The heavy door of my den clicked firmly into place behind me, the muffled sound echoing through the empty hallway. I stood there for a beat, resting my palms against the cool wood as I rubbed the bridge of my nose. The smell of old parchment, metallic ink, and stale coffee still lingered in my clothes from hours of tedious, meticulous work. My eyes burned from staring at fine print, and a dull ache was slowly blooming behind my temples.
I checked my watch. The hands pointed toward late afternoon. Outside the high arched windows, the sky was already bruising into a deep, twilight purple, casting long, melancholy shadows across the floorboards. It was almost evening.
I rolled my shoulders, trying to throw off the residual tension of the day, but my mind was already somewhere else. Or rather, with someone else.
My feet carried me toward her apartment before I even consciously made the decision to move. The rational side of my brain told me I was just being thorough, making sure no loose ends were dangling, ensuring that our little arrangement remained intact.
But if I was being entirely honest with myself, I just needed to see her. I needed to gauge the damage. I needed to check on Arora.
The walk up the carpeted stairs was quiet, my leather shoes making almost no sound against the runner. Standing outside her apartment door, I paused, taking a slow breath. I could hear nothing from inside--just a heavy, suffocating silence that made my chest tighten slightly.
I reached out and pressed the doorbell.
A sharp, high-pitched chime vibrated through the air. Almost instantly, a loud, violent thud echoed from inside the apartment, followed by the sound of ceramic or plastic clattering against the hard floor. Someone had jumped. Someone had dropped whatever they were holding out of pure, unadulterated panic.
"It's just me, Arora," I called out quickly, keeping my voice low, clear, and calm so it would carry through the solid wood without startling her further. "It's Ranyald."
I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other side, followed by the hasty, uneven sound of socked feet hurrying across the floorboards. There was a desperate fumble with the deadbolt, a quick slide of the chain, and then the heavy door swung open.
Arora stood in the frame, clutching the edge of the door so tightly her knuckles were white. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths, her wide eyes locked onto mine. Her hair was pulled back into a messy, undone knot, loose strands framing a face that looked entirely too pale, too fragile.
"I am so, so sorry," she blurted out immediately, her voice carrying a fragile, breathless tremor. She swallowed hard, her eyes darting past my shoulders into the dim hallway before settling back on my face. "I... I took too long to open the door. I was... I dropped my glass, and I thought—"
"Hey," I interrupted gently, stepping slightly closer so my frame blocked her view of the empty hall.
Looking at her, the sheer exhaustion clinging to her shoulders was palpable. She looked like a ghost haunting her own living space, waiting for the floor to collapse beneath her feet. Every instinct I had; the cold, calculated edge I maintained with everyone else in my world melted away. I softened my expression completely, letting my shoulders drop, pushing aside the grim shadow of my den.
"Careful there, Arora," I said, letting a warm, lazy smile slowly tilt the corners of my lips. My tone was light, laced with just enough quiet teasing to pull her out of her head. "If you keep taking that long, I might start thinking you're hiding another guy in there. And honestly? My ego couldn't take the hit."
A faint, sudden flush dusted her pale cheeks. She blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in atmosphere, and the ghost of a real, genuine smile finally cracked through her frozen expression. She let out a small, quiet huff of air—a half-laugh that sounded so sweet in the quiet corridor.
"There's no one else in here, Rayn," she muttered, though the frantic strain in her voice was noticeably fading.
"Good to know," I murmured, leaning slightly against the doorframe, keeping my posture completely unthreatening. "No need to apologize, by the way. I'm just here to check in on you. See if you're still in one piece."
"I'm... I'm surviving," she said, her eyes softening as she looked up at me. The defensive tension in her hands relaxed, letting the door open a bit wider. "Thank you. Truly. For coming."
"Don't thank me yet," I said, lifting the heavy brown paper bag I had been holding at my side. "I didn't come empty-handed."
Her gaze dropped to the bag, and as the savory, greasy aroma of fried food and seasoned salt drifted toward her, her nose twitched. Slowly, her eyes widened.
"What is that?" she asked.
"Consider it dinner," I said, holding it out to her. "Or a bribe. Whichever you prefer."
Arora took the bag, peeking inside. The moment her eyes locked onto the contents--boxes of greasy, unholy, utterly delicious junk food; her entire face bloomed. It was like watching a flower open up under sudden sunlight. The dark, heavy circles under her eyes seemed to vanish for a second, her features lighting up with pure, unadulterated excitement. The breath she let out this time wasn't filled with fear; it was a soft gasp of sheer joy. "How..." She looked up at me, her eyes sparkling, a breathless grin spreading across her lips. "How on earth did you know I liked this stuff?"
I couldn't help the low chuckle that escaped my chest. I leaned my shoulder against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest as I looked down at her.
"Do you remember that morning a few weeks ago? The one where you stayed over at our place with Ilya?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "When I walked downstairs in the-so called- morning because I heard two people laughing like absolute animals in the living room?"
Arora's cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink, but her smile didn't fade.
"I walked in," I continued, "and I saw a small mountain of fast-food wrappers on the coffee table. Now, my dear sister, Ilya, is a health-conscious freak who considers an apple to be an indulgence and counts her almonds before eating them. The process of elimination wasn't exactly difficult. Unless Ilya has a secret alter-ego who binge-eats fries at dawn, the culprit was standing right in front of me."
Arora gasped softly, putting a hand over her chest and attempting to pull a dignified, serious face, though she failed miserably as her lips twitched upward.
"I'll have you know," she said, raising her chin defensively, "that I do not eat that much junk food. That was a very rare, highly specific occasion. I have incredible self-control."
"Oh, absolutely," I replied dryly, my eyes crinkling at the corners. "A rare occasion. Purely medicinal, I'm sure. A dietary necessity."
"It was!" she insisted, though a laugh bubbled out of her throat.
"Right. Well, far be it from me to deny you your medicine," I said, gesturing toward the interior of her apartment. "Go on. Eat before it gets cold."
She stepped back, holding the door open to let me in. We walked into her small, cozy living room. The apartment was tidy, save for the shattered glass she had dropped earlier, which she had already swept into a neat little pile near the kitchen counter. We moved over to the plush couch in the center of the room and sat down together.
Arora didn't waste a second. She set the bag on the coffee table, pulled out a box of hot, seasoned fries and a burger, and dived in with an enthusiasm that was almost hypnotic to watch. The shadow that had been looming over her all day seemed to recede, pushed back by the simple, grounding comfort of a warm meal.
I sat back against the cushions, resting my arm casually over the back of the sofa, watching her. I didn't care about the food. I just wanted to see her like this; relaxed, grounded, existing in the present moment instead of reliving the horror of what had happened days ago. There was a quiet beauty in the way her face expressed every single emotion so openly, a stark contrast to the guarded, veiled world I inhabited every day.
Arora paused mid-chew, noticing my steady gaze. She looked at the fry in her hand, then looked up at me, tilting her head like a curious bird. "Do you... want some?" she asked, offering the box toward me. "I can share. A little." I looked at the glistening, oil-soaked fry, then looked back at her face, letting out a small sigh of theatrical disgust.
"No, thank you," I said, raising a hand to ward off the offer. "I value my arterial health far too much. Unlike some people, I intend to live past forty." Arora rolled her eyes, letting out a dramatic scoff. "Your loss, Mr. Health Conscious. More for me." "I am health-conscious as fuck, Arora. Someone in this room needs to balance out the calorie intake, and clearly, it isn't going to be you," I teased smoothly. She made a face at me, sticking her tongue out for a fraction of a second before popping the fry into her mouth. I chuckled, leaning my head back against the couch.
For a few minutes, the room was filled with the quiet, comfortable sounds of her eating. It felt normal. It felt safe. But beneath the comfortable surface, the heavy object resting in the inner pocket of my tailored coat seemed to grow colder, weighing down on my ribs.
I had brought something else for her tonight.
My mind battled with the decision. Was it the right time? Did I really want to shatter this fragile peace I had just spent twenty minutes building? No. A part of me wanted to keep her in this naive, bright bubble forever. But reality was a cruel monster, and she needed to know. She needed the physical proof that the nightmare was truly over, that the evidence was back in control.
"Arora," I said softly, my tone shifting from light banter to something quiet, sober, and grounded.
She paused, sensing the sudden change in the atmosphere. She set her food down on the table, wiping her hands on a napkin as she turned her eyes toward me.
I reached inside my coat and pulled out a slim, black velvet box. It looked like something that should hold a delicate diamond necklace or a pair of heirloom earrings. I leaned forward and set it down gently on the glass coffee table right between us.
Slowly, deliberately, I unlatched the silver clasp and flipped the lid open. Resting on the dark velvet interior was a single, long, polished silver knitting needle. It gleamed under the soft lamp light of her living room--clean, sterile, and silent.
The needle she had driven through Moritz's neck.
The reaction was instantaneous. Arora froze. The color drained from her skin so rapidly it was as if someone had drawn every drop of blood straight out of her body. Her lips parted, a sharp, choked gasp catching in her throat. The half-eaten burger in her hand slipped from her trembling fingers, dropping heavily onto the wrapper below, completely forgotten.
She stared at the piece of metal, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with a horrific, intoxicating terror. The memory of that night—the blood, the panic, the tearing of skin—flooded back into her eyes like a wave breaking over a sinking ship. She looked completely paralyzed, trapped in a waking nightmare.
"Hey," I said immediately, my voice dropping an octave, thick with gentleness. I shifted my position on the couch, leaning forward to put my upper body slightly between her and the table, effectively breaking her direct line of sight to the box. "Arora, look at me. Breathe. Just breathe."
She couldn't move. She couldn't take her eyes off the drawer where the memory lived, though she didn't dare reach out to touch the needle itself. Her hands were shaking violently in her lap.
"Calm down first," I murmured, keeping my movements slow and predictable so as not to startle her. "You don't have to touch it. You don't ever have to look at it again."
I didn't press her. I didn't tell her to take it, nor did I demand a reaction. Instead, I reached out, gently picked up the velvet box, and closed the lid with a soft snap. The metallic sheen vanished.
I stood up, walked across the small living room toward her side table, and pulled open the top drawer. I placed the box inside, tucked deep in the back beneath a stack of harmless notepad paper, and pushed the drawer shut.
Click.
It was hidden. Sealed away.
I walked back to the couch, but I didn't sit down. I stood nearby, watching her as she slowly wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging herself tight as if trying to keep her shattered pieces together.
She stared at the closed drawer for a long, grueling minute. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper, thin and broken, trembling under the weight of her confusion.
"Why..." She swallowed hard, looking up at me through a veil of unshed tears. "Why are you doing all of this, Rayn? Cleaning up... taking care of everything... bringing that back... Why do all this for a girl you barely even know?"
The question hung in the warm air of the apartment, heavy and thick.
I stayed quiet at first. I let the silence stretch, letting the weight of her words settle around us. I looked down at her, at her small, fragile frame, at the fierce, brave soul hiding beneath all that trauma, at the girl who had fought for her life and survived.
I took a quiet breath, my voice steady, plain, and devoid of any lingering playfulness.
"You're Ilya's best friend," I said, meeting her eyes with an absolute, unyielding clarity. "And it is my duty to keep my sister's best friend safe. End of story."
Arora bit her lower lip, staring at me. She searched my face for a catch, a lie, a hidden motive, but she found none. The silence returned, but this time, it was no longer terrifying. The sharp, jagged edges of her panic slowly began to smooth out, replacing the terror with a deep, quiet gratitude that shone in her dark eyes.
She didn't push the topic. She didn't ask for a deeper truth. She just nodded slowly, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
"Thank you" she whispered, her voice sincere, carrying a weight that went far beyond the simple words.
"You're welcome" I replied softly.
She looked down at her hands, rubbing her thumbs together as another thought seemed to cross her mind. After a moment, she looked back up, her brow furrowing slightly with a quiet, lingering curiosity.
"The people who came that day..." she began carefully, her voice hesitant. "The ones who... cleaned up the mess in the alley. Who were they? How did you get them to—"
"Arora," I interrupted smoothly, stepping forward to gently cut off the spiral of her thoughts before it could begin again.
I reached out and pulled my jacket straight, adjusting my cuffs as I moved toward her front door.
"Don't worry about them," I said, keeping my tone light, reassuring, and completely final. "They did their job, and it's over. All you need to focus on right now is taking care of yourself. Eat your food, get some sleep, and stop overthinking things that aren't your burden to carry."
I reached the door and placed my hand on the metal handle. Pausing, I turned my head back to look at her one last time. She was still sitting on the couch, looking smaller than usual, but the colour had slowly begun to return to her cheeks.
"Leave the rest to me," I added quietly, offering her one last, faint, reassuring smile. "Goodnight, Arora."
"Goodnight" she replied softy.
I stepped out into the cool, quiet hallway, pulling the heavy door shut behind me until I heard the lock click into place. Standing outside in the dim light, I stood still for a moment, listening until I heard the faint sound of her picking up her food once more.
Only then did I turn around and walk away into the gathering night.