Knight Syndrome

Ameena

You will know if F4 are playing tricks, Gorya had said and she had been right.

Ren was waiting outside her dorm the following Monday morning as if the campfire, the rain, the bottle, the sister as if none of it had happened. He stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall with the ease of someone who had never had to worry about being somewhere he wasn't welcome.

He wanted her to be the organizer for a rural medical camp.

"And you are coming!" he winked.

Was he flirting?

She told him she had to think about it. He only smiled and nodded, that patient, unreadable nod that gave her nothing to push against.

Ameena did not know what to think of this. She wanted to dismiss it as a gesture born out of guilt from the rich boy trying to make the crying girl feel useful. But she knew him better now, or at least she knew the shape of his kindness: quiet, indirect, wrapped in practical things. A thermos. A tea. An event to organize. He didn't say I care about you. He said here's a reason to stay.

She had always been the first to agree to his requests. This time was no different.

Her eyes did not move from the email on her phone. Her first professional client as an intern at Parama was Ren's medical camp.

Parama Advertising Agency — the LED display had read on her first morning. She'd stood on the footpath staring at those three words, her reflection ghosting across the glass doors. Just a girl in a pressed shirt, a lanyard with her photo, a bag with her notebooks. Nothing about her appearance suggested what she was actually doing there.

Thyme had kept his promise. The internship was real — a proper desk, a proper login, a proper manager named David who spoke too fast and drank too much coffee. Full-time opportunity based on performance, the offer letter had said.

But Ameena was not here to grow her career.

She was here because Mirage needed eyes inside one of Thyme's companies. And she was here because somewhere in these files, in these client records and campaign briefs and quarterly reports, there was proof that Parama had knowingly advertised a product that killed forty-three children.

Including number twenty-seven.

The first few days had been uneventful. Orientation. Introductions. Learning the filing system, the internal software, the rhythm of an office that ran on deadlines and client lunches. She smiled at the right people. Asked the right questions. Offered to stay late. The model intern.

Connection without connection. Intimacy without risk.

This was what she was good at. This was what Mirage had trained her for. Except now the stakes had teeth, and the target had a face she'd served a martini to at a party, and his best friend had thrown a bottle into a storm for her.

Compartmentalize.

She was deep in her thoughts when David tapped her on the shoulder.

"Can you get last year's client details for me? Need to cross-check some settlements."

She nodded and went back to her desk.

The file opened. Columns of names, dates, contract values, campaign briefs. Routine data. The kind of spreadsheet she could scan in her sleep.

Then she saw it.

ALPACA. Top of the list. Client since the previous fiscal year. Campaign budget: significant. Status: completed.

Her hands stopped moving on the keyboard. The office noise — phones ringing, David's voice two desks away, the hum of the air conditioning — all of it receded until there was only the name on the screen and the sound of her own breathing.

Parama had advertised it. Not distributed it, not manufactured it — advertised it. Created the campaign that put it in pharmacies. Designed the packaging that made it look safe. Shot the commercial that showed smiling mothers giving it to coughing children.

She clicked on the campaign folder. Demo video. She'd watched it before — found it weeks ago during her initial research. But she played it again, slowing the frames, watching the child actor take a spoonful and smile. The voiceover promised fast relief. The mother in the ad looked relieved.

Her mother had looked relieved too, the night she'd given it to Ameena's sister.

Stop.

One tear slid down her face. She wiped it before it reached her chin.

Parama had advertised it. Another tear. Ren's hospital had approved it. Another.

She minimized the window, pressed her palms flat against the desk, and breathed.

Mirage.

In response to the reminder, her back straightened.

The picture was becoming clear now, and it was uglier than she'd imagined. Mirage hadn't sent her here out of charity or even out of strategy. They'd sent her because they knew — knew about her sister, knew about the rage she carried like a second heartbeat, knew that revenge was the one fuel that never ran out. If Ameena succeeded, Mirage profited. If Ameena failed, if she got caught, got exposed, got destroyed — it would all be chalked up to the grief of one wronged family member. A personal vendetta. Nothing to trace back to the organization.

She was the perfect weapon because she was disposable.

The realization should have broken her. Instead, it sharpened something.

It was true, she was angry. But anger was a tool, and she'd learned to use tools. Parama would fall. And so would Mirage. They would both fall by her hands.

She closed the file, cleared her search history, and picked up the phone to call David back about the settlements.

Outside, the sky rumbled as if in acknowledgment.