The lights came back on.
Not all of them—just a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting weak yellow light across the room.
And there, standing in the doorway, was my father.
He looked older than the photograph—thinner, grayer, with deep lines around his eyes that hadn't been there eleven years ago. But it was him. I knew it was him. The shape of his face, the way he stood, the way he said beta like it meant something.
"Papa?" The word came out before I could stop it. Small. Childish. The voice of a twelve-year-old girl who still believed her father would come back.
He smiled.
It wasn't a kind smile.
"You've grown," he said. "Last time I saw you, you barely came up to my shoulder."
"Last time I saw you, you were walking out the door."
The smile faltered. Just slightly. "I know."
"You didn't say goodbye."
"I know."
"You didn't call. You didn't write. You didn't—" My voice broke. I hated that it broke. I hated that he still had this power over me, after all these years. "You just left. Like we didn't matter."
"Maya—"
"Don't." I held up my hand. "Don't say my name like that. You don't get to say my name like that."
He was quiet for a moment. The bulb above us flickered. Shadows danced across his face, making him look like a stranger.
"You're right," he said finally. "I don't get to. But I'm here now."
"Why?"
He looked at Aarav. Then back at me. His expression shifted—hardened—into something I didn't recognize.
"Because you're in danger," he said. "Both of you. And I'm the only one who can help."
Aarav moved to stand beside me. His shoulder pressed against mine—warm, solid, present.
"Danger from who?" he asked.
"From my employer." My father's voice was flat. "From your father. From everyone who has a stake in keeping the truth buried."
"And you're not one of them?"
"I was." He took a step closer. "But not anymore."
"Why should we trust you?"
"Because I have something you want." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a flash drive. "Everything. Every file. Every email. Every recording. Everything your father tried to destroy, Aarav. It's all here."
Aarav tensed beside me. "How did you get that?"
"I stole it."
"From my father?"
"From the company servers. Three years ago. I've been waiting for the right moment to use it." He looked at me. "I've been waiting for you."
"You've been watching me."
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Since you were eighteen. Since you graduated high school. Since you started college. Since you fell in love with that boy—Rohan—and let him break your heart." His voice softened. "I've been watching you, Maya. I've been protecting you. Even when you didn't know it."
"Protecting me from what?"
"From the truth." He held up the flash drive. "From this."
I stared at the drive. Small. Innocuous. The key to everything.
"Why now?" I asked. "Why not before? Why not when Mom was still alive?"
My father's face crumpled. For a moment—just a moment—he looked like the man I remembered. The one who used to read me bedtime stories. The one who taught me to ride a bike. The one who held my hand on the first day of school and told me everything would be okay.
"Because I was a coward," he said. "Because I was scared. Because I made a deal with the devil and I couldn't find a way out."
"What kind of deal?"
He looked at Aarav. Something passed between them—recognition, maybe, or understanding.
"Ask him," my father said. "Ask him about the night your mother died."
I turned to Aarav.
His face was white. His hands were shaking. His eyes were wide with something that looked like terror.
"Aarav?" I said. "What is he talking about?"
Aarav didn't answer.
Couldn't answer.
Because my father was still talking.
"He was there, Maya. In the room next door. But not because he was sick. Not because he was visiting someone. He was there because his father sent him. To make sure your mother didn't wake up."
The words hung in the air.
Impossible. Horrible. Wrong.
"That's not true," I whispered. "Tell me that's not true."
Aarav opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
And then he said the words that destroyed everything:
"It's true."
CLIFFHANGER:
I don't remember what happened next.
I remember screaming. I remember hitting him—his chest, his face, anywhere I could reach. I remember him not fighting back, just standing there, taking it, tears streaming down his face.
I remember my father pulling me away.
I remember running.
Running through the warehouse, through the dark, through the rain that had started again.
I remember collapsing on the wet concrete, sobbing, gasping, feeling like my heart was being ripped out of my chest.
And I remember, hours later, looking at my phone.
One new message.
From Aarav:
"Everything I told you was true. Except one thing. I didn't just approve the trial. I designed it. I chose your mother. I killed her. And I fell in love with you anyway. I'm sorry. Goodbye."