The apartment building stood exactly as Anli remembered it.
Red brick, five stories, fire escape zigzagging down the front like a metal scar. The small garden in front, overgrown but loved, with roses her mother tended on weekends. The stained glass window in the lobby door, casting colored light onto the worn tiles within.
Anli stood on the pavement across the street and let the memories wash over her.
She'd grown up in this building. Spent her childhood racing up and down these stairs, playing in that garden, pressing her face against those windows waiting for her mother to come home from work. After her father left—she barely remembered him, a shadow in old photographs—this building had been their world. Their fortress. Their home.
Now it was a trap.
Meera's flat was on the third floor. The same flat where, in another timeline, Anli had found a gold thread caught on a splinter. The same flat where Marcus had confessed to murder. The same flat from which he'd dragged her to the roof and pushed her into darkness.
Anli took a breath. Then another.
She crossed the street.
The lobby was the same—mailboxes along the wall, elevator at the back, stairs to the right. The elevator was slow and unreliable; they'd always taken the stairs. Anli took them now, her footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell, each step carrying her closer to the enemy.
Third floor. The familiar door. The small welcome mat her mother had bought at a market years ago. The faint sound of music from inside—something classical, probably Marcus's choice.
Anli hesitated.
Her hand hovered over the doorbell. She could still leave. Could make an excuse—work emergency, sudden illness, anything. Could postpone this moment, give herself more time to prepare.
But no. Running wasn't an option. Not anymore.
She pressed the bell.
Footsteps. Light, hurried—her mother's footsteps, the ones she'd know anywhere. The door swung open, and there she was.
Meera.
Anli's breath caught.
Her mother looked... different. Not wrong, exactly, but changed. Her hair, usually pulled back in a simple ponytail or left loose around her shoulders, had been styled—layered and shaped in a way that looked expensive. Professional. The kind of haircut that required appointments and products and maintenance.
Her clothes had changed too. Meera had always dressed simply—jeans, cotton tops, the occasional sari for special occasions. But tonight she wore a silk blouse in deep burgundy, tailored trousers, heels that added inches to her height. Jewelry glinted at her ears and wrist—not the costume pieces she usually wore, but real gold. Delicate. Expensive.
She looked like someone else. Like a woman who had never been a single mother, never worked double shifts, never sacrificed everything for her child. Like a woman who had always had money and time and someone to take care of her.
The thought made Anli's stomach turn.
"Anli!" Meera's face lit up with that familiar, beloved smile. "You're here! Come in, come in!"
She pulled Anli into a hug—the same embrace Anli had dreamed about for a year, the same warmth, the same scent of jasmine and sandalwood. Anli clung to her, pressing her face into her mother's shoulder, breathing her in.
Alive. She's alive. She's here. She's real.
For a moment, nothing else mattered. Not Marcus, not Penny, not revenge or systems or second chances. Just this—her mother's arms, her mother's heartbeat, her mother's voice murmuring "my love" against her hair.
Then Meera pulled back, holding Anli at arm's length to look at her. "You look tired, sweetheart. Are you sleeping? Eating properly? That job of yours works you too hard."
Anli managed a smile. "I'm fine, Mum. Really."
"Come, come. Dinner's almost ready. Marcus has been cooking all afternoon—he's really outdone himself." Meera took Anli's hand and led her through the flat.
Anli's eyes moved automatically, cataloging changes. New curtains. New cushions on the sofa. A vase of fresh flowers on the coffee table—expensive ones, not the grocery store blooms her mother used to buy. A photograph on the mantelpiece: Meera and Marcus on their wedding day, both smiling, looking like the cover of a romance novel.
The flat was being erased. Slowly, piece by piece, Meera's life was being replaced by something Marcus had designed.
They reached the dining room.
And there he was.
Marcus stood at the head of the table, arranging dishes with the practiced ease of a man who knew exactly how he looked doing it. He wore a dark sweater, sleeves pushed up to reveal tanned forearms, and smiled as Anli entered—that perfect, warm, genuine smile that had fooled so many.
"Anli! So good to see you." He crossed the room, hand extended. "Welcome to our home."
Our home. Not Meera's home. Their home. As if he had any right to it.
Anli took his hand. His grip was firm, warm, exactly right. She wanted to rip her hand away. She wanted to grab his throat and squeeze until those winter-sky eyes bulged. She wanted to drag him upstairs, to the roof, to the edge—and push.
Just like he did to me. Just like he did to my mother. Let him feel what we felt. Let him fall.
The vision played in her mind with horrifying clarity. His body tumbling through the air. His perfect face smashing against the pavement. His blood spreading in the darkness.
"Anli?" Marcus's voice, concerned. "You alright?"
She blinked. Forced a smile. "Fine. Just tired from work. Nice to see you, Marcus."
His eyes lingered on her for a moment too long, assessing. Then he released her hand and gestured to the table. "Please, sit. Everything's ready."
Meera took her place beside Marcus, her face glowing with happiness. Anli sat across from them, positioning herself so she could see both clearly. So she could watch. Observe. Gather information.
The table was laden with food—dishes that Anli recognized as her mother's recipes, but prepared with a polish they'd never had before. The chicken curry, fragrant with spices. Rice, fluffy and perfect. Vegetables, arranged artistically on a platter. Everything looked beautiful. Restaurant quality.
"Marcus did most of the cooking," Meera said, beaming at her husband. "He's wonderful in the kitchen. Isn't that right, Anli?"
"Lovely," Anli said. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. Hollow.
Marcus laughed modestly. "I had a good teacher. Meera's been sharing her family recipes—I just try not to mess them up."
He began serving, piling Anli's plate with food, playing the perfect host. Meera chattered happily about Cornwall—the hotel, the views, the long walks on the beach. Marcus added details, his hand occasionally touching Meera's arm, his eyes meeting hers with practiced affection.
Anli ate. She chewed. She swallowed. The food tasted like nothing.
"—and the little gallery in St. Ives," Meera was saying, "they had the most beautiful paintings. Marcus bought me one—a seascape. We'll hang it in the bedroom, won't we, darling?"
"Of course," Marcus said. "Wherever you want."
Anli watched them. The way Meera leaned into him. The way he touched her. The way they looked at each other like people in love.
He's going to kill her.
The thought was cold, hard, undeniable. This man—this charming, attentive, perfect husband—was going to take everything from her mother. Her money. Her home. Her life. And then he was going to move on to the next victim, leaving nothing but grief and questions behind.
Not this time.
"System," Anli thought, focusing on the interface. "Where does Marcus keep his documents? His records? The evidence of his crimes?"
[SEARCHING...]
[MARCUS WORTHING MAINTAINS TWO DOCUMENT STORAGE LOCATIONS:]
[LOCATION 1: DIGITAL FILES - ENCRYPTED CLOUD STORAGE. ACCESSIBLE VIA PERSONAL LAPTOP.]
[LOCATION 2: PHYSICAL DOCUMENTS - STORAGE UNIT. ADDRESS: 47 ACACIA ROAD, DEPTFORD. UNIT 314.]
[WARNING: NEITHER LOCATION IS MEERA'S FLAT. MARCUS IS TOO CAREFUL TO KEEP EVIDENCE WHERE IT COULD BE FOUND.]
Anli kept her face neutral, her smile in place, her eyes on her mother. But inside, her mind was racing.
A storage unit. Deptford. That was good—close enough to reach, far enough that Marcus wouldn't expect anyone to find it. If she could get inside, if she could photograph his records, she'd have everything she needed.
"—Anli? Anli!"
She jerked back to the present. Meera was looking at her with concern.
"Sorry, Mum. What?"
"I asked if you wanted more rice. You're barely eating."
Anli looked down at her plate. She'd eaten maybe three bites, pushing the food around without realizing it. "I'm fine. Just—work stuff. Big project."
Meera's expression softened with sympathy. "You work too hard, sweetheart. You should take a vacation. Maybe join us next time we go somewhere."
Next time. As if there would be a next time. As if Marcus would allow her mother to survive long enough for another holiday.
"Maybe," Anli said.
Marcus rose from his seat. "You know what this family needs? A toast." He crossed to the sideboard, where a bottle of red wine sat waiting. "To celebrate our first dinner together. Anli, would you like some?"
He held up the bottle—expensive, Anli noted. The kind of wine he'd never buy for himself, but would certainly buy with Meera's money.
Anli opened her mouth to decline. She didn't want to drink with him, didn't want to share anything with him, didn't want to pretend even for a moment that this was normal.
But her eyes fell on the wine glass he was filling. Deep red liquid catching the light. The stem slender between his fingers.
And something clicked in her mind.
A toast. A family dinner. A perfect evening.
What better way to lower her guard? What better way to play the role she needed to play?
"Thank you," she said. "Just a small glass."
Marcus smiled—that perfect smile—and brought the glass to her.
Their fingers touched briefly as he handed it over. Anli felt nothing. No warmth, no connection, no human recognition. Just the cold awareness of what his hands had done. What they would do again, if she let them.
"To family," Marcus said, raising his own glass.
"To family," Meera echoed, her eyes shining.
Anli raised her glass.
"To family," she said.
The wine was rich and smooth. It tasted like nothing.
She set the glass down and looked at Marcus across the table. He was watching her, his expression warm, his eyes calculating. Assessing. Weighing.
You don't know what I am, Anli thought. You don't know what I've seen. What I've survived. What I'm capable of.
But you will.
Soon.
She picked up her fork and took another bite of her mother's curry. This time, she tasted it.
It was delicious.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[MARCUS WORTHING - PHYSICAL EVIDENCE LOCATION CONFIRMED]
[STORAGE UNIT: 47 ACACIA ROAD, DEPTFORD. UNIT 314.]
[ACCESS CODE REQUIRED. ESTIMATED DIFFICULTY: MODERATE.]
[RECOMMENDATION: OBTAIN CODE THROUGH SURVEILLANCE OR DIGITAL INTRUSION.]
[CURRENT STATUS: PROGRESSING SATISFACTORILY]
[WARNING: MARCUS'S INTEREST IN YOU HAS INCREASED. HE WILL BE WATCHING CLOSELY.]
[PROCEED WITH CAUTION.]
Anli smiled at her mother and made pleasant conversation about Cornwall.
Inside, she was already planning her next move.