The rain came down in an unrelenting drizzle, coating the rooftop hideout in a thin, silver sheen. Kirion stood beneath the low overhang, eyes scanning the broken skyline of the city he'd once called home. The streets below were restless. The resistance had fractured into suspicious factions, and Kirion knew that the cracks weren't just on the outside. They were forming inside his own home.
Inside, his daughter sat curled in front of her terminal. Code streamed down the screen, but she wasn't focused. Her mind was splintered, fractured by truths she didn't know how to measure.
She hadn't spoken to Soria in four days—not since Kirion found out. But silence didn't kill the doubt. If anything, it made it louder.
What if Soria wasn't lying? What if the resistance really had manipulated her? What if Kirion had withheld something—anything?
She remembered moments—fleeting ones—when Kirion had hesitated to talk about her mother. She'd always believed he was protecting her from pain. But now, she wondered: was it protection or omission?
That morning, she'd intercepted a classified message flagged as a high-tier threat. It had been sent by Soria—but not to her. It was a tactical log addressed to a government commander. Inside it were troop movements, safehouse coordinates, and worse—digital fingerprints from the resistance's core network.
Soria was playing both sides.
But why send such a message with a traceable path? Why now?
Her fingers hovered over the delete key. It would be so easy to erase it. To hide this betrayal from Kirion. He didn't need another knife in his back.
But her hesitation told her everything.
She still wasn't sure who she believed.
Later that day, she approached him. He was reviewing a resistance supply route map, eyes heavy with sleeplessness.
"I need to ask you something," she said.
Kirion looked up, instantly alert. "Always."
"Did you ever lie to me about her? About why she left?"
He sighed. Not in irritation, but in a kind of weariness that only comes from carrying years of pain.
"No," he said. "But I didn't tell you everything."
"Why?"
"Because some truths scar deeper than silence."
He stood and walked to the edge of the room, where a steel case lay beneath a cot. Unlocking it, he pulled out an old, tattered envelope.
"She left this the night she disappeared," he said, handing it to her.
Inside were four words, scrawled in panicked handwriting: They own me now.
Her heart dropped.
He continued, "She didn't leave because she didn't care. She left because someone made her choose."
The daughter felt the words crash through her. Not answers—just deeper riddles. If Soria had been coerced, then maybe redemption was possible. But if she had used that coercion as a mask for betrayal, then every ounce of sympathy was misplaced.
"I don't know what to believe," she said finally.
"You're not wrong for questioning," Kirion said gently. "But truth doesn't demand silence. It invites light."
She looked at the letter one more time.
The doubt hadn't left her. But a new resolve had formed beside it.
She had to find the truth—on her own.
Even if it broke her.