A city remembers the girl it buried. And the man who never let her go.

---

❝Arrival - Blackridge Grand Station❞

The air at Blackridge Grand Station smelled of rust, rain, and old secrets. Some storms scream their arrival with thunder. Others crawl in quiet-dragging the weight of history behind them like chains. This one was the latter. It clung to the wind, folding into the metallic rails and whispering against the glass roof like a memory trying to surface.

And beneath that storm, Iris Eleanor stepped off the train. No announcement. No entourage. No camera flash to greet her return. Just a woman in black, gliding across the marble floor with the elegance of a threat unspoken.

Her heels clicked softly-measured and sharp-like a heartbeat pressed beneath silk. She moved like she had all the time in the world. And none left to waste.

The suitcase she pulled behind her was sleek and silent. Its wheels didn't squeal like cheap plastic. It followed her obediently, like a past too loyal to stay buried. She paused just before the main corridor.

Eyes lifted. Blackridge Grand had changed. The chandeliers had grown taller. The security is heavier. A golden trim now lined the arched ceilings like polished vanity. And yet...

She still saw the bones underneath.

The cracks that never got filled.

The bloodstains no one else noticed. Her gaze moved slowly across the terminal-the porters, the tired travelers, the glint of metal detectors, and polished marble that had once caught her tears. It remembered her. This place. It always would.

But they didn't.

To the world around her, Iris Eleanor was a stranger.

A wealthy woman in winter black, skin kissed with quiet gold, posture too straight for comfort.

They saw perfection.

They didn't see what lay beneath it. But he would.

Wherever he was-wherever he had built his kingdom of shadows-Vale would know.

The moment her feet touched this city again, something inside him would shift.

Because men like him don't forget the one thing they failed to destroy.

She lingered at the threshold. Letting it sink in. Then she moved.

Not rushed.

Not hesitant.

But precisely-like a woman walking back into her crime scene.

---

A boy-not more than twenty-rushed up behind her. Porter uniform too big for his shoulders. Hands slightly trembling.

"Miss-can I help you with that?" he asked, breath catching in the cold.

She turned her head slowly.

"No."

One word. Cool. Crisp. Metallic.

Like the clink of a bullet in a glass.

The boy stepped back, visibly confused. Not insulted, just... uncertain.

She didn't offer him a smile. She didn't apologize. She kept walking-her steps silent now, her shoulders untouched by the weight she carried.

Because she didn't leave her past in the hands of strangers anymore. Especially not weight like this.

---

A sleek black car waited outside the station, headlights soft in the misting rain. She slid into the back seat. Alone.

The driver, middle-aged with tired eyes and a silent mouth, glanced once in the rearview mirror, nodded, and said nothing. She preferred it that way.

"Luxure Noir Hotel," she said, voice like dusk-low, clean, dangerous in its stillness.

The car moved forward. Blackridge had become a city of light, but not the good kind. Neon signs blinked like restless eyes above alleys soaked in wet concrete. Electronic billboards churned faces, models, liquor ads, and elections lies at dizzying speed. But she saw beneath it. Always beneath it. Blackridge hasn't evolved. It rotted beautifully.

Through the rain-specked window, her reflection caught and shimmered. Same mouth. Same eyes. But not the same woman. Not the girl who had once stood in this city barefoot and bloodied, crying out for mercy that never came.

Now she was dressed in a storm. Now she looked like the kind of woman who would burn the world just to feel the heat. She sat with her legs crossed, one gloved hand resting lightly on her knee. Composed. Polished. But her thoughts? Unholy.

A corner of the city drifted by. Familiar bricks. Rusted scaffolding. And then-

A ruin.

A hollow building blackened by fire, standing like a broken tooth in the jawline of the street. She didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

That was the place she almost died. And the place where he-the man with no god and no soul-chose to let her live. But survival isn't grace. Survival is memory. And memory is the longest kind of pain.

---

The Luxure Noir Hotel towered like a blade above the city skyline. Gilded corners. Blood-red canopy. The sort of place where secrets wore tuxedos and betrayal was sold in bottles worth thousands. She stepped into the lobby. No umbrella. No small talk. The doorman opened the grand door and was met with silence. Gratitude had its place. This wasn't it.

Inside, the air was thick with glass and power. A chandelier the size of a small galaxy spiraled above her head, all sharp crystal and dangerous light. The marble beneath her was polished black, veined in gold, and mirrored her every step.

She approached the reception. The concierge-young, too curious, too clean-cut-looked up from the desk. His eyes lingered a second too long.

"Good evening," he greeted. "Welcome to Luxure Noir. Name, please?"

She let her fingers slip one button loose on her coat. The silk blouse underneath shimmered like ink in candlelight. Her voice didn't rise above a murmur.

"Iris Eleanor."

A pause.

Then, gently:

"Yes. That's the full name."

His hands froze mid-keystroke. There it was. The recognition. The static. That sharp cold behind the eyes when a name resurrects something you thought was buried.

"I-Miss Eleanor," he stammered. "We weren't informed of your arrival-"

"Then perhaps your list needs rewriting."

He nodded too quickly, swallowing the fear that bloomed behind his collar.

"I-I'll get your suite ready."

"It's already ready."

She handed over the black card. And didn't smile. Not because she was cruel. But because smiling was what the old Iris did. And she buried her beneath the city five years ago.

Suite 1703 sat at the top of the world.

Corner view. Private elevator. No hallway access. Bulletproof windows. An executive fortress disguised as luxury.

The kind of room they gave to royalty. Or monsters. Or women like her. The keycard slid through with a soft electronic click. The door opened like it knew who she was. Iris stepped inside. No lights.

The skyline bathed the suite in fractured red and violet, light bleeding across velvet drapes and sleek wooden panels. The city hummed outside-traffic and ghosts, ambition and fire. She didn't reach for the switch.

Light made things visible. She didn't come here to be seen. Her coat slipped off her shoulders and onto the velvet armchair by the bar. She stood in silence. Her silhouette lit by the city like a whispered war hymn.

And then-she breathed. For the first time since arriving, Iris allowed herself a full breath. Not a shallow imitation of control. A real one. But even that came laced in calculation.

Her gaze swept the room like a blade: corners, floor seams, mirror placement, vent screws, smoke alarm make. She memorized the angles. Measured the exits. Labeled the blind spots.

Old habits die last. You don't survive "him" without learning how to see in the dark. She moved to the walnut desk in the corner-deep brown wood carved with gold detailing. Her fingers unzipped the bottom compartment of her suitcase and lifted out a hidden layer. Beneath silk slips and monogrammed gloves lay a flat black object-wrapped in leather, old but untouched by time.

The book.

She placed it on the desk. Gently. And opened it. The first page was a photograph.

A man. Half his face is visible. Eyes like obsidian planets. The kind of jawline sculptors used to study. He wasn't smiling. He rarely did.

But the shadows around his mouth almost hinted at it. That cruel, knowing curve. That predator's grace.

Ethan Vale.

She tapped one gloved finger against the photo. Once.

"You taught me well," she whispered.

Then she turned the page.

Bank accounts. Club schematics. Key names. Password strings. Surveillance loopholes. Code phrases. Security rotations. It had taken her years to collect. Years to recover enough from the cage to hold a pen again.

Years to remember everything he trained her to forget. She wasn't here to beg. She wasn't here to cry. She was here to break him. Piece by poisoned piece. She stepped into the bathroom.

Dim gold lighting reflected off her collarbones as she removed her gloves, washed her hands slowly, and stared at the woman in the mirror. Her eyes weren't soft anymore. They were made of storm and ice. The kind of gaze men couldn't look at for long. The kind of beauty that no longer asked for permission.

Once, Ethan Vale made her into a ghost. Now? She was the haunting that came back with fire.

Beneath Blackridge, under layers of concrete and corruption, behind a door that didn't exist in any blueprint-Ethan Vale stood alone. No name. No press. No public persona. The world called him a myth. The underground called him a god.

He wore a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, veins threading down forearms like wires. One hand held a cigarette-unlit. It had been unlit for eight minutes. His mind wasn't here. It was elsewhere. Somewhere colder. Somewhere softer. Somewhere like her.

The room was windowless. Lined with monitors. Audio feeds. Facial recognition scans. Hotel cams. Public terminals. A city in boxes.

And then-

A single screen lit up. Blackridge Grand Station. Exit camera. Timestamp: 17:42.

Her. He saw the back of a black coat. A pair of heels. A woman walking with deliberate grace through the arrival archway. She didn't look back. She didn't need to. He knew that walk. God. He knew that walk.

Ethan Vale didn't move. Didn't blink. But every wire inside him snapped taut. Every breath is still. His body went quiet-but his mind roared like a cage thrown open. It wasn't confirmation. It was a collision. She was back. Iris. Eleanor. His greatest regret. His finest creation. The only girl he ever let go.

No one ever left him. Not for long. He pressed two fingers against the screen. Rested them lightly where her silhouette had passed. The glass is still warm from the sun.

"So," he murmured, voice low, dangerous.

"You came back, little storm."

He shut the monitor off. Lit the cigarette. And exhaled fire. Iris didn't sleep. Sleep belonged to people who felt safe in their own heads. Instead, she walked.

Midnight in Blackridge wasn't silent. It breathed in the shadows. Alley way exhaled tension. The city was built on bad deals and darker intentions. But Iris wasn't afraid.

She had been once. Back when her hands still trembled. Back when she believed monsters only lived in fairytales.

Not anymore. She walked through the older districts. No cameras. No lights. No safety nets. She wasn't careless. She was bait. It didn't take long. Two blocks past a shuttered pawn shop, she felt it.

Footsteps. Off rhythm. Too quiet to be casual. Too close to be a coincidence.

Not him. She'd know his presence like thunder in her blood. This one was sloppy.

She turned a corner into a narrow alley, lit only by the blood-warm flicker of a malfunctioning lamp.

Waited. A figure approached. Male. Nervous.

"Miss-" he called out, hesitating.

She didn't let him finish. Her hand reached into her coat. Not a gun. A steel pin. One flick of her wrist-just enough threat to make him stop walking.

"You're too loud," she said. Calm. Flat.

He froze. "I'm not here to hurt-someone just asked me to watch, that's all-"

"Someone?"

He blinked. "Didn't say a name. Just a voice on a phone. Told me to follow the woman in black."

"And you did?"

He nodded. Wrong answer. In a blur, she closed the distance. Twisted his wrist behind his back with brutal precision. His knees hit concrete.

"I'm not the kind of woman you follow," she whispered against his ear.

"I'm the kind you run from."

She let go. Walked away. Didn't look back. The elevator to the private floor opened with a muted chime. She stepped in alone. Or so she thought. Three seconds before the doors shut, another keycard slid through a separate reader. A second elevator door closed. A floor below hers.

Ethan was close. Not to confront. Not yet. Just to see her. Just to breathe the same air.

Suite 1703 stood like a mirror of her mind: tall, elegant, and lined with secrets. She stepped out onto the gold-lit corridor.

No footsteps behind her. No sound. And yet- She felt it.

That prickle at the back of her neck. That drop in temperature that wasn't the weather. Her fingers paused at the door.

Then-

A whisper. Too low to be certain.

Just one word:

"Kitten."

She turned. Nothing. Empty hallway. But her pulse faltered. Her breathing wasn't smooth anymore. Behind a locked door somewhere nearby, a man smiled in silence. And Iris Eleanor-for the first time in years-felt seen.