.
Hazel read each one in silence, lips moving faintly.
Eventually, she gave up and tossed the photos aside with a soft, frustrated sigh.
No one had confronted Sara since that night.
Not their dad. And certainly not their so-called mother—who hadn't dared say a word.
This house… it didn't feel like a home.
It felt like a cage.
A place where strangers happened to live under the same roof—speaking when necessary, otherwise drifting past one another as if they didn't exist. The lack of connection stung Hazel deeply.This was the house that once echoed with joy...today it was so quiet that it seemed as if no one lived there.Hazel missed her mother selene so much.
The TV was on. A movie played in the background, flickering dim light across the room.
The door was closed. A bowl of popcorn sat untouched on the table.
Something in the air felt off—unspoken, heavy.
Max and Hazel sat side by side on the sofa. Outwardly, Max seemed to be watching the screen, but in truth, his eyes were vacant. He wasn't really seeing anything. His mind was far away, drifting in silence, the noise of the world muted.
Hazel, meanwhile, sat hunched, flipping through a small collection of photographs she had found in Sara's drawer—old pictures of Sara and Maera together. Their faces smiling, their arms around each other. On the back of each photo were small handwritten notes: delicate, beautiful, sometimes painfully broken lines.
Hazel read each one in silence, lips moving faintly.
Eventually, she gave up and tossed the photos aside with a soft, frustrated sigh.
No one had confronted Sara since that night.
Not their dad. And certainly not their so-called mother—who hadn't dared say a word.
This house… it didn't feel like a home.
It felt like a cage.
A place where strangers happened to live under the same roof—speaking when necessary, otherwise drifting past one another as if they didn't exist. The lack of connection stung Hazel deeply.
Unable to take it anymore, she stood and turned off the TV.
Max didn't even flinch.
He shifted slightly, changing his position, exhaling long and slow as if he hadn't even noticed the screen had gone dark. And truthfully—he hadn't. He hadn't been watching it at all.
In this whole house, only the two of them—brother and sister—still truly understood each other.
Sara had left again, promising to return with a stranger. But to them, she had already begun to feel like a memory.
Max looked over at Hazel.
She stood there frozen, pale-faced, eyes brimming with unshed tears.
He rose from the sofa and walked over to her.
Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her.
And Hazel—almost as if she'd been waiting for that one small act—grabbed the front of his shirt and broke down, her sobs muffled against his chest.
Max closed his eyes.
Tightened his arms around her.
He understood. He felt the same thing. The same grief. The same ache.
Sometimes, all we need is a single embrace—to break, to breathe, to rebuild.And right now, these two siblings… they were all the other had left.
Through broken sobs, Hazel whispered, "Max… who was Maera? The one sister used to love so much?"
Max remained quiet, just holding her.
Hazel pulled back slightly, looking up with tear-filled eyes."Where's sister, Max? She just got back… and now she's gone again. I want to go to her. I want to be with her."
Hazel was the youngest.
And the most fragile.
Max smoothed her hair and whispered gently, "It's okay, little Hazel. Everything will be alright. Come on. Let's go out for a while, okay?"
But Hazel shook her head stubbornly. "No, Max. I want to go to sister. She was so happy when she came back. I want to go to her. Please... take me to her. You always go out—you know where she might be, right?"
She was pleading now, pulling at his sleeve like a small child refusing to be left behind.
Max could see it—her desperation, her fear, her need to hold onto something real.
He sighed softly. "Okay, little Hazel. Calm down… we'll go. We'll go see sister, alright? But first, stop crying."
He wiped her cheeks gently with the palm of his hand.
"There we go... come on, sweet Hazel. Let's go."
Hazel nodded and quieted down.
The two stepped out of the room together—side by side.
They walked slowly down the stairs. In the living room below, their parents were talking—something casual, something irrelevant. Hazel hesitated, glancing toward them. But Max didn't stop. He placed a comforting hand around her small shoulders and kept walking.
He didn't greet them.
Didn't look back.
He simply grabbed sports bike keys and walked outside with Hazel—unsure where they were headed, unsure how to ease the storm inside her heart.
But for now, they had each other.
And that was enough...
____________________________________________________>>>>>
The lunch on the small table in front of the sofa had long gone cold.
Sara sat on the carpet, her back resting weakly against the side of the bed, knees drawn in slightly. Her eyes—glassy, vacant—were fixed on the blank wall ahead, unmoving.
Inside her mind, one sentence kept echoing.
"You approached me… and…"
And what?I didn't do anything…No. I didn't.
She shook her head, mumbling to herself.
"I didn't do anything… I—no, I didn't…"
She tried to convince herself. Repeating it like a chant. A prayer. A desperate plea for sanity.
"Yes… I didn't. I swear… I just… I just…"
Her voice faltered.
But who do I love?
a beautiful face appearce in he mind, "maera"
she immidiatly shook her head
n..no...no..w...way..right?
The thought slammed into her like a wave, and she recoiled from it—physically.
"No… Ugh—what the hell!" she burst out, and in a fit of frustration, yanked at her hair.
She felt trapped—caged in her own skin.
Then came the whisper.
"This is all your doing, isn't it?"
Across the carpet, sitting with her legs crossed, Layall stared back at her. The smirk on her face was sharp. Her eyes shimmered—amused, wicked, cold.
"So what if it is?" she said, tilting her head, tone mockingly playful.
"But we promised," Sara whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. "You said you'd protect me…"
Layall threw her head back in laughter. A cruel, echoing sound.
"Protect? Oh, sweetheart… of course I'll protect you. Just like wolves protect lambs.""
She began crawling forward on the carpet, slowly, like a predator toying with its prey. That same mocking smirk never left her lips.
"But tell me, Sara… what do I get in return?"
She leaned in close, her breath cold against Sara's face.
"Nothing here comes for free. Everything has a price. And you want me to be your personal protector? No deal. Not unless you're willing to pay for it."
Layall blew a soft breath across Sara's face and started laughing again.
Sara clenched her jaw, desperate, grasping at whatever thread of control remained.
"Look… without me, you wouldn't even exist, Layall…"
But Layall only chuckled, her tone full of venom.
"Correction… you exist because of me. I'm the reason your heart is still beating. I share your body, your pain… your desires…"
Sara's strength cracked.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, voice trembling.
Layall's smile grew darker.
"Because you're weak, Sara. You're more fragile than a rabbit caught in headlights. And I hate weak things."
She leaned closer, hissing near Sara's lips.
"You want me to stop? Begging won't help."
Sara pleaded, voice breaking.
"Please don't do this…"
But Layall only pulled back slightly, her eyes burning with warning.
"Oh, but I will do this. And if you try to stop me—"
She grabbed Sara's face harshly, locking eyes with her.
"—you'll lose more than you know."
Then—
"Layall… wait—listen to me! You can't do this to me! You—"
But she was gone.
Like a gust of wind, Layall dissolved into the air—her presence fading like a passing shadow. Vanished.
And once again, all that remained was the silent wall.
Sara stared.
She screamed.
Nothing happened.
And in the end… she crumbled.
Her body folded onto the carpet, sobs tearing through her chest.
That was all she had left now—tears and exhaustion.
Because what else could she do?
When the war was within her own mind.
___________________________________________________________>>>>>
"Time heals," they say.But when time becomes a balm to conceal wounds of the soul, it slowly drains that soul of its beauty—until the soul itself is lost.To forget such wounds, people sometimes end up forgetting themselves.
After three exhausting days of running around, all the legal formalities were finally completed. Now, Sam sat beside Jacob, celebrating.They were having a small party—because tomorrow, Sam's dream was finally becoming reality. His very own coffee shop would open its doors.
The table was cluttered with half-eaten pizza and beer bottles. Music played in the background. Sam was happy—truly happy—and perhaps drinking the most out of the two.
"Jacob, you know what?" Sam said in a slightly drunken voice, "I'm going to open the best café in the world. Because I've drunk more coffee in my life than anyone else."
Jacob chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "Yeah? And here you are, drinking beer the night before your big café launch. Real dedication."
They both burst out laughing. It wasn't just laughter—it was the kind that comes from letting go, from being foolish together, from having nothing to prove.Time passed with jokes, random songs, and silly conversations. Before they knew it, midnight had come and gone.
The room, which was already half a mess, was now completely in disarray.
"I am…the suiiii...#@#ger," Jacob sang into an empty beer bottle, before collapsing on a pile of cushions. Whether he passed out or just fell asleep—it didn't matter. He was gone.
Sam, too, was slowly drifting off, eyes growing heavy, head nodding.
Then—he heard a voice.
"Hey Sam, not again. You're sleeping in the middle of this mess. Get up and move."
Through half-closed eyes, Sam looked toward the sound. Blurry... but also clear. A face. A familiar one. Slightly annoyed. That frown he knew so well.
The figure stepped closer.
Sam smiled faintly. "Z…Zero. You came back, bro."
A soft voice replied:"Did I ever leave, Sam?"
Sam laughed gently, eyes glassy. "Don't be crazy... Come on, let's go... My coffee shop opens tomorrow, man... You and me... we'll launch it together…"
Still smiling, still mumbling, he dropped his head to the table, words trailing off... and drifted into sleep.
TO BE CONTINUED....