CHAPTER VII

Elara didn't return to campus immediately after the confrontation with her father. Instead, she slipped into a liminal state—neither fully present nor absent—haunted by the weight of what she'd learned, and the shadow of what she might become.

She drifted through the city in muted colors, feeling like a ghost in the places she once knew intimately. Bookstores where she'd once lost herself now seemed hostile, full of strangers. Cafés she frequented were too loud, filled with chatter she couldn't follow. She walked without direction, seeking spaces where no one knew her name, spaces where she might think without fear.

But thoughts were treacherous. Her mind replayed her father's words on a loop: "You did kill someone. Just not the one you thought." Those words weren't a relief. They were a prison cell with invisible bars. She should have felt vindicated. Instead, she felt hollow and fractured.

Her memory was a broken film reel: flashes of Axle's laugh, the sudden fall, blood pooling on cold concrete, and then—Tife's wide, terrified eyes just before she slipped and shattered everything.

She realized with an icy certainty that her father had never needed to push her. He'd merely stepped back and let gravity do the rest.

Returning to campus was like crossing into another world. She was thinner, paler—her soul worn raw. Professors regarded her with cautious politeness. Classmates glanced away quickly, whispering just out of earshot. But one face, a beacon of unease and curiosity, cut through the crowd: Halima.

Halima was a second-year student, always seated in the second row near the window of the humanities block. Quiet, watchful, with eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Elara had noticed her glances during film class, felt her presence like a shadow behind pillars. She remembered the phone light in the dark stairwell. She remembered the photo. And she remembered the notes—slips of paper, unsigned, threatening.

That morning, a new note had appeared in her locker, folded with precision, no envelope, no signature:

"You left her there. You didn't check if she was breathing."

Elara's chest tightened until it was difficult to breathe. She crushed the note in her palm, rage bubbling beneath the calm surface. This was no longer paranoia. Someone knew. Someone wanted her to feel the cold breath of exposure on her neck.

She skipped her next two lectures, retreating to the top floor of the library, a place she once loved but now felt like a cage. From her vantage point, she watched the ebb and flow of students below. Halima passed by three times: once clutching her bag like a lifeline, once with her head bowed, and once—most damning—with a phone gripped tightly in her hand, eyes darting and scanning, cataloging faces.

By noon, Elara's resolve hardened. She would confront the loose thread before it unraveled her completely.

She waited until Halima was alone, slipping into an alcove outside the economics wing where the vending machine buzzed and the security camera had long been broken.

"Halima."

The girl froze, shoulders tensing like a trapped animal. She turned slowly, expecting to see an enemy.

"Elara," she said, breathless and too quickly, "I—hi."

"We need to talk."

"I don't—"

"You saw something. You've been leaving the notes."

Halima's eyes widened, fear flickering. "I haven't told anyone."

"But you could."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Halima looked like she might run. But then, Elara softened.

"Just listen," she said gently, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to know what you think you saw."

Halima's lips trembled. Her hands fidgeted nervously.

"I saw you leave the stairwell," she confessed. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost. Your hands were shaking. There was blood."

Elara closed her eyes. The memory was a splinter beneath her skin.

"And then?"

"I heard people say he jumped. But that's not what it looked like."

"I don't remember," Elara admitted, voice cracking, "it's all fragments. Static."

Halima hesitated. "Then maybe it's not just me who's afraid."

Elara exhaled deeply, fighting back the panic rising inside her.

"Why haven't you said anything?"

"Because I don't know if you're the victim… or the threat."

The words were knives. She swallowed hard.

"I'm trying to find the truth."

"Are you? Or are you just trying to bury the past before it buries you?"

Halima turned and walked away.

Elara didn't follow.

That night, a new message arrived in her inbox—a grainy, dark photo of her on the stairwell, Axle beside her, his hand gripping her wrist.

Beneath it, a chilling caption:

"I have more."

No name. No return address.

Elara slammed her laptop shut. Sleep was impossible.

The following day, she sought out Kayra.

The journalist answered the door with bloodshot eyes and a cigarette hanging from her lips.

"You look worse than me," Kayra teased.

"I need your help."

"You already gave me your story."

"There's more."

Elara sat down and pulled out a flash drive she had been too scared to use. It contained every audio file Amara had recorded—whispers, confessions, cries for help—but also something new: surveillance screenshots stolen from her father's estate. Evidence of manipulation, tampering, and orchestrated ruin.

Kayra's expression shifted from weary to sharp.

"This… this isn't just a scandal. It's structural. The whole system is rotten."

"Use it. All of it. But keep me out of the first wave."

"Why?"

"Because I need time."

"To disappear?"

"No," Elara said fiercely. "To finish what she started."

Elara spent the next two days watching Halima—not with hatred, but with purpose.

Halima was a loose thread in the finely woven fabric of the Bello empire. Loose threads were either tied down or cut.

But Elara wasn't here to silence her. She wanted her as an ally.

When the opportunity came, in the library's silent study room, she sat across from Halima wordlessly, letting the tension hang.

"I'm not here to scare you," Elara finally said.

Halima didn't look up.

"I need you to understand something. I'm not a monster. But I have done monstrous things."

Halima's voice was barely a whisper. "I've seen the posters. Tife."

Elara flinched.

"That was an accident," she said.

Halima finally met her gaze. "Does it matter?"

Elara nodded slowly.

"It does. Because if people like him keep deciding what counts as truth, none of us survive."

"Who?"

"My father."

Halima seemed ready to speak, then stopped.

"What do you want from me?" she asked.

"Help me," Elara said. "Not to lie. But to tell it right. Amara tried. I need to finish it."

There was a long pause.

Then Halima nodded faintly.

One chance.

One thread pulled.

And the whole thing might finally unravel.