Sola in Nocte

This story isn't just about love. Not the sweet kind. Not the tragic kind. Not even the kind that heals. It’s not about life either. Not really. Life is just the frame. The shape. The empty skin. What fills it? People. Choices. Mistakes. Names. And sometimes, the quiet, unspoken moments between all of that where who you are begins to rot and who you're becoming starts to breathe. --- This story… is about that. It’s about a girl who became something else. About the pieces she lost. And the pieces she broke on purpose. It’s about me. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to become an assassin. There was no dramatic epiphany. No gun pressed to my head. No offer I couldn’t refuse. It was slower than that. Quieter. Change doesn’t always come with screams. Sometimes, it slips under your skin with silence—like a shadow you didn’t notice until it stretched too far. At first, you survive. Then you adapt. Then you forget you were ever anything else. I used to be soft. It’s hard to admit that now. But it’s true. I used to cry during movies. Apologize too much. Fall in love with strangers I barely knew because I liked the way they smiled when they said my name. I wanted to matter to someone. To be seen. Held. Loved in a way that didn’t hurt. But the world doesn’t love like that. It doesn’t know how. What the world knows is this: Take. Use. Break. Repeat. It breaks girls like I used to be. Kind girls. Naive girls. Girls who believe promises are real and that pain is temporary. It doesn’t kill them all at once. It just carves at them until there’s nothing left to protect. And then it hands them a choice: Stay broken. Or become something sharp enough to survive. I chose the latter. That’s how you find me now. Not as a daughter. Not as a lover. Not even as a person. I’m a weapon. A name whispered in dark rooms. A threat you don’t see coming. A price paid in full. They call me "the Ghost". And the name fits. I leave no trace. No blood trail. No signature. No sound. Just silence. And the certainty that the job was done right. But even ghosts used to be alive. Even monsters had a first name once. Mine was Martyna. And someone just used it again. I thought I’d buried her. That girl. That name. That fragile version of me who still wanted to be saved. I wrapped her in silence. I burned every bridge. I erased the past until it stopped bleeding through my hands. But now, someone’s digging her back up. And if they found her name, they might know other things, too. Things that can’t be left alive. You don’t survive this life by looking back. But the past? It doesn’t ask permission. It comes when it wants. When it’s ready. When you’re not. And when it arrives, it never comes alone. So no—this isn’t a love story. Not in the way you think. It’s a story about becoming. About burning everything that made you human—just to see what’s left standing. It’s about the cost of survival. And the girl who learned how to kill herself one piece at a time… Until all that remained was a name no one dared to say.