GHOST OF PAST
Back at the Rain Gala, Michael stood close to Zaira. Their flirtation was a dance of heat and venom—eyes locked, breaths shallow. The world blurred around them.
And then—his phone rang.
One glance at the screen, and the color drained from his face.
His smirk vanished. Shoulders squared. Eyes narrowed like a predator snapping back into kill mode.
Gone was the charm. Gone was the flirt.
"Excuse me," he said, voice suddenly steel.
He stood tall, clipped the call to his ear, and after a pause, muttered:
"I'll be there."
He didn't explain. He didn't look back.
He just walked away—fast, focused, and lethal.
Zaira watched him go, and for the first time in years, she saw the boy she once loved disappear into the man she no longer recognized.
Zaira stood there—frozen in place, the phantom heat of his hand still lingering on her waist.
Just like that, he was gone.
Her lips parted, the beginnings of a question dying on her tongue. She watched Michael weave through the crowd, cutting across the ballroom like a bullet through silk. Whatever he'd heard on that phone—it wasn't business. It wasn't politics.
It was personal.And it was war.
Her heels clicked slowly as she followed a few steps in his direction before stopping herself. She wasn't going to chase him. Not again. Not after everything. But damn it—she wanted to.
That old feeling crept in—the one that made her heart race and her guard drop. The dangerous feeling that always came with him. The storm in a tailored suit.
Behind her, the music still played. Laughter still echoed. Champagne still bubbled. The party moved on, blissfully unaware.
But inside Zaira, something stirred.
He was hiding something.
She could see it in the way his jaw clenched when the call came. The sudden storm behind those hazel eyes. She knew that Michael Rain could fake charm and feign indifference better than any man alive—but he couldn't fake panic.
She pulled her clutch tighter and stepped away from the dance floor, heels clicking with purpose.
If he thought he could keep her in the dark, he was sorely mistaken.
She made her way toward the balcony, slipped her phone from her bag, and opened the encrypted contact list only three people in Rushmoore had access to.
She tapped a name.Silas—her fixer. Shadow broker. Ghost.
The phone rang once.
"Follow him," she whispered. "Don't be seen. I want to know where he's going and why."
She hung up.
Then, almost as an afterthought, she looked toward the darkened hallway where Michael had disappeared.
Under her breath, with venom and heartbreak dripping from every syllable, she muttered:
"Don't you dare get yourself killed before I can forgive you… or finish hating you."
The valet stood at attention, ready to fetch Michael's usual ride—an obsidian BMW M5 that growled like a dragon and gleamed like sin under the moonlight.
But Michael raised a hand.
"No need," he muttered.
His eyes scanning the street beyond the gated entrance.
He pulled out a phone—not his main one. A burner.
Tapped once. Waited.
Moments later, a beat-up white taxi—the kind that looked like it barely survived the 90s—rolled up the long drive, headlights flickering like a dying heartbeat.
The driver rolled down the window, confused.
"Uh… this is Rain Mansion, boss. Sure you're—"
Michael slipped into the backseat without a word and tossed a few crisp bills over the seat.
"Just drive. Fast. Don't ask where until I say."
The gate creaked open.
The Rain Mansion, still alive with laughter, jazz, and champagne, faded behind them like a lie you try to forget.
WHILE ALL THAT WAS HAPPENING TWO BLOCKS AWAY IN THE NIGHT
A matte-black motorbike engine purred to life, hidden in the shadows of a side alley.
Silas lowered his camera lens, slipped it into his saddlebag, and adjusted the dark visor on his helmet. He wore no branding, no light, no noise. His movements were snake-smooth, calculated.
He didn't need instructions—Zaira's tone on the call said everything.
Michael Rain was up to something.
And for once, he wasn't wearing the crown.
Silas tailed the taxi effortlessly, staying two cars behind, occasionally cutting into alleyways and side streets. Michael had no idea.
Inside the cab, Michael leaned against the cracked leather, phone clenched in his hand. His jaw was tight. His mind elsewhere.
Silas, from the shadows, watched through his tinted visor.
Michael wasn't heading to his penthouse. Or to any known Rain property.
He was going off the grid.
Silas smirked beneath the helmet.
"Looks like the prince is playing rogue."
He kicked the gear.
The hunt had begun.
The taxi's tires crunched gravel as it rolled to a stop in front of a rusted, skeletal building silhouetted against the night sky. The place looked like it had once forged steel, now it only forged secrets.
Michael stepped out—not in street clothes, but still in his tailored charcoal suit.Shirt collar loosened, tie half-untied, shoes dusty from the gravel. He hadn't had time to change. Didn't want to. Couldn't afford to.
Wind howled through shattered window panes. Chains swung overhead like forgotten nooses.
And standing under the broken steel archway…
Anya Volkov.
Black leather jacket. Combat boots. Scars she didn't hide. Eyes like sharpened ice.
She lit a cigarette, exhaled like she'd been expecting him for years.
Michael smirked."You still smoke? That'll kill you before I do."
Anya tossed the cigarette."You still run your mouth like you're immortal?"
A tense beat.
Then, without warning, Michael stepped forward and kissed her. Not sweet. Not tender. Desperate. Conflicted. Familiar.
Her lips didn't protest.
Their breath mingled for a heartbeat longer than it should've, then she pushed him off with a grin laced in venom.
Anya:"Still taste like trouble."
Michael:"And you still taste like regret."
They turned, walked side by side through the cracked warehouse doors.
Unseen…Silas, crouched in the shadows behind a stack of rusted oil drums, snapped a photo.
Click.Another.Zoomed in."What the actual hell..." he whispered.
Silas crouched behind the rusted scrap heap, camera lens trained on the warehouse's corroded side door—the same one Michael and Anya had entered half an hour ago.
The cold air bit at his knuckles.The place had gone dead silent.Not even a mouse scurried. Not a whisper of movement.Just the wind howling through broken metal beams.
He squinted through the lens.
Nothing.
No shadows shifting behind the cracked warehouse windows.No flicker of a flashlight.No silhouettes.Just stillness.
Silas (muttering to himself):"Where the hell are you, Rain…"
He checked his phone—12:47 AM.
He adjusted his grip, rolled his shoulders.Still… nothing.
Finally, he couldn't take it.
He slung the camera around his neck, pulled the hood of his jacket up, and crept toward the warehouse door. His boots crunched on gravel. A distant dog barked.He stopped, hand hovering over the rusted handle.
Breath. Silence. Listen.
Still nothing.
He pushed the door open slowly.
Empty.
Dark.
Silent.
Dust drifted in the air like ghosts.
Steel beams cast long shadows from the streetlamp outside.Cobwebs. Old barrels. Shattered pallets.A worn tire hung from a chain in the ceiling like a noose.
But no Michael.No Anya.No one.
Silas (whispers):"You've got to be kidding me…"
He stepped deeper into the echo chamber of concrete and steel.He checked every corner. No secret doors. No sound.He even tapped the walls like an idiot, as if they'd echo back some kind of secret.
Nothing.
They were gone.
Vanished.
He pulled out his phone, pressed a contact, and held it to his ear.
MEANWHILE AT THE RAIN MASION
The Rain Mansion glittered behind her, music and laughter pouring from the grand ballroom. But out here on the balcony, away from the silk and champagne, it was cold.
Zaira Noir stood alone, city lights glowing below. Her phone pressed to her ear, jaw clenched.
Silas paced outside the empty warehouse, breath visible in the cold air.
Silas (tense):"They're gone. I waited over thirty minutes. Nobody came out. I even went inside—it's empty."
Zaira (low):"Did you see anyone else?"
Silas:"Yeah. A woman. In white. Classy. Dangerous. I've never seen her before."
Beat.
Zaira (suspicious):"What woman?"
Silas:"No ID. No security detail. No digital trace. But he kissed her like he trusted her… or used to."
Zaira (a venomous whisper):"Michael doesn't trust anyone."
Zaira's eyes narrowed as she stared out over the balcony, her free hand tightening on the iron railing.
Zaira:"Keep digging. I want to know who she is, where she came from, and why the hell she's with him."
Silas:"Understood."
Call ends.
Zaira pockets her phone and exhales hard, her breath frosting in the air.
Footsteps.
She doesn't need to turn—she knows he's behind her.
Augustine Rain, sharp in a black tux, steps up beside her with a glass of brandy, smirking like a man who never liked silence.
Augustine (casually):"Still chasing ghosts, Zaira? Or just stalking my son now?"
Zaira doesn't look at him, just sips her drink.
Zaira (flatly):"Must be exhausting. Always watching him, always pulling his strings. Tell me, Augustine—do you control everyone, or just the ones you claim to love?"
Augustine (grinning):"Oh sweetheart, if I claimed to love you, you'd know. I'd brand it across your pretty little forehead."
Zaira (finally looking at him, deadly calm):"Too bad. I already have someone's name scarred into my soul—and it's not yours."
Augustine sips his drink, smirk twitching.
Augustine:"Funny, you talk about souls as if you haven't sold yours ten times over for influence. I must say, watching you play queen at this party—it's almost endearing."
Zaira:"I play nothing. Unlike your family. Secrets, scandals, corruption—it's the only language you people speak. And you wonder why Michael can't breathe under your name."
Augustine's jaw clenches for a second. Just enough.
Augustine (low):"You think you know him?"
Zaira (softly, sharply):"I made him."
Silence.
Zaira:"I knew him before the wealth, before the ego, before you caged him in this castle of expectation."
Augustine (leaning in):"Then maybe you should've stayed in the gutter with him. Where you belong."
AT THE STAIRCASE
From behind a column, Marabel, the stepmother, watches them.
Her eyes narrow.
Lips pursed.
Hands clenched into her jeweled clutch.
Jealousy. Burning.
She couldn't hear every word.But she didn't need to.Their body language screamed of intimacy and tension—the kind you only get when love and hate sleep in the same bed.
BACK TO BALCONY
Zaira (quietly):"One day, Michael's going to bury you with your own lies. And when he does... I'll be right there. Smiling."
Augustine (chuckles darkly):"And who will bury you, Zaira Noir?"
Zaira smiles. Icy. Cold. Poised.
Zaira:"No one. I already buried the version of me you could destroy."
She tosses the rest of her drink into the bushes and walks past him, hips swaying with pride, chin high.
Augustine watches her go.
Then mutters to himself—
Augustine:"Dangerous little witch…"