The days following Soria's sudden reappearance crawled by like shadows at dusk—quiet, cold, and impossible to shake. Kirion noticed the subtle change in his daughter before she even spoke a word.
She was more distant. Not in a rebellious way—no slamming doors or fiery outbursts—but in moments of silence, of hesitation. Her questions had shifted too. No longer sharp and tactical, but personal.
"Did you love her?" she asked one night over a sparse meal.
Kirion froze. "Once."
"She said you tried to stop her from leaving. That you didn't listen."
He set down his fork, each word weighing heavier than the next. "She left in the night. Without warning. Without a note. I woke up to an empty bed and a crying infant."
"Maybe she was scared," she said, not meeting his gaze.
"She was," Kirion admitted. "But fear doesn't excuse betrayal."
Still, doubt lingered like smoke. And he saw it in his daughter's eyes: a desire to believe in the woman who had given her life but not her love.
That doubt—planted like a virus—was beginning to grow.
Unknown to Kirion, Soria had not disappeared after their meeting. She had embedded herself deep within the shadows of the resistance network, exploiting weak links, sowing confusion. Her tactics were never direct. She used whispers, hacked transmissions, and falsified reports. Entire drop-offs went missing, safehouses relocated on false orders.
The resistance began to fracture under the weight of misinformation.
Worse still, Soria had begun contacting Kirion's daughter in secret.
The communication was encrypted, buried deep within non-traceable protocols. Short voice messages, expertly disguised as audio glitches or irrelevant system pings. But Kirion's daughter was too skilled in code not to notice. And too curious not to respond.
At first, the messages were harmless.
"You have your father's eyes."
"You're smarter than both of us."
"I never stopped watching."
But soon, the narrative began to shift.
"The resistance isn't as noble as you think."
"Your father's truth is only half the story."
"They used me. They'll use you."
She never told Kirion. A part of her didn't want to betray him—but another part, buried under years of unanswered questions, wanted to hear more.
Her coding hours increased, but not always for resistance work. She spent late nights sorting through old government files, leaked surveillance, logs from before she was even born. The deeper she dug, the more tangled the story became.
Had Soria been a prisoner? A double agent? Was she coerced into cooperation, or did she manipulate both sides for her own gain?
Each theory pulled her further from the truth—and further from Kirion.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
During a routine operation to reroute a surveillance drone away from a civilian convoy, Kirion's daughter intentionally delayed a critical override by three seconds. It was enough to cause a near-disaster. Though no lives were lost, the breach was investigated.
Kirion didn't want to believe it. But logs didn't lie.
Later that night, he confronted her.
"You've been talking to her."
She didn't deny it.
"Why?" he asked, his voice heavy with heartbreak.
"She's my mother," she said. "I just want to understand."
He stared at her for a long time. Then he said, softly, "Understanding is fine. But don't let her web become your prison."
But it might have been too late.
The web had already caught them both.