When nothing goes right, turn left

Running toward the ghost

The name burned in Vee's mind, etched into their ribs like something they had been trying to forget for years.

But now?

Now they couldn't ignore it.

They stepped out of the chapel, the cold air biting against their skin, fingers tight around the slip of paper Cage had given them.

The address was old—hidden beneath years of buried records, a location that shouldn't still exist.

But it did.

Vee didn't hesitate.

Didn't stop to think.

They hit the gas, steering through dark streets, headlights slicing through the early morning fog.

And then—they arrived.

An old townhouse, barely maintained, tucked against the edge of an abandoned district.

The place was still lived in.

Someone was still here.

Vee's breath came fast, pulse hammering.

They knocked once—sharp, demanding, unrelenting.

No response.

They knocked again.

Then—the lock clicked.

The door creaked open slowly.

And Vee finally saw them.

The one who had set everything in motion.

The one who had been watching from the shadows all along.

The one who should have never existed anymore.

And suddenly, Vee was staring straight into the past they had been trying to outrun.

The door swung open fully now, revealing the figure standing in the dim light.

Vee's breath hitched.

"You owe me answers."

The figure didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched.

"Tell me everything." Vee's voice was sharp, unrelenting. "The names. The research. The money. And how the hell Smith died."

A slow exhale, then a step forward.

"Smith died because he got too close."

Vee's pulse pounded.

"Too close to what?"

"To the truth."

The air thickened, tension pressing hard against the walls.

Vee swallowed.

"Then start talking."

"Smith was following the money," the figure murmured, gaze steady. "He thought he was investigating business deals, financial manipulation. But he was wrong."

Vee swallowed, breath tight.

"Then what was it?"

A pause—long enough to feel deliberate.

"Control."

The room shifted, tension curling at the edges.

"It wasn't about the transactions themselves," they continued. "It was about who the money was protecting. Who it was silencing."

Vee's fingers curled at their sides.

"Hilary."

The figure nodded. "And others like her."

The weight of it settled.

"Smith figured it out. He wasn't supposed to."

Vee swallowed hard. "So they killed him."

"No," the figure whispered, voice barely audible. "They made sure he disappeared."

The air thickened, sharp, bitter.

Vee's chest tightened.

Smith wasn't just murdered.

He was erased.

And suddenly, they knew—Hilary wasn't just part of this. She was one of its architects.