Ava sat motionless on the edge of her couch, her hands limp in her lap as the television bathed the dim room in a cold, flickering light.
The screen replayed the aftermath of the explosion: smoldering debris, shattered glass, and rescue workers pulling lifeless bodies from the rubble. Headlines scrolled relentlessly across the bottom: "Detective Ava Vancé's Oversight Costs Innocent Lives," "Careless Genius Fails When It Matters Most."
Her chest tightened as the voice of a news anchor broke through the noise in her mind, each word cutting deeper than the last.
"Detective Ava Vancé, once lauded as a prodigy in criminal investigations, now finds herself under fire for the catastrophic failure of last night's operation. Sources suggest her overconfidence and inability to account for critical intelligence led to the deaths of multiple civilians, including children. Families of the victims have publicly called for her resignation, referring to her decision-making as reckless and negligent."
Ava's fingers twitched, reaching for the remote, but she hesitated. Muting the television felt like running away, like silencing the voices of the grieving families whose lives she'd destroyed.
And yet, she couldn't bear to hear another word. Finally, she pressed the mute button, plunging the room into a heavy, oppressive silence. But the words didn't fade. They reverberated in her head, the anchor's voice mingling with the cries of children, the echo of the explosion, and the accusing stares of her colleagues.
Her gaze drifted to the half-empty whiskey glass on the coffee table, the amber liquid catching the light of the screen. She hadn't touched it, though the temptation to drown the noise in her head was almost unbearable.
Instead, she sat frozen, her mind replaying the operation over and over, as if analyzing it one more time would somehow rewrite the ending.
The victims' faces haunted her. She didn't know their names, but she could see them clearly now—etched into her memory with cruel precision.
A young girl clutching a tattered teddy bear, a father shielding his child, a woman's tear-streaked face as she begged for help that never came. Ava squeezed her eyes shut, but the images only grew sharper.
The silence of the room was interrupted by the distant buzz of her phone on the table. She didn't move. She didn't need to check to know it was likely another message from a journalist or an enraged citizen demanding an explanation, a scapegoat, a sacrifice.
Ava let the phone buzz until it stopped, leaving only the muted television and the suffocating weight of her guilt.
Her reflection in the darkened window caught her eye, and she barely recognized the woman staring back. Her once-sharp features now looked hollow, her eyes sunken and shadowed by exhaustion.
A strand of hair had come loose from the braid she hadn't bothered to take out, hanging limply against her cheek. She thought of her father's voice, cruel and biting, echoing in her mind:
"You'll never amount to anything. You're not even really mine, just the mistake your mother left behind. A life born in sin doesn't rise—it falls."
The memory struck like a whip, and she flinched, her nails digging into her palms. She hated how his words crept back in moments like this, feeding her darkest fears, affirming the failures she already couldn't escape.
He'd always told her she'd fail. And tonight, it felt like he'd been right.
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She wouldn't break—not here, not now. But the weight of it all threatened to crush her, and for the first time in her career, Ava felt like she didn't know how to stand back up.
Her mother had also been knocking on her bedroom door for what felt like hours, her voice soft but insistent.
"Ava, sweetheart, please open the door. Just let me in. You don't have to go through this alone."
The pleas came in waves, each one tugging at the wall Ava had built around herself. But she sat unmoving on the edge of her bed, staring at the floor, her fingers twisting the edge of a blanket in an almost mechanical rhythm.
Her heart felt as heavy as the silence that hung between her and the door, and she couldn't summon the strength to respond.
"Please, Ava," her mother's voice cracked. "I'm worried about you."
Ava clenched her jaw, shutting her eyes tight as if the act could block out the sound. She didn't want to see the pity in her mother's eyes, didn't want to hear the reassurances that she was still proud of her. None of it would erase the lives lost or the headlines branding her a failure.
The knocks stopped briefly, and for a moment, Ava thought she might be left alone. But then another voice joined in, this one softer but just as persistent.
"Ava, it's Emerald," her closest friend and colleague said through the door. "I know you're hurting, but you can't shut me out. We'll figure this out together, okay? Just... please let me in."
Ava stared at the door, her chest tightening at the sound of Emerald's voice. She could picture her standing there, probably with her hand on the doorknob, waiting for any sign that Ava would open up.
But the thought of facing Emerald—the person who had always believed in her, even now—was unbearable. Ava couldn't stand to see the disappointment or the forced optimism in her friend's not her mother's eyes.
"Just go," Ava finally said, her voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. "Both of you. Please."
There was silence on the other side, broken only by the faint shuffle of footsteps as her mother and Emerald exchanged a quiet conversation. Emerald's voice came again, this time steadier but tinged with sadness.
"I'll be here when you're ready," she said. "Whenever that is."
Ava didn't respond. She sat in the suffocating quiet of her room, listening as their footsteps receded down the hallway. A part of her wanted to call them back, to open the door and let them pull her into the light. But she couldn't. The weight of her failure was too heavy, the shame too suffocating.
She didn't deserve their kindness, their worry. Not after what she'd done.
Instead, Ava stayed locked in her self-imposed prison, the walls of her room becoming as impenetrable as the walls around her heart.
Back at the precinct, Ava stood before her superiors in a sterile conference room. The atmosphere was heavy, oppressive. Detective Hugo's voice was sharp and cutting.
"You should have considered every possibility," he snapped, slamming a folder onto the table. "This wasn't a misstep, Ava. This was gross negligence. Innocent people are dead because of your overconfidence."
Another officer leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "Your job was to protect lives. Instead, you handed them over on a silver platter."
Ava kept her head bowed, swallowing the lump in her throat. Every word was a knife, but she didn't flinch. She deserved every ounce of their anger.
That night, Ava sat alone in the dark, her room eerily silent. Her mind replayed the explosion, the screams, the faces of the victims on the news. Sleep was impossible—every time she closed her eyes, the nightmare replayed itself.
Her thoughts drifted to her step father, his cruel words echoing from her childhood.
"You'll never amount to anything, Ava. You're a stain, born of sin from another man and your useless mother, and you'll never escape it."
She could almost see him, sneering at her, reminding her of every failure.
Tears streamed down her face, but she didn't wipe them away. Her confidence, once a shield, had shattered completely.
The next morning, Detective Hugo handed her a folder. "Ravenhurst," he said simply. His tone carried neither sympathy nor scorn, only finality.
"Ravenhurst?" Ava echoed, her voice hollow.
It was a career graveyard, a cesspool of crime and corruption. A silent condemnation.
The captain sighed. "It's better this way, Ava. For you. For everyone."
Ava didn't say anything. She only stood up straight, bowed, before leaving detective Hugo's office.
As she packed her desk, Emerald approached, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
"Ava," she said, her voice breaking.
Ava turned, forcing a weak smile. "Don't cry, Em. It's not goodbye."
But Emerald couldn't hold back. She threw her arms around Ava, her shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry, Ava. I should've done more. I should've—"
"Stop," Ava whispered, hugging her tightly. "This isn't on you."
The squad gathered silently, their expressions a mix of sorrow and reluctant understanding. As Ava walked toward the door, Emerald called out, her voice cracking.
"Don't let them break you, Ava."
Ava paused, her chest tightening, before stepping into the cold night air. With each step, the weight of her failure pressed harder. But beneath the crushing despair, a single ember of resolve burned.
If Ravenhurst was her penance, she would endure it. She would rise again—no matter the cost.