Diara left Crownstar Mansion as though a switch had flipped inside her. There were no second thoughts, no hesitation—just the cold determination of someone who had made a choice and would not be swayed.
She could have gone to a friend's house, sought comfort in familiar faces, but instead, she drove straight to the house where her parents had lived—the place they had left behind in death.
As she pulled up to the abandoned property, a wave of nostalgia hit her, almost suffocating in its intensity. The house, once filled with warmth and laughter, now stood silent and cold, a ghost of its former self.
The garden was overgrown, weeds swallowing the flowers that her mother had once lovingly tended. The windows were grimy, the paint on the shutters peeling away like old skin.
Diara stood at the threshold, staring at the door. The wood was cracked and warped from years of neglect, and as she reached out to touch it, her fingers trembled.
Tears, hot and unbidden, welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision. She hadn't cried since the accident —but now, in this place where memories haunted every corner, the dam was beginning to crack.
With a deep breath, she pushed the door open. The creak of the hinges echoed through the empty house, amplifying the silence that met her.
The air was stale, heavy with dust and the lingering scent of decay. She stepped inside, the floorboards groaning under her weight, and let her luggage fall to the ground with a dull thud.
The house was in shambles. What was once a home had become a tomb—furniture draped in dust-covered sheets, the walls stained with the passage of time, cobwebs dangling like tattered curtains.
The oppressive stillness settled on her shoulders like a heavy shroud as she slowly made her way to the old living room.
There, in the center of the room, sat the couch—a relic of the past, threadbare and sagging in the middle.
Diara sank into it, the worn cushions barely cushioning her as she stared into the emptiness surrounding her.
The silence was deafening, pressing in on her from all sides. And then, just as suddenly as the tears had come, the dam broke.
She sobbed—deep, racking sobs that shook her entire body. The pain, the sorrow, the anger she had kept locked away for so long came flooding out in waves, threatening to drown her.
She cried for her parents, for the life she had lost, for the dreams that had been shattered. She cried for the person she had become—hardened, distant, and alone.
Her tears fell freely, soaking into the dusty fabric of the couch, and still, she didn't stop.
Her phone rang, the shrill sound cutting through the quiet, but she didn't move. It rang again, and again, but Diara didn't even glance at it.
She didn't want to be found, didn't want to talk to anyone. This was her moment—her time to grieve, to let go, to feel.
As the minutes turned into hours, her tears began to slow, but the ache in her chest remained, raw and relentless.
She drew her knees to her chest and curled up on the couch, her head resting on the armrest as she stared blankly at the wall.
Her thoughts drifted back, carried on the tide of her emotions, to a time when life had felt simpler—two years ago, when she had met Kellan.
Two years ago
The sun blazed mercilessly in the afternoon sky, casting long shadows on the pavement as Diara stepped out of the shop.
She was dressed elegantly, her knee-length skirt swaying gently with each step, the floral pattern of her dress catching the light.
Her white heels clicked against the ground, a subtle rhythm that accompanied her every move. In one hand, she held a cup of cold milk, the condensation beading on the outside of the plastic as she sipped from it contentedly.
Milk was her little indulgence, something she loved despite the odd looks she often received. People found it strange, almost childish, that she preferred milk to more sophisticated drinks, but Diara didn't care. It was a small comfort in a world that often felt harsh and unforgiving.
As she adjusted the strap of her handbag on her shoulder, she continued down the sidewalk, her mind wandering to the errands she still had to run.
The streets were busy with the usual afternoon crowd—shoppers, workers on their lunch breaks, and the occasional tourist.
Everything seemed perfectly normal, just another ordinary day. But as she took another sip of her milk, a motorcycle roared up in front of her, coming to a sudden stop.
Diara's heart skipped a beat as she froze, her eyes widening in shock. The man on the bike was blocking her path, his expression hidden behind a helmet's dark visor.
He didn't say a word, just sat there, the engine idling menacingly. For a moment, she considered turning back, but before she could act, a black car screeched to a halt behind her, boxing her in. The doors flew open, and two men rushed out, their intentions clear in their predatory gazes.
Panic surged through Diara's veins as the men closed in. She instinctively gripped her handbag tighter, the cold milk now forgotten in her other hand. As the first man reached for her, she reacted swiftly, her instincts taking over. With a sharp twist of her body, she kicked him hard in the groin.
He doubled over with a grunt of pain, stumbling backward, but there was no time to relish the small victory.
The second man lunged at her, and she barely had time to brace herself before he grabbed her arm, his grip like a vise.
Diara struggled fiercely, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to break free. She had always been a fighter, strong-willed and unyielding, but there were three of them, and only one of her.
The third man emerged from the car, his cold eyes locking onto her as he moved in to assist his companions.
She screamed, a desperate plea for help that echoed down the street, but the bustling city seemed oblivious to her plight.
The men were dragging her now, pulling her toward the car, their force overpowering her resistance.
Just as despair began to creep in, a figure appeared at the edge of her vision. Before she could fully register what was happening, the man—a stranger with a determined look—charged at her assailants.
With a swift, powerful punch, he struck the first man in the face. The attacker staggered, losing his grip on Diara as he fell to the ground, dazed.
The stranger didn't hesitate, turning his attention to the second man, who still held onto her. A well-placed blow sent him reeling, releasing Diara from his grasp.
The third man, the one on the motorcycle, wasn't about to let his prey slip away so easily. With a snarl of frustration, he pulled out a knife, the blade catching the sunlight as he brandished it menacingly.
He was skilled—Diara could tell by the way he handled the weapon, his movements precise and controlled. He swung the knife with lethal intent, aiming for the stranger who had come to her rescue.
The blade cut through the air, missing its mark by inches as the stranger dodged nimbly to the side. The two men circled each other, the tension between them palpable.
Diara's heart pounded in her chest as she watched, her fear for the stranger mingling with the adrenaline still coursing through her system.
The man with the knife attacked again, but the stranger was quick, moving with the fluid grace of someone who knew how to fight.
Each time the knife sliced through the air, the stranger evaded it, his movements a blur of speed and precision.
The man on the motorcycle was growing increasingly frustrated, his attacks becoming more desperate.