Truths don't survive fire. But some men do.
A luxury condo in a clandestine city.
The only sounds are the faint hum of the refrigerator and the tick of an old clock. The lights are dim—deliberately so. As if the owner of this room doesn't want the world to see too clearly who he is now.
Before the mirror stands a man. Shirtless. His skin is slick with sweat, but not from heat. It seems to be from the weight of memory.
S.V. Del Fierro.
Or whoever he really is.
He doesn't speak. But his eyes—sharp. Cold. Almost like a corpse brought back to life, but he's not the same man he once was.
On his back, a large scar—a mark of a past tragedy. A fire that reached not only his skin but his soul. Parts of the scar seem healed… but it will never truly disappear.
He silently picks up the black button down shirt from the chair. He fastens the buttons one by one.
Slowly.
There's a ritual in his movements. It's not just putting on a shirt—it's preparing for war.
On his desk: three objects:
An old watch.
Burned around the edges, as if it survived the same fire he did. The glass is cracked, but the time has stopped at 2:46 AM—the exact moment when everything ended five years ago.
A photograph of Celeste.
Standing in the rain, laughing. No makeup. Her hair is soaking wet, but her smile is genuine.
He took that photo, one night after she told him she loved him for the first time.
He holds the photograph now, clutching it like a bullet.
And a gun.
Smokeless.
But still cold.
A reminder that he once chose to be killed.
And now, he holds the second shot.
He wipes the dust off the gun.
The next bullet won't miss.
He pauses mid-light of a cigarette, still staring at the photograph.
As if hoping Celeste will move from the paper.
As if he wants to turn back time. Or prove that everything that happened was wrong.
He lights the cigarette.
The flame briefly illuminates his face—a face that is half man, half ghost.
This time… I'm the one who burns.
You buried a body, Celeste.
Not the truth.
Each word he utters is heavy.
Slow.
As if there's a reproach beneath each letter.
The man in the mirror wasn't Dominic anymore.
He was the reckoning.
The air was thick with silence. Even the clock seemed hesitant to tick louder. In the mirror's edge, his reflection flickered—as if even glass doubted the man it was reflecting.
He approaches the painting hanging on the wall. An abstract work—meaningless to those who don't understand. But for him, it's the access point.
He pulls it to the side. It clicks.
The sound of a magnet disengaging.
A hidden vault.
Simple. But full of stories.
He opens it. A dim light emerges from within.
And inside—the remains of a burned secret.
Blackmail photos.
Tucked inside a clear folder. There are pictures of a woman—Celeste—apparently forced to be photographed while crying. A man is in the background—and it's not Dominic.
There's a charred envelope.
It's a letter, almost entirely burned, but he only read one part before—"Forgive me."
A USB drive.
A label written in red marker:
"L.C."
He takes the USB drive.
He looks at it as if he's holding the heart of the world.
As if this tiny device could rewrite everything. Or destroy what little was left unburned
"Leo Carreon…" he whispers.
He slumps into the chair. He lets out a sigh—heavy, full of anger, and revenge.
He takes another drag of his cigarette.
Ashes fall slowly onto the table.
Like the ashes of the past.
But this time,
he's not running.
He's hunting.
He inserts the USB into a secure laptop.
The screen flickers.
Loading File:
Project Eulogy – FINAL
Then a line appears:
Target: D. Vega
Initiated by: L.C. – approved by: H.A.
His eyes narrow. "So it was you all along, Helena."
The Queen made the first move.
Now watch the King rise from the ashes.
People heal. Others just pretend better.
It's morning, but inside Celeste's room, it still feels like night. No light wants to enter, and the silence feels heavy. The kind of silence that's more terrifying than shouting.
Celeste stands before a full-length mirror. Her hair is still wet from the shower, and her nightgown seems too thin for the chill in the room. She isn't cold, but her shoulders are stiff.
She stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair.
But in her small movements, she's like a broken robot.
She seemed dazed, as if her actions were controlled by an unseen force.
With each slow stroke of the comb, a fallen strand dragged a memory into the light.
She looks in the mirror, not at her face, but at a part of her body she hasn't looked at in a long time.
On her neck, a thin scar, she's forgotten how she got it.
She can't remember if it was an accident, a childhood incident, or part of the fire. But now, it's as if something is pinching her memory.
The pain suddenly returns.
With it, the sudden flow of memories…
Fire.
Hot.
Like a monster devouring its surroundings.
A scream.
She doesn't know if it's hers or someone else's. But the scream, a sound of desperation. The kind where it seems like a soul is screaming.
A hand pulling her out forcefully.
Hot, heavy grip. As if she could handle the fire better than letting go of that hand.
"CEL-ESTE!"
That's the voice of the man she loved.
Or the man who left her.
It's not clear yet.
Then, in a flash—the hand is gone.
She was released.
Or maybe it just disappeared.
Or maybe it was intentional.
She returns to the present.
She touches the scar.
The skin was cold, but under it was heat. Not fever. Not desire. But grief, trying to claw its way out.
Celeste closes her eyes.
Her skin is cold, but the scar feels like it's smoking with pain.
If you're a ghost, why am I the one who's wounded? she whispers.
But even though it's a whisper, it seems to echo in the walls of her heart.
She sits on the edge of the bed.
Massages her neck. As if she wants to tear herself apart from the inside.
She looks in the mirror again.
But she sees something.
A faint rustle from the hallway.
A door creaks open behind her.
She turns quickly.
She spins—but there's no one.
No shadow.
No sound.
Nothing at all.
But…
Only the faint smell of smoke.
Not the smell of cigarettes.
Not the smell of candles.
The smell of burning.
Familiar.
The kind you don't just smell, you feel it in your chest.
Slowly, she approaches the door.
Peeps into the hallway.
No one.
But the air—different.
Heavy.
As if someone passed by.
As if someone passed by and left a mark.
The hallway smelled of old secrets. Of memories lit like matchsticks. She wasn't sure if she was alone—or if the past had finally grown legs
She returns inside.
Kneels down.
She sees the comb that fell.
She picks it up, but suddenly stops.
There's dried ash on the handle.
A sudden chill pierced her to the bone.
She looks in the mirror again.
And there she sees: In the mirror, a word appears.
A single word slowly emerges—"REMEMBER."
As if written by a cold finger.
Like the breath of a ghost.
She recoils.
As if someone is watching her.
Quickly, she approaches the closet.
Opens it. Searches for the gown she wore last night.
Checks the pocket. Nothing.
But there's a shoebox in the corner. She removes it.
And from it, a piece of paper falls.
A Polaroid.
A picture of her sleeping.
It's not old.
Recent. Maybe just yesterday. Or… tonight?
The kind of photo no one should have. The kind that says I was in your room when you thought you were safe.
She clings to the wall.
Her heart beats faster.
On the back of the photo, handwritten:
You forgot the scar. But you were never the target. I've always been watching you, Celeste.
She looks around the room. Everything seems normal.
But she no longer knows what's real and what's a nightmare.
Outside, the lights in the hallway suddenly turn on.
Motion-activated.
But… no one passed by.
You can fake a name. But not a past.
A secret room atop a luxury compound outside Manila.
No windows. Only a large LED screen illuminates the room—hanging in front of Dominic, wearing a dark navy button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, veins visible, holding a remote control as he watches the ballroom footage on the widescreen.
Live feed of the ballroom.
Paused.
Rewind.
Play.
Pause.
Watching Celeste.
Every movement.
Every shift of her gaze.
All her discomfort.
Every gesture.
She was unraveling—and he was watching.
Not with pleasure. Not with guilt. With precision. Like a surgeon watching an old wound open again.
The room is silent. But within the silence, a storm seems to be brewing in Dominic's chest.
Each second of silence seems to carry a bitter memory—of betrayal, of fire, of a body.
Lucas, his former bodyguard, enters, carrying a thin tablet and a mug of coffee.
He passes by cautiously—as if even his breathing shouldn't be heard.
"Sir," Lucas whispers. "She looks shaken."
Dominic doesn't answer.
He just stands there, his jaw tight, his gaze cold. Like a stone that can't be moved by any wave.
He's still looking at Celeste's face on the screen.
The way she bites her lip.
The anxiety in her eyes.
The fear.
The memory.
Whatever his presence awakens.
"She should be," he replies, emotionless.
"They took everything from me."
His voice is calm, but every word is laced with fire. The tone is quiet—but like a grenade exploding in the middle of silence.
"Now I'm taking it all back."
He places the USB drive he's holding on the table. Metallic silver. With an engraved phoenix emblem. On the side, etched is the code: "D.V.-07-19."
There's a moment of silence.
One.
Two.
Three heartbeats before he connects it to the laptop.
An encrypted folder opens:
[Operation Phoenix]
Access Granted.
While the files are loading, Lucas sits down beside him.
Quiet.
As if he wants to speak but is restraining himself. He knows he shouldn't ask, but he senses there's a deeper reason behind Dominic's return—a reason that's not just about money or power.
"Five years," Lucas whispers. "Five years you were the ghost. Now… you're alive again, but it's like—you're their ghost."
Dominic stops.
The typing stops.
He taps the keyboard.
He takes an old watch from his pants pocket—dirty, scratched, and the edges seem scorched by heat.
"Damian's," he whispers.
Lucas freezes.
He swallows.
Unsure if he should answer.
"I thought… the body was burned."
Dominic looks at him—sharp, heavy, almost deadly.
The kind of look that could melt you even if he doesn't say anything.
"I thought so too."
The screen flashes. Returns to the ballroom footage.
Playback. 5:42 p.m.
Celeste, dancing. Everything seems normal.
Rewind. Playback. 5:33 p.m.
An angle from the back of the building. A person getting into a car.
Dominic freezes.
He zooms in.
Enhances the image.
One click. Two. Three.
Pixels sharpening slowly into clarity.
Lucas leans in. "Wait. That's…"
Dominic clenches his fists.
"That's Damian."
The face on the screen—blurred but the jawline is clear.
The same eyes. The same scar on his eyebrow.
Damian. Alive. Minutes before the fire.
But something's wrong.
He's holding a bag.
And behind the car—a different license plate. It's not Dominic's car.
*He looked at Damian's face… and saw his own shadow staring back.
Not a twin. Not a brother. But the ghost he had tried to bury deeper than himself.
Dominic's eyes widen.
"The car wasn't mine," he whispers.
"But the fire was."
"Play it again. Zoom. Frame by frame."
Frame 1—Damian gets in the car.
Frame 2—He's writing something.
Frame 3—He looks at the camera.
As if… he knew someone was watching.
Dominic's hands tremble.
"Damian…" he whispers. "What the hell did you do?"
On the next frame… the screen glitches. Then fades to black. Only one word remains:
REPLACEMENT.