The fluorescent lights of the medical wing hummed—a low, electric vibration that felt like a bridge to the past. As I lay there, trapped in the pain of my broken ribs, the walls of the clinic dissolved. The sterile smell of antiseptic was replaced by the cloying, sweet scent of jasmine and the sharp, metallic tang of expensive cognac.
It was 2006. I was Oliver Thompson. I was six years old, and I thought my family was immortal.
We were in the Grand Imperial Penthouse in Shanghai. My father, Lucas Thompson, was laughing, showing me a gold watch. My mother, Kate, was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her silk dress shimmering like moonlight.
"Where is Uncle Benjamin?" I asked.
"He's coming, Oliver," my father said, patting my head. "He's bringing Charlotte over for a late-night dessert."
I smiled. Charlotte. My favorite cousin. And she was the only one who understood my world.
The door chimes rang, but the entrance wasn't warm. Benjamin Thompson walked in, his face a mask of cold, calculated stone. Behind him were four men I didn't recognize—men with hard eyes and heavy coats.
"Lucas," Benjamin said, his voice dropping like a guillotine. "The board of directors made their choice. They chose me. But they can't announce it as long as the 'rightful heir' is breathing."
My father stood up, his face pale. "Benjamin, what is this? We're family—"
Benjamin sneered. He nodded to his men.
They didn't hesitate. They pulled out canisters of gasoline and began drenching the suite. The smell was instant—choking and toxic.
"Benjamin, stop!" my mother screamed, rushing toward me. She grabbed me and pulled me toward the balcony where her assistant, Sophia, was standing in shock.
"It's over, Lucas," Benjamin said. He pulled a silver Zippo lighter from his pocket. He flicked it. The flame was small, but it looked like a monster in the reflection of his eyes.
"No!" a high-pitched scream ripped through the air.
He dropped the lighter.
WHOOSH.
The fire didn't grow; it exploded. A wall of orange and yellow fury rose between the families. I saw my father lunge at Benjamin, grabbing his throat, trying to push him out so we could run.
"Go, Sophia! Take him!" my mother yelled, her voice a piercing needle through the roar of the flames. She thrust me into Sophia's arms.
I looked back over Sophia's shoulder. I saw my mother standing in the fire, her hand reaching out for my father. And then I saw the most haunting thing of all.
"Oliver, look at me!" Sophia sobbed, climbing the balcony railing.
The last thing I saw of my parents was their silhouettes through the smoke, holding each other as the ceiling began to collapse.
"Don't look back!" Sophia screamed.
And we jumped.
"Oliver! No!"
..
..
I sat bolt upright in the clinic bed, a guttural scream tearing from my throat. My chest felt like it had been cracked open with a sledgehammer. Sweat was pouring down my face, and for a second, I could still feel the heat of the 2006 fire on my skin.
"Andrew! Andrew, it's okay! You're safe!"
Emily was there. She was holding my shoulders, her eyes full of raw panic. I looked at her, and for a split second, I didn't see the doctor. I saw the five-year-old girl screaming in the hallway while her father burned mine alive.
I looked at her wrist. The crescent moon.
Charlotte. She had seen it. She had watched her father commit the ultimate sin. Is that why she changed her name? Did she run away from the blood money of the Thompson empire? Or did Benjamin hide her away because she was the only witness to his crime?
"You were screaming," Emily whispered, her hands shaking as she wiped my forehead with a cold cloth.
I stared at her, my breathing ragged. My heart was a drum of war. I wanted to grab her and ask, "Do you remember? Do you remember the fire? Do you remember your father's face when he killed mine?"
But I didn't. I couldn't.
I looked away, my face turning back into a mask of cold stone. "Nightmare. Just a nightmare."
"That wasn't a nightmare, Andrew," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I know that look. That's the look of someone who lived through hell."
I didn't say a word. I lay back down, my mind racing. Charlotte was here. The daughter of my enemy was the one currently keeping me alive. She was the witness I thought I'd never find.
"Andrew," she said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Who did this to you? Why are you so haunted?"
I looked at the ceiling, my eyes cold and dead. "The past is a locked door, Emily. Some people should never try to open it."
I closed my eyes, but I didn't sleep. In the darkness of my mind, I could still hear her five-year-old voice screaming my name through the flames.
The hunt was no longer just about the USB drive. It was about the girl in the next room. I had to know—did she remember me? Or was I just another broken athlete in her clinic?
"Go to sleep, Doctor," I said quietly.
"I'm not leaving you," she replied.
And for the first time in ten years, the ghost of Oliver Thompson felt a little less alone.