Page 8 of Veil of Ashes

Every frame is timestamped. Photos of me entering the dive bar. Walking into my apartment. Delivering fake IDs at the club in Paradise Hills. A shot of me sitting at this very terminal, fingers flying, jaw tight.

My entire exile, documented and filed like a case study. Every step I took thinking I was free—recorded. Stamped. Analyzed.

I want to scream.

Instead, I shut the laptop. Hard. The cigarette burns itself out in the tray beside me.

Kieran used me. Watched me.

But he also brought this.

Rizzi. Veritas. Enzo’s ghost.

I walk to the sink, splash water on my face. It stings. I stare at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman looking back. Wild hair, eyes bloodshot, a scar peeking from the collar of my tank top. Not a victim. Not a daughter.

Just a weapon that hasn’t been fired in a while.

I don’t sleep.

I pace.

I drink.

When the sun rises over East Fremont, I’m still standing in the center of my apartment, barefoot on cracked tile, the USB drive clutched in one hand.

By noon, I’ll have a burner phone in my pocket.

By nightfall, I’ll make the call.

But right now?

I just whisper one name.

“Rizzi.”

And I start planning how to end him.

The burner phone fits awkward in my back pocket. The keys are sticky, like someone spilled soda on it sometime in the last decade, and the plastic case creaks every time I move. I don't care. It's disposable, anonymous, untraceable. Exactly what I need.

I bought it from a pawn shop run by a guy with more gold on his fingers than teeth in his mouth. He didn’t ask questions, and I didn’t offer answers. The desert sky is still dark when I round the corner to the bar and head for the stairs behind it.

I climb the stairs two at a time, pull my keys from my boot, and stop short.

My door is open.

Just barely. Not kicked in. Not broken. Just open. A small crack, like it was nudged shut and didn’t catch the lock.

No one forgets to lock their door in this part of Vegas. Especially not me.

I take a step back. Listen.

There it is.

A faint scrape. Paper against paper. A drawer sliding shut. Footsteps.

Someone’s inside.

I don't freeze. I move.

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