"Don't cry… it's okay. It's okay now."
Ginevra watched Jayna's tears keep sliding down, one after another, as if her body had finally found permission to fall apart. The sight made something in Ginevra ache—sharp, helpless, almost unbearable.
She didn't have tissues on her.
So she used her hands.
Again and again, she wiped Jayna's cheeks clean, her fingertips catching the warm beads before they could drop, only for new ones to replace them instantly. As if the tears had their own stubborn will.
Jayna sniffed and nodded, trying hard to obey, trying hard to stop.
Then her eyes fell on Ginevra's hand.
On the scraped skin. The tiny breaks where the metal had bitten.
Jayna grabbed it at once, pulling it closer as if she could protect it just by looking. Her voice came out with a wet, trembling edge.
"Why are you hurt?"
Ginevra reflexively drew her hand back, as though the injury was something shameful to be seen.
"In the shop," she said quietly. "I bumped into something while helping."
Jayna's brow knit—she clearly wanted to ask more, wanted to insist on the truth.
But Ginevra didn't give her the opening.
Instead, she lifted her hand and began to stroke Jayna's hair—slowly, steadily, fingers combing through strands that were still dirty, still clinging to grit and dried mud.
Ginevra didn't flinch.
She didn't care.
Her palm moved with an almost reverent gentleness, as if touching Jayna's head was the only thing that could keep the world from collapsing again.
That quiet tenderness—wordless, patient—did something to Jayna's scattered nerves. The panic inside her loosened, inch by inch, like a fist unclenching.
She took a few deeper breaths.
God knew how terrified she'd been.
That earlier stretch of darkness—those minutes where the house went dead, where every sound outside felt like something hunting her—had been the most helpless, most hopeless moment she'd ever lived through.
"You know…" Jayna whispered, voice low and cracked, fingers curling tight into the hem of Ginevra's hoodie as if it were a lifeline. "I was— I was really scared. Really. I had to force myself to stay calm. I had to."
Ginevra eased her onto the sofa, guiding her with care.
And when she spoke, she didn't look directly at Jayna—not fully. As if she knew her own face, right now, carried something too dark.
"What happened?" Ginevra asked softly.
Jayna's throat moved. Her body shivered like it remembered before her mind could choose what to forget.
"There was someone… someone in the neighborhood who tried to—" She swallowed hard, eyes glassy. "You know. That."
Just the thought of his touch made bile rise in her.
It wasn't merely fear. It was disgust—sticky, suffocating—like black leeches clinging to her skin.
"I wasn't ready at all," Jayna forced out, voice turning small. "He rushed me and shoved me down. The dress… I fell into the flowerbed and it tore. My phone hit the ground—screen cracked. I couldn't call. And he covered my mouth—tight—so I couldn't make a sound."
Her hands clenched until her knuckles went pale.
"I couldn't breathe," she whispered. "I thought I was going to suffocate."
Ginevra watched her hands as if they were the most fragile thing in the room, then gently folded Jayna's fingers into her own palm—holding them firmly enough to stop Jayna from digging crescents into her skin.
Jayna drew a shaky breath and kept going, as though the story had to be spoken all the way through to become real.
"I kicked him. Like—like crazy. I kicked him and I ran. I ran back to the house and only when I got inside did I remember… Mrs. Rose goes back to her hometown on the fifteenth every month. So it was just me."
Her voice wavered, raw.
"And then, when I tried to lock the door… the power went out. The whole house. Everything—black."
Her eyes darted, as if she could still see that darkness around her.
"My phone was broken. The landline wouldn't work either—I don't even know why. The whole place was pitch black. And outside there were… noises. Weird noises. I— I—"
Her throat caught. She coughed, hoarse and dry, then pressed her hands to her face as if she could keep the tears from spilling through sheer force.
She didn't want Ginevra to see her like that.
She didn't want Ginevra to see the ugliest version of her—shaking, sobbing, broken.
But she'd been so close to breaking completely.
Because she'd known—she'd felt—that the man could come back. That he could come in. That he could wait for the moment her will finally gave out.
Ginevra's eyes darkened.
Something furious rose in her—fast, violent, like a flame thrown onto oil—but she locked it down with sheer discipline, because Jayna was right there, trembling, needing calm.
Ginevra's hand began to pat Jayna's back in slow, steady motions, as if she could press the fear out of her body.
"Don't be afraid," she murmured, voice carefully even. "I'm here. No one can hurt you."
It sounded like reassurance.
It was also a warning she was repeating to herself—an attempt to keep her own anger from detonating.
Because if she let herself imagine the "what ifs"—
If she hadn't come.
If she'd trusted the bus ride and gone back to the shop and stayed there.
If Jayna had been alone, in that dark, with that man—
Ginevra's stomach turned.
She couldn't think it all the way through. She didn't dare.
"Did you see what he looked like?" Ginevra asked.
Jayna shook her head. "It was already getting dark. He wore a tracksuit and a mask. I couldn't see his face. I just… I remember his eyes. They were… wrong. I'll never forget them."
She swallowed.
"He came out of nowhere. Like he'd been waiting there. He was thin—not tall—but strong. If I hadn't kicked with everything I had, I wouldn't have gotten away."
Ginevra's gaze stayed sharp, unblinking. "Anything else? A tattoo. A scar. A smell."
Jayna's brows drew together as she searched her memory through nausea.
"No tattoos. But…" Her expression tightened. "He smelled like cigarettes. Really cheap cigarettes. The kind that stinks."
Cheap smoke.
That detail landed in Ginevra like a key turning.
She helped Jayna to the bathroom, soaked a towel in warm water, and wiped her face clean until the dust was gone and Jayna's skin looked like itself again.
Then Ginevra stood guard outside the shower.
Only when Jayna was behind the curtain, only when warm water was running, did she begin to wash.
And even then—halfway through—Jayna turned the water off, voice small, tentative.
"Giny?"
"I'm here," Ginevra answered immediately.
Only then did Jayna dare to turn the water back on.
Outside the door, Ginevra leaned against the wall, eyes lowered to the scrape on her hand.
Her expression was shadowed—deep, dangerous.
She pressed fingers to her temple, forcing her thoughts into order.
Man. Waiting. Assault attempt. Sudden blackout. Strange noises. Mrs. Rose absent—known in advance. Cheap cigarette smell—
Security.
The doorbell rang.
Ginevra lifted her head.
On the intercom screen, she saw Captain Thor at the gate.
"Wait a moment," she said into the speaker.
When Jayna came out, wrapped and damp, they looked at each other—both quiet, both exhausted.
Jayna, who was usually all brightness and noise, looked like someone whose batteries had been drained to nothing. Her shoulders drooped. Her eyes were hollowed by fear.
Ginevra studied her for a second, then spoke with a dry edge—as if she needed to pull Jayna back to herself.
"So," Ginevra said, "you're letting yourself get taken down by one piece of trash?"
Jayna stared, then the corners of her mouth trembled—anger flaring through the fear like a match.
She shook her head hard. "No. I want that pervert to rot. He's definitely done this before. It's disgusting."
"That's more like it," Ginevra murmured, a faint approval softening her voice.
They walked to the courtyard gate together and greeted Captain Thor.
"…That's what happened."
Ginevra explained it in a few clean sentences—brief, precise, leaving no room for doubt.
Captain Thor's face tightened with dread as he listened.
A high-end estate like Gardencrest didn't just fear crime—they feared scandal. Accountability. Reputations. Lawsuits. Powerful families who didn't forgive.
"What the hell…" Captain Thor muttered, voice grim. "How could this happen?"
He looked sick, like the weight had already dropped onto his shoulders.
Ginevra didn't coddle him. "Right now, we check cameras," she said. "And Jayna reports it."
Jayna nodded and called the police.
Captain Thor led them to the monitoring room.
Jayna pointed out where it happened.
And the most infuriating thing appeared immediately:
That area was a blind spot.
A dark wedge on the monitor where nothing could be seen.
Captain Thor pointed at it, face sour. "It's too dark there. You can't see that corner clearly."
His voice turned bitter with self-reproach.
He remembered warning management when the system was installed—that spot is risky; it won't capture everything.
He'd been ignored.
It's a small patch. Nothing will happen.
And now something had.
Ginevra's eyes moved slowly around the room, taking in the guards—faces she'd seen, voices she'd heard, men who held the keys to this place.
"The people most familiar with the cameras," she said calmly, "would be security."
Captain Thor stiffened. He looked at the men he'd worked alongside for years. "No," he said firmly. "They came in under me. I know them. They wouldn't."
Jayna stood beside Ginevra, picking up the implication.
She didn't want to accuse anyone without proof. These guards had been here for years. She'd smiled and greeted them countless times. They all knew her.
"Maybe we wait for the police," Jayna whispered, leaning close to Ginevra's ear.
Ginevra didn't even glance at her. She answered just as quietly, voice low enough that it felt like a secret blade.
"The police will do their job. I'm doing ours."
Then she turned.
She walked to the man at the console—the one who'd been "helpfully" rewinding footage for them.
He looked nothing like the harsh, rule-bound guard from earlier.
Now he wore thick, heavy glasses, his posture mild, his expression almost shy—like a scholar who didn't belong in a security booth.
He turned when Ginevra tapped his shoulder.
That innocent mask didn't fool her for even a heartbeat.
When he spoke, his accent came out again—rustic, harmless-sounding.
Ginevra's voice was gentle, almost conversational. "Earlier today, you wouldn't let me in. Now—after what happened to my friend—do you think I was right to insist?"
The guard nodded quickly, putting on remorse like a coat. "Yes—yes, of course. I was just following policy, you know? Thank God Jayna's okay. If something had happened, we… we wouldn't know what to do. It's our fault. We failed."
Jayna watched him bow deeply, and a strange discomfort crawled up her spine.
She wanted the real culprit.
She wanted the man who'd made her feel dirty, violated, hunted.
She didn't want some apologetic performance.
Ginevra tilted her head slightly, eyes calm and flat.
"You changed your uniform," she said.
The guard's eyes flickered.
He shook his head too fast. "No. What are you talking about?"
Ginevra didn't argue. She simply stepped closer, fingertips brushing the edge of his shoulder patch.
"Earlier it was symmetrical. Now it isn't."
She reached toward his side, just under his arm.
The guard jerked back sharply—far too sharply.
He forced an awkward laugh. "Hey—uh—don't touch people like that. We should keep distance. For propriety."
Jayna stared.
Ginevra was the one who hated being touched.
She was the one who flinched from accidental brushings, who kept herself carefully separate from others.
So why was she doing this now?
Jayna's gaze locked onto the guard's face, and suddenly she felt something… wrong. Something she couldn't name yet.
Ginevra rubbed her fingertips together, as if testing what they'd picked up. Her voice turned colder.
"Your clothes are still damp."
The guard's smile froze. "I don't understand what you're implying."
Ginevra nodded once, as if accepting his denial.
Then she reached up and yanked the main breaker.
The monitors died instantly—screens snapping to black.
The room erupted.
"You can't shut that off!" someone shouted.
Captain Thor lunged, furious and panicked. "What are you doing?! That's messing around!"
Ginevra didn't even blink.
She turned her head slightly toward Captain Thor, face unreadable. "One minute," she said. "I need to ask him something."
Captain Thor's eyes widened. "You think it's him?"
"That's impossible," Captain Thor snapped, trying to protect his own world from collapsing. "Draven's always been honest. He's shy. He can barely look girls in the eye. He wouldn't do something that disgusting."
Ginevra ignored the speech.
She looked straight at the guard.
"Five thirty-four," she said. "Where were you?"
Draven answered smoothly, too smoothly. "On duty in the west district. The cameras can prove it."
An older guard hurried to back him up. "I can confirm that. When we checked the time earlier, the west district footage showed him there. Then he came back to the booth not long after."
Ginevra stared at Draven.
Through the thick lenses, his eyes still flickered—restless, nervous. His hand rose unconsciously to rub the bridge of his nose.
He was lying.
Jayna's stomach tightened.
She took a step back, scanning the room like an animal searching for an exit.
And then she saw it—
A framed group photo on the wall: the property staff and security team from when the estate first opened. Everyone holding a banner, grinning proudly at the camera.
Jayna walked over, drawn like a thread being pulled.
She stared.
In the second row from the back, on the right side—
A man stood with a smile that wasn't a smile.
His eyes were dark, heavy, predatory.
Those eyes—
Jayna's breath stopped.
They were the same eyes that had been above her in the flowerbed.
The same eyes she'd told herself she'd never forget.
Her knees went weak.
She stumbled back, terror and fury colliding inside her chest.
Jayna turned to the guard at the console, voice shaking but sharp.
"Can you take off your glasses?"
Draven frowned, still playing harmless. "Why would I? I'm severely nearsighted. What is wrong with you two?"
Jayna stepped closer, heart pounding like it wanted out.
"Please," she said, forcing herself to stay upright even as her hands trembled uncontrollably. "Take them off."
If it was him—
If the man who'd smiled and greeted her at the gate, the man she'd waved to like a fool—
If it was him—
Guard Lin let out a dry, cracking laugh. His tongue flicked over his lips as if his mouth had gone suddenly thirsty.
Then, like the mask slipped, his face twisted with irritation.
"You're so annoying," he snapped, voice suddenly sharp, ugly. "All this questioning—so damn annoying."
The guards in the room turned, startled.
They'd never heard him speak like that.
And then—
He lunged.
Fast.
A sudden animal burst toward Jayna, hands reaching, intent plain in the movement.
Jayna barely had time to flinch—
Pain exploded in the man's lower stomach.
His body jerked, folding.
At the same instant, his hair was seized and yanked backward with brutal force, wrenching his head up until his neck strained and he screamed.
"F—! You little—!"
His head slammed into the control console.
Hard.
His glasses shattered on impact, the thick lenses breaking into glittering fragments.
Ginevra's voice cut through the chaos—cold, incredulous.
"Is no one helping?"
That snapped everyone awake.
Captain Thor and another guard rushed in, horrified, dragging the man down and pinning him to the floor. Hands moved clumsily but urgently, binding him to the table leg with restraints.
On the ground, Draven spat and cursed in a stream of filth, thrashing, eyes darting between Jayna and Ginevra like a starving thing.
Without the glasses, his eyes were fully visible now—
Crooked, shadowed, obscene with intent.
Jayna's stomach turned.
She reached into her pocket, fingers tightening around the scissors she'd brought from the house—the same ones she'd held to her chest on the stairs.
Ginevra stepped close to Jayna, met her eyes once, and gave the smallest nod.
I've got you.
Jayna inhaled.
And slowly, shakily, she nodded back.
Then the man grinned at Jayna, mouth wet and cruel.
"Jayna," he said, as if they were friends. "You like me, don't you? Every day you said hi, called me 'Draven'—so what if I touched you a little?"
Jayna's teeth ground together so hard her jaw ached.
The man kept going, voice thick with spite.
"I didn't even hurt you. When I touched you, you looked like you liked it—struggling like that, acting all shy." He laughed, ugly and loud. "Don't act like you're some untouchable princess. You make a fuss over nothing. I'll be out in a few days anyway."
His eyes turned vicious.
"But if you make me suffer," he hissed, "I'll make you suffer worse. Filthy bitch—"
Jayna's fingers whitened on the scissors.
She was shaking.
Not with fear this time.
With the effort not to explode.
Ginevra turned her head toward Jayna, expression softening in a way that didn't match the room.
"Jayna," she said gently, "wait outside. Okay?"
Jayna understood.
Ginevra didn't want her to hear any more.
Jayna forced herself to nod, then walked out, each step heavy—as if leaving meant letting go of control.
Inside, the man kept screaming toward the door, voice getting louder as Jayna's footsteps faded.
"I didn't even get to do anything! She was the one teasing me—dressed like that—then she kicked me! Kicked me over and over! I'll sue her for assault—!"
Captain Thor's face had gone gray with disgust. Someone grabbed cloth to gag the man, ready to hold him down until police arrived.
Ginevra took the cloth from their hands.
"Wait," she said calmly.
She crouched until she was level with the man, eyes meeting his without flinching, her posture eerily still.
Captain Thor reached for her shoulder, alarmed. "Don't—stay away from him—"
Ginevra didn't move.
Her voice was quiet. Steady. Almost polite.
"If you curse one more time," she told him, "I'll slap you."
The man barked out a laugh, showing teeth. "Ha—go f— yourself, you little brat—"
The slap landed before the last word finished echoing.
A sharp crack. A clean, brutal sound.
His face snapped sideways. A red print bloomed instantly, fingers outlined like a brand.
Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.
His eyes went wide—stunned disbelief.
"You—!"
Ginevra hit him again.
Another slap. Heavier.
The man choked on his own breath, his face swelling, his mouth filling with blood he didn't know what to do with.
In that moment, something in Ginevra's expression shifted—like a veil dropping.
All the warmth she used on Jayna, all the softness she offered like shelter—
Gone.
What remained was cold and sharp, something that felt less human than intention itself. A kind of calm that belonged to violence, to consequence, to the part of the world that didn't negotiate.
The man stopped cursing.
Not because he'd grown decent.
Because he finally understood fear.
He stared at her, eyes bloodshot, jaw trembling, mouth leaking red.
Ginevra picked up the cloth again.
And—almost delicately—she wiped the blood from the corner of his lips.
Then she tossed the cloth into the trash.
She collected the broken glasses from the console, fixed them as best she could, and placed them back on his face as if returning a costume to its actor.
Her voice lowered into something intimate and lethal.
"When the police arrive," she said, "you will confess."
She paused, watching him tremble.
And then, softly—almost kindly—she finished:
"Playing crazy and pretending to be foolish … that's not fun.