Page 397 of Eternal
He crumples to the ground, blood pooling beneath him, soaking through the pristine white of my dress until it’s streaked and stained dark red.
He looks around. Dead. All of them. Dead.
My hands tremble, gripping the gun tighter than I ever have before.
“Who’s running this?” I demand, “Who pays you? Who’s behind all of it? You’re the last step, aren’t you? The one who makes this whole nightmare real.”
He coughs, a wet, rattling sound, but he manages a bitter laugh that twists my stomach.
“Important? You think I’m important?” His eyes flicker with dark amusement, pain, and something like contempt. “It’s up there. Higher than you or me. Untouchable.”
I grit my teeth, fury burning so hot it drowns out everything but the screams tearing through my chest. “Tell me.”
He looks at me like I’m a child chasing shadows.
“You’re chasing ghosts,” he says, voice cracked but steady. “You think you’re hunting monsters? You’re just a pawn in their game.”
I swallow hard, rage burning in my chest.
“Explain. Now.”
His breath is ragged, each word dragging him closer to death.
“You killed Donovan. Antony.” He spits out the names like curses. “I know because it’s written. Your path was set. In a journal. Someone wanted you to find them. But you took it personally and found me. That’s… Impressive.”
My breath catches.
“How do you know that?”
A cruel smile tugs at his lips, blood mixing with spit. “That journal, the one you cling to like it's the truth, it’s not what you think. You’re playing right into their hands, Azra Al Mansour.”
My name… He knows my name…
My heart pounds so loud I’m sure it echoes in the room.
“Who? Who did that? What do you fucking mean?”
He coughs violently, blood trickling from his mouth.
“You shouldn’t trust what you’re given. Journals can be forged. Clues planted. You’re being used… just like they planned.”
His eyes flutter shut, breath fading.
I raised the gun again, finger tightening on the trigger, but the chamber was empty. Nothing left.
I scanned the room, desperate. His desk. There, a pair of sharp gold scissors. I snatched them up, heart pounding, and lunged. “No,” I hissed, stabbing him again, harder, desperate for answers. “What the hell does it mean?”
Blood soaks my hands and dress, warm and sticky. My knees press into the cold floor, and the room feels like it’s closing in.
My mind reels back to that journal, the same one a cop handed me years ago, the one that set this whole bloody revenge in motion. The lines blur between what I wanted to believe and the possibility that everything was a lie.
I’m shaking. Used? Me? Since the beginning?
My head spins, the words crashing inside like waves. My mom’s journal?
They wanted me to do this. This…all of it.
I’m shaking hard, part rage, part terror. My dress is soaked, red blossoming over white like a stain I’ll never wash away.
