Chapter -8 Shadows beneath the mirror

.Pain was the first thing Anya remembered from her past life—bruises, restraints, and a basement colder than death."

Groggy voices filtered through the haze, one of them unmistakably Aaron's.

"Burn it. Remove the last trace ..the old files ..it ends there."

At the time, she hadn't understood. She'd been too weak, her consciousness flickering like a dying flame. But the voice and those words had haunted her through both lifetimes.

Now, after years of half-memories and pieced-together lies, she stood at the iron gates of her parents mansion, the same one they'd brought her to while unconscious. The same place they had tried to erase something… vital.

The dusk shrouded the estate like a veil. Ivy clung to its ribs. The silence was oppressive, almost sacred. Dust coated the marble floors like ash after a fire long cooled.

She stepped in.

The air smelled like aged wood, lavender oil, and a phantom whisper of her mother's perfume.

The foyer opened wide, the chandelier above catching the last rays of the sun like teardrops of glass.

This is where they tried to bury the truth, she thought. But I'm not that helpless girl anymore.

Her steps carried her through the corridor, past the grand staircase, to the one place her soul still remembered clearly.

The rehearsal room.

Here, her mother's laughter had echoed, her father's deep voice counting beats. Here, she had learned her first pirouette, her first fall. It had once been light. Now it was a shadow.

The mirrors stared back at her like silent witnesses. But on the leftmost wall, something was off.

Then she saw it ,a hairline fracture in the mirror's surface, unnaturally thin, running vertically down the glass.

Her eyes narrowed.

She pressed gently her left thumb.

The mirror gave way with a soft click, swinging forward to reveal a narrow staircase curling downward, swallowed in darkness.

Her breath caught.

With only the flashlight from her phone, she descended.

The steps led into a hidden basement, cold and untouched, shrouded in shadows. Dust covered tarped furniture and shelves filled with boxes labeled in her father's handwriting. On a far table, sealed files sat untouched beside a safe.

It was like a bunker. A preparation zone.

Her parents… they had known.

They had suspected something. Someone.

And yet, before they could act, they were silenced.

Her eyes shimmered, but she didn't cry.

Instead, she walked toward the hallway connected to the basement that curved toward her mother's former room.

A glint caught her attention—a cracked tile behind the old vanity dresser. She moved it, revealing a hidden drawer. Inside was a small flash drive labeled in delicate cursive:

For Anya.

She clutched it tightly, holding it to her chest for a breathless moment.

Then, she rose.

The sun was setting by the time she left the house. Her phone buzzed with messages, but she ignored them as she slid into the back of her car and returned to her uncle's estate.

---

Back at the estate, chandeliers lit the drawing room like stars. Her aunt Elena looked up from a book with a warm but distracted smile. "Dinner's almost ready."

Anya nodded. "Has Ethan come home?"

"He came back an hour ago," Elena replied, tone gently tired. "Your uncle won't join us tonight—some business event."

Anya nodded, her expression unreadable.

"I'll call Ethan and freshen up before dinner," she said.

---

Ethan's room was dim, the air stale with silence. He sat hunched over his bed, the glow from his desk lamp haloing his bowed head.

Anya entered. No knocking.

"You look like a kicked puppy."

He startled. "What?"

She sat beside him ."Where were you last night?"

"Out," he muttered. "Thinking."

"You're angry because you care too much," she said softly. "And because he doesn't see it."

Silence.

"I know you want to dance," she added. "And I know you're scared he'll never respect it."

His voice cracked. "He wants me to be something I'm not. He doesn't even respect my choices."

"I do and aunt also ," Anya whispered.

"What if I'm wasting my time?"

"Then I'll waste it with you," she said, nudging his shoulder. "Until the world sees you the way I do."

She continues"sometimes you have to show rather than to argue".

His eyes glistened, but he nodded. "You've changed."

"I've stopped caring."

---

After dinner, Anya returned to her room.

Her sanctuary was silent. The windows open slightly, letting the cool night breeze filter through. Her laptop whirred to life.

In ten minutes, she accepted three high-level hacking commissions under her identity—Nyx.

One required decrypting the financials of an underworld arms dealer. Another involved leaking a politician's scandal to a foreign news site. The third? Corporate sabotage.

An hour later, the jobs were done, clean and untraceable.

Her phone buzzed—anonymous tips, dark web bounty trackers trying to find her real identity.

Let them try.

She transferred her earnings—nearly $15 million—into an encrypted account and redirected funds into specific stocks and blockchain investments using her knowledge of future tech shifts.

she plugged in the flash drive.

Encrypted folders bloomed.

Names. Drug shipments. Off-the-record financials. A familiar name appeared again and again:

Moore Biotech.

Alina's mother's company.

Her mother had found this.

---

Ryan Carter's POV

The city glowed like a field of stars beneath him, but Ryan wasn't looking out at the skyline.

He sat in silence, the only light in his penthouse study coming from the soft amber of the floor lamp. His tablet rested on the desk, documents open, but unread.

He saw her instead.

Not the cold, composed Anya from this morning. But the girl from years ago—barefoot, laughing under the spring rain, her braid unraveling, eyes wide with mischief as she spun in the courtyard.

Her innocence had undone him once.

Now her silence did.

"…Sir, the Sharma project is on track," said his assistant, a clean-cut man with an anxious energy.

Ryan didn't reply. His eyes had drifted. His fingers were curled in thought.

"She's changed," he thought.

"She's hiding something. But it's more than just guardedness…"

He trailed off. A chill ghosted down his spine . He didn't know what but he wanted to .

The assistant hesitated. "Sir, about the merger—"

"Forget the merger."

Ryan leaned back.

"How do you fix something you broke?" he murmured. "How do you make someone trust you again?".

Ryan's brows furrowed, suddenly aware. "Forget it."

He closed the tablet.

"Work can wait until tomorrow."

As the assistant turned to leave, he paused at the door.

"Sir?"

Ryan looked up.

"If it were me… I'd start with honesty. Then persistence. And maybe flowers. Girls like flowers.

Alone, Ryan sat in silence again.

The girl with the braid and spinning laughter was gone.

Now there was a shadow he couldn't read—and he would chase it until he could.

"He had already lost her once in sunlight. This time, he would chase her through shadows if he had to.