Truth doesn't arrive loudly.
It waits—
until you're forced to look at it.
We didn't say it out loud.
But we both knew where we were going.
The hospital.
Not because we believed the reports.
Because we didn't.
Because if Avni's death was part of a design…
then the truth wouldn't be in what was said.
It would be in what didn't fit.
"You think they missed something?" I asked.
"They always do," Tyler replied.
His voice was steady again.
Controlled.
Like pain had been pushed somewhere else.
Not gone.
Just—
ignored.
"That's not comforting," I said.
"It's not supposed to be."
Silence.
Because comfort—
was no longer part of this.
We stepped inside.
White walls.
Bright lights.
Clean floors.
Everything precise.
Everything controlled.
And suddenly—
it felt familiar.
Not because it was safe.
Because it was structured.
"She would like this," I said.
Tyler glanced at me.
"What do you mean?"
"Everything here follows rules," I replied.
"No chaos. No unpredictability."
A pause.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
"She would."
That thought stayed longer than it should have.
Because it meant something.
Even in places that had nothing to do with her…
her logic still applied.
We reached the reception.
"Postmortem records," Tyler said.
Direct.
No hesitation.
The nurse looked at us.
Measured.
Neutral.
"Family?" she asked.
"No."
"Then you can't access those."
Of course.
Rules.
Structure.
Access.
Permission.
Control.
Tyler didn't argue.
Didn't push.
"Is there someone we can talk to?" he asked instead.
That—
that was different.
Not force.
Redirection.
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Second floor. Room 214."
"Thank you."
We moved.
Again—
step by step.
But this time—
it didn't feel like we were entering something unknown.
It felt like we were walking into something hidden.
Room 214.
The door was slightly open.
Tyler knocked once.
Then pushed it.
Inside—
a man sat at a desk.
Papers spread out.
Glasses low on his nose.
He looked up.
Annoyed at first.
Then—
curious.
"Yes?" he asked.
Tyler didn't waste time.
"We're here about Avni."
That name—
still had weight.
Even here.
The man's expression shifted.
Subtle.
But real.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Friends," Tyler said.
That wasn't entirely true.
Not anymore.
But it was enough.
"You shouldn't be here," the man replied.
"We know," Tyler said.
A pause.
Then—
"We also know something doesn't add up."
Silence.
Because that—
that was the first real break.
Not in the system.
In the narrative.
The man leaned back.
Studied us.
Carefully.
"What do you think doesn't add up?" he asked.
Tyler looked at me.
Just for a second.
Then back at him.
"The injuries," he said.
That word—
changed everything.
"What about them?" the man asked.
"They don't match," Tyler replied.
Silence.
Because that—
that wasn't a guess.
That was direction.
The man didn't respond immediately.
Because he knew.
Not everything.
But enough.
"You shouldn't be asking these questions," he said.
"Then answer them," Tyler replied.
That—
that was new.
Not careful.
Not controlled.
Direct.
The man exhaled.
Slow.
Measured.
Then—
"You're right," he said.
Silence.
Because that—
that confirmed it.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
He looked at me.
Then at Tyler.
"The report says self-harm," he continued.
"But…"
A pause.
"…some of the marks don't align with that."
Everything—
stopped.
Not outside.
Inside.
"What kind of marks?" Tyler asked.
The man hesitated.
Then—
"Controlled ones."
That word again.
Controlled.
"Precise," he added.
"Not erratic. Not emotional."
That didn't fit.
Because suicide— isn't precise.
It's chaotic.
Human.
"Someone else was involved," Tyler said.
The man didn't confirm it.
But he didn't deny it either.
And that—
was enough.
"Why wasn't this reported?" I asked.
"Because it's not conclusive," he replied.
"Or because it's inconvenient?" Tyler added.
Silence.
Because that— that question didn't need an answer.
The man looked away.
Just for a second.
Then back.
"You didn't hear this from me," he said.
That—
that was confirmation.
Not official.
But real.
We stepped out of the room.
Neither of us spoke immediately.
Because now—
there was no doubt.
No theory.
No assumption.
Just truth.
"She killed her," Tyler said.
"Yes."
"And she made it look like something else."
"Yes."
Silence.
Because that— that changed everything.
Not just what happened.
What it meant.
"She removed her," I said quietly.
That word felt more accurate.
More like her.
Tyler looked at me.
"You're starting to sound like her."
That—
that stayed.
Because it wasn't wrong.
And that—
that was the most dangerous part.
Because the closer we got to the truth… the more it started to feel like we were stepping into her thinking.
And if that continued— then this wasn't just about stopping her anymore.
It was about making sure
we didn't become her.