CHAPTER 4: "Smoke Doesn't Lie"
Camila opened her eyes slowly, groaning as she blinked against the sterile white of the hospital room lights.
Her throat burned. Her legs ached. Her dignity? Absolutely singed.
And of course, the first thing she saw was him—leaning against the wall with a cup of hospital coffee and that damn smirk.
"Oh good," Mateo said. "Sleeping Beauty's awake. I was about to start planning your funeral."
Camila pushed herself up, wincing. "You carried me out?"
"Bridal style," he said proudly. "There was smoke, fire, chaos... very dramatic. I almost tripped for added effect."
"You're insufferable."
"You're welcome."
She swung her legs off the bed, ignoring the sting in her ankle. "Where's Isla?"
"She's fine. Couple bruises. Already posting about how she survived 'a real-life action movie' on Instagram."
Camila rolled her eyes. "God help her followers."
Mateo moved closer, watching her carefully. "You scared the hell out of me, Wilson."
She paused, caught off guard.
Then she put her hand on her hip. "Well, maybe if you weren't too busy being a pain in my ass all the time, I'd be less distracted."
He raised an eyebrow. "So my charm almost got you killed?"
"Exactly."
Mateo laughed. "Glad you're alive. Life's more fun when you're threatening me with staplers."
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The Next Morning – 9:03 AM – Back at the Agency
"Intentional fire," Camila muttered, flipping through the crime scene photos. "Gasoline accelerant. Hall entrance torched first to trap people inside."
Mateo sat beside her, sipping coffee. His expression had gone from amused to coldly focused.
"The body?" he asked Isla, who had just returned from a briefing with local police.
"Twenty-three-year-old waitress," Isla said softly. "Worked the catering crew. Didn't make it out in time."
Camila's jaw clenched. "Was she targeted?"
"No known connections," Isla replied. "But it wasn't random. Whoever did this knew how to disappear fast."
Mateo leaned back. "CCTV?"
"Gone. System was fried seconds before the fire. Signal interference. Pro job."
Camila scanned through the printed photos again. Her detective instincts were screaming—this wasn't just arson. It was personal.
"The fire wasn't to make a statement," she said, tapping one of the photos. "It was to cover something. Or someone."
Mateo nodded. "This wasn't about starting a fire. It was about erasing something."
---
Later That Night – 10:41 PM – Outside Camila's Apartment
Camila walked alone, boots echoing along the quiet street. The night air was cool, heavy with the scent of city smoke and leftover adrenaline.
Her thoughts churned.
That girl.
The fire.
The file someone left at the agency.
Everything felt like a puzzle where someone was hiding the final piece just out of reach.
She turned the corner, distracted, and—
Bumped hard into a tall, unmoving figure.
"Ah—sorry—" she mumbled, stepping back.
He didn't respond.
He just stood there.
6'4", dark hoodie, black jeans, combat boots. Lean but muscular frame. Hands in his pockets. A cold presence that sent goosebumps down her spine.
His face was mostly shadowed, only half-lit by the streetlamp.
Jet black hair. Sharpened features. Expression unreadable. But his eyes—black and emotionless—met hers for just a second.
Camila froze.
Something about him screamed danger. Not loud. Quiet. Quiet like a knife being drawn in a dark room.
"Didn't see you," she said awkwardly, stepping aside.
He gave a slight nod. Silent. Watching.
And then he turned to his motorcycle parked nearby—matte black, sleek, dangerous-looking—swung a leg over, started the engine, and rode off into the night without a word.
Camila stared after him, heart thudding.
She didn't know who he was.
But something told her…
She would see him again.
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TO BE CONTINUED...