The Cleaners

Amina stayed in the east wing that night.

The room had been prepared in haste but held the Vale standard of sterile elegance. Marble floors, dark oak panels, and curtains thick enough to drown the sun. There were no personal touches. No warmth. Just polished surfaces and quiet.

Ishan watched from his quarters via the estate's silent surveillance grid. Not to spy, but to confirm a pattern.

Amina didn't sleep right away.

She moved methodically—checking locks, inspecting windows, even lifting the corner of the rug to examine the floor beneath. She wasn't just alert. She was prepared. Trained, perhaps. Or shaped by long-standing fear.

At 2:14 a.m., she finally lay down. She didn't toss. Didn't turn. She simply lay still, like someone who'd learned long ago not to show signs of vulnerability, even in rest.

He shut off the feed.

In his hand was a photo—Lemuel Royce, again.

But this time, Ishan wasn't studying the name. He was tracing the edges of the scar on the man's neck, partially visible above his collar. A wound that had nothing to do with fire.

He pulled out the family's archived press logs and filtered by the date of Lemuel's death.

There had been no obituary. No news coverage. Just a vague corporate condolence post from Royce Holdings.

Cause of death: residential fire.

Location: "private Royce property."

No police record attached.

No official report released.

And—most disturbingly—no forensic file at all.

This wasn't a cover-up.

It was a full erasure.

Ishan leaned back in his chair. Closed his eyes.

A voice from memory whispered across the years.

"They come when no one's looking. They make you forget someone was ever there."

His mother had said that to him once. Before she left. Or before she was taken. He wasn't sure anymore.

He opened the encrypted partition on his system and typed in a name that didn't officially exist.

Project Stillwater.

Nothing.

Then again, it was never supposed to return results.

The name had appeared once, buried in an old email string Ellis had sent to an offshore contact ten years ago. Ishan had broken the encryption when he was eleven.

There were no files. No explanations.

Just the subject line:

"Requesting Cleaners – Stillwater. Untraceable. No fallout."

Ishan had never forgotten it.

And the more he looked at the gaps surrounding Lemuel Royce's death, the more certain he became.

The Cleaners had been called that night.

And if Amina had seen one of them…

She was still in danger.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door.

Not firm. Not hesitant. Measured.

He opened it.

Mireille stood on the other side, dressed in her usual gray uniform, tablet in hand.

She was the longest-serving member of the estate's private staff. Never raised her voice. Never made small talk. She was not a maid. Not an assistant. Officially, she had no title.

But everyone knew she was Ellis Vale's knife in the dark.

"I need a moment," she said calmly.

He stepped aside.

She entered, placed the tablet on his desk.

"A delivery came this morning. Addressed to your father but flagged through my clearance level. I took the liberty of opening it."

She tapped the screen.

On it was a single image. Low resolution. Grainy. But recognizable.

The woman who had delivered the envelope to Ishan two days ago.

Timestamp: 02:17 a.m.

Location: Forty miles east of the estate.

Context: Deceased.

"She was found at the bottom of a water tower," Mireille said. "Neck snapped. No ID. No fingerprints left behind."

Ishan stared at the image.

"Whoever she was," Mireille continued, "she was careful. But not careful enough."

He tapped the screen.

A shadow in the corner. Barely visible. Watching her.

A second figure. Taller. Blurred.

"They left this image on purpose," Ishan typed into the tablet. "It's a message."

Mireille nodded.

"Your father agrees. He's instructing that all outside contact with the Royce family be routed through me from now on. No surprises. No private exchanges."

Ishan typed another sentence.

"Does that include Amina?"

Mireille hesitated for the first time.

"Not yet. But be cautious. You've seen what happens to messengers."

She turned to leave, then paused at the door.

"One more thing. You asked about Project Stillwater. Don't."

He didn't look up.

"I mean it," she said.

And then she was gone.

Ishan closed the door.

He went to the window.

The clouds were clearing. But the air felt heavier than before.

Amina had risked something by coming early. Whoever had sent her that photo wanted her to remember. And whoever killed the messenger wanted her to forget.

But Ishan couldn't forget.

Not the scar on Lemuel's neck.

Not the silence in his mother's eyes.

Not the word "Stillwater."

He returned to the file he'd hidden in his drawer and removed the sealed inner packet labeled "Royce 2008."

He had never opened it.

Not because he couldn't.

Because part of him hadn't wanted to know.

Until now.

He peeled it open.

Inside were twelve surveillance stills.

All timestamped the night of the fire.

They showed a woman—dark-haired, thin frame, limping slightly—carrying a small object through the west garden of the Royce estate.

Each frame showed her moving faster.

Frame 10: A spark.

Frame 11: Smoke.

Frame 12: She's gone.

Ishan stared.

The woman didn't look like his mother.

She looked like someone wearing her clothes.

Which meant either the past had been rewritten—or someone else had written it for them.

The screen of his tablet lit up again.

A message. Private channel.

No name. No signature.

Just two lines of text.

Stillwater was just the start.

There are more fires coming.

He read it twice.

Then he opened the floor panel beneath his desk and unlocked the biometric vault only he had access to.

Inside, among other things, was a single, unregistered firearm.

He hadn't touched it in three years.

He picked it up.

Not to use.

Just to remember how it felt.

Because something was shifting.

And silence wouldn't be enough this time.