ARSHILA POV
It's a CCTV recording.
From the sea house.
Of me,
watching Ares getting killed.
Everything inside me goes still as the video plays, my fingers locked around the phone so tightly it starts to hurt.
The angle is high, distant, clean, capturing everything with cold precision, and I watch myself drive into that place like an idiot walking into a trap that was already set.
The footage shows my car pulling up, the door opening, my figure stepping out without hesitation, moving toward the house like I belong there, like I am not about to witness something that will ruin me.
My breath turns shallow as the recording continues, showing me slipping inside, moving through the shadows, climbing the stairs, every step clear, every movement undeniable.
There is no distortion, no missing frame, nothing that could be questioned. It is perfect.
Too perfect.
Then it reaches the part.
The doorway.
My body half hidden, but not enough.
My face visible.
My presence undeniable.
Watching.
Not screaming.
Not stopping him.
Just standing there while Ares bleeds, while Zayan destroys him piece by piece, while I do nothing but exist in the same room as it happens.
A sound leaves me, but it doesn't feel human. It comes out sharp, broken, twisting into something ugly as I stare at the screen, my chest rising too fast, my pulse roaring in my ears.
Then I laugh.
It rips out of me without warning, loud and cracked, echoing inside the car in a way that feels completely wrong.
There is no humor in it, no relief, nothing but disbelief wrapped in something that edges too close to madness.
"Fucking hell…" I breathe out, the words shaking as another laugh follows, quieter this time but worse, like it's cutting through me from the inside.
I drag a hand over my face, but it does nothing to ground me, nothing to stop the realization from settling in deep and final.
"Zayan fucking Tavarian…" I whisper, my voice unsteady, almost impressed in the most terrifying way possible. "You're insane."
Because this is not just control.
This is strategy.
This is calculation on a level I didn't even think of, and the truth hits me harder than anything else has tonight.
If I walk into that station now—
I am not a witness.
I am part of it.
An accomplice.
The word sits heavy in my chest, suffocating, undeniable, because the footage doesn't lie. It doesn't show fear.
It doesn't show hesitation. It shows me there, present, watching, and that is enough to bury me alongside him.
And I let it happen.
I walked exactly where he wanted me to.
A notification cuts through the silence again.
I don't even hesitate this time.
I open it.
It's a message from him.
Just one line.
"Careful, sweetheart. If I burn, I don't burn alone. You look very good beside me in that footage."
My grip tightens around the phone until my hand shakes, rage flooding through me so fast it almost chokes me.
I want to throw it, smash it, shove it in his face and watch that calm expression crack for once, but he is not here.
And that only makes it worse.
"Fuck!" I slam my hand against the steering wheel, the sound sharp and violent in the closed space as another breath tears out of me, uneven and furious.
My chest rises and falls too fast, my entire body wired with something too much to hold in, and I hit the wheel again, harder this time, like it might knock some sense back into me.
The police station sits right in front of me.
Bright.
Open.
So close.
And completely useless.
My eyes fix on it for a second longer, my throat tightening as the reality settles in with brutal clarity.
There is no safety there. No justice waiting for me. Only questions I cannot answer and evidence that will turn against me before I can even speak.
A slow breath leaves me as I swallow hard, forcing myself to move, forcing my body to respond even when my mind is still catching up.
My hand drops to the ignition.
The engine roars back to life.
And I drive away.
The drive back feels shorter than it should, like the road folds in on itself just to throw me back into his world faster.
My hands are steadier now, but not because I am calm. It is something worse, something sharper, something that burns clean through the fear until there is nothing left but anger and something dangerously close to recklessness.
The mansion gates open the moment my car approaches, smooth and silent like always, like nothing has changed, like the night hasn't just ripped something open that can never be closed again.
I don't slow down as I drive in, the tires gliding over the long stretch of driveway before I bring the car to a harsh stop right at the foyer entrance.
The engine cuts off.
Silence crashes in.
For a second, I just sit there, my chest rising and falling, my grip still tight on the steering wheel.
Then I move.
The door flies open as I step out, the key slipping from my fingers and hitting the floor with a sharp metallic sound that echoes louder than it should in the empty space. I don't pick it up. I don't care.
"Zayan!" My voice cuts through the house, loud, raw, breaking the silence apart without hesitation as I step forward, my eyes scanning the space like I expect him to appear out of the shadows. "Where the fuck are you?"
Nothing answers me.
Not a sound.
Not a movement.
The house stands still, untouched, like it is watching me lose control and choosing not to interfere.
"Are you here?" I shout again, louder this time, my voice echoing against the walls, turning sharper, more violent. "If you are here, fucking come out!"
Silence.
It stretches, heavy and suffocating, pressing against my chest until it feels like I am the only thing alive inside this place, like I am standing here screaming at walls that don't care.
A breath tears out of me, uneven and furious as I turn abruptly, my steps fast and unsteady as I move deeper into the house, straight toward the kitchen without thinking.
My hands feel empty, useless, and I need something to hold, something to ground the storm tearing through me.
The knife is cold when I grab it.
Too light.
Too easy.
It fits in my hand like it has been waiting.
I don't hesitate as I turn back, moving out of the kitchen just as quickly, my grip tightening around the handle as I press the call button on the panel beside the wall. I don't even know if he is here. I don't care.
I wait.
Seconds stretch.
Then footsteps.
Approaching.
Steady.
Controlled.
Izar steps into view, his expression unreadable as always, his eyes landing on me and then flicking down briefly to the knife in my hand before returning to my face.
I don't give him time to speak.
I close the distance in seconds, grabbing onto his shirt as I shove into him, my voice sharp and shaking with something too violent to hide.
"Where is he?" I demand, my grip tightening as I push harder, forcing him back a step. "Where's Zayan?"
Izar doesn't react the way I expect. He doesn't flinch, doesn't panic. He just looks at me, calm, steady, like this is nothing.
"I don't—"
The blade sinks into his arm before he can finish.
It happens fast.
Too fast.
My hand moves on its own, driving the knife forward with a force that surprises even me, the resistance barely there before it breaks through, the sound low and sickening in the silence.
"Where's the fucking psycho, you jerk!"