Meanwhile, Director Stephen had lived in a state of gnawing fear for the past week. His hands shook whenever he reached for a file, his eyes darted to every shadow. The once-confident man who commanded hundreds now found himself second-guessing every echo in the hallway. He had intensified his search, cross-checking every clue, revisiting every suspect, interrogating his own men, but nothing led him to the masked killer.

  One night, out of desperation, Director Stephen called Nathan. His hands trembled as he dialed the number, the phone slick with sweat. He knew Nathan was his last link to Lia’s past, the only man she had once trusted, the boy she had loved before the incident.

  The line rang twice before Nathan’s calm voice answered, “Hi, Director.”

  “Hi, Nath,” Stephen said, his tone unusually tight. Silence hung between them for a moment, filled only by the hum of the night.

  “Have you had any strange visitors lately?” Stephen asked suddenly. “Or received any strange gifts?” Nathan frowned, sitting up from his couch. The question felt out of place, edged with something darker. “No, Director,” he replied slowly. “Why did you ask?”

  Stephen hesitated, his eyes darting toward the office window where the streetlights flickered against the glass. “Just an investigative approach,” he murmured, his voice low and cautious. “If you get any or experience anything strange, any any feeling that an unseen eyes is around, let me know immediately.”

  Nathan’s jaw tightened. There was something fragile, almost frightened in the Director’s tone, a man who had spent his life chasing shadows now afraid of one. “Alright, Director,” he said softly.

  “Good,” Stephen whispered, more to himself than to Nathan. “Stay alert.”

  The call ended. The screen went dark. For a moment, Stephen sat still, staring at his reflection in the black phone screen, the hollow eyes, the tired wrinkles, the faint tremor of his lips. The silence around him was thick, pressing in like a weight.

  He leaned back in his chair and exhaled shakily. His mind was no longer his own; it was haunted ground, filled with echoes of a single line that refused to fade.

  Jeff’s voice. The words came again, as though whispered from the shadows of the room. “You are the next to die.”

  Stephen’s pulse spiked. He rubbed his temples, trying to banish it, but the words wouldn’t go. They slithered through his mind, curling around his thoughts, tightening.

  He looked around his office, the dim light, the silent files, the wall clock ticking too loudly. Everything seemed alive, watching him. He shut his eyes, but the words were louder in the dark. “You are the next to die.”

  His breath hitched. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He opened his eyes sharply, scanning the corners of the room as though the voice had taken form. But there was nothing. Only emptiness, and the faint hum of the air conditioner.

  He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, but the whisper still echoed in his mind, over and over, like a curse that refused to die: You are the next to die. Stephen knew, somehow, at some point, Lia is going to come.

  Every night since then, Stephen hadn’t returned home. His mansion now seemed like an open grave, a perfect place to be murdered in his sleep. He’d been living in his office at the central police station, surrounded by his men. But even among them, he felt no safety. Each creak of the ceiling, each flicker of the light, felt like a warning that she was near.

  Every day, he fought to stay awake. Every night, he dozed half-sleeping, half-watching, waiting for her to come. Lia, the ghost in human form, the orphan who had now returned to avenge her parents. The name itself sent tremors through his spine.

  That night was no different.

  The station was silent except for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the rustle of papers fluttering under the night breeze. The backup generator had failed again, leaving the building swallowed in darkness. Only the faint glow of the moon spilled through the blinds, cutting narrow lines across his office floor.

  Stephen lay slumped on the couch, gun in one hand, phone in the other. Sleep tugged at him, but his nerves refused to yield. He had trained his senses to detect even the softest movement. His ears twitched at every sound.

  Suddenly, a faint click broke the stillness. His eyes shot open. He gripped his gun tighter, pressing the phone screen for light. The glow lit his sweat-drenched face as he scanned the corners of the room. His breathing was uneven. Every instinct told him danger was close.

  For long seconds, nothing moved.

  Then, just as quietly as it had gone, the power returned. The fluorescent bulbs flickered back to life, humming softly. He exhaled and forced a weak laugh. “It was nothing,” he muttered to himself. “Just the damned generator again. I was worried for nothing.”

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  He rubbed his face, tried to steady his heartbeat, and sank back into the couch. But his body wouldn’t relax. His eyelids grew heavy, and against his will, he drifted off again.

  Only ten minutes passed before the lights went out again.

  Pitch black.

  This time, it wasn’t the slow fade of a power glitch, it was sudden, deliberate, absolute. The air itself felt colder.

  Stephen bolted upright, instinctively reaching for his gun. But his hands grasped at empty space. His gun was gone. His phone too.

  A cold spike of terror pierced through him. Both had been in his grip just moments before he’d dozed off. He froze, his pulse hammering against his ribs. His throat went dry.

  He swallowed hard and called out, “Is anybody there?”

  But no one answer.

  The silence was heavy, suffocating. Even the usual hum of the night had vanished. The entire station, once bustling with officers, was eerily still.

  He tried again, louder this time.

  “Alloy! Where are you?” His voice echoed down the hallway, But it was unanswered.

  Then came the sound; soft, deliberate footsteps. They weren’t from one direction; they came from everywhere, circling him, closing in, their rhythm calm and predatory. His breath quickened as his gaze darted around the dark room.

  “Who’s there?” His voice cracked.

  And then, a voice answered; a woman’s voice, calm and venomously smooth:

  “An old friend.” Stephen froze. His breath caught in his throat. “Lia?” he gasped.

  A soft chuckle rippled through the shadows.

  “I’m glad you still remember my name,” she said. “After all, you were my father’s best friend.”

  The voice was closer now, circling him. Every word seemed to crawl under his skin. Panic surged through his chest, his hands trembling uncontrollably. For years, Stephen had prided himself on composure, a seasoned officer, a master of interrogation, a man who could look death in the face without flinching.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, he smelled his own death in the air.

  Sweat streamed down his temples. He backed up slowly until he hit the cold wall. “Lia,” he stammered, “it’s not what you think.”

  A sharp, almost mocking laugh sliced through the darkness.

  “Not what I think?” she echoed. “Then tell me, is it not true that you betrayed my father to get your promotion? Or that you took your share from the money they made off his death? Which one is a lie, Uncle Steve?”

  Her tone was calm, too calm. Each syllable cut deeper than any blade. Stephen froze. She still addressed him the way she used to. The name uncle Stephen intensified his guilt.

  “I never killed your father,” he said quickly, his voice trembling. “I only… I only accepted their deal so they wouldn’t kill me too.”

  Lia chuckled again, a sound both amused and cold.

  “You mean,” she said, stepping closer, “you helped them murder your best friend because you were afraid of dying yourself?”

  “Ye—yes,” he stammered, voice shaking like paper in the wind. “They would’ve killed both of us anyway. I… I had no choice.”

  “Yet,” she said slowly, her voice now right beside his ear, “you wanted me dead. Because you desoerately want to cover it.”

  “Ye…sss,” he whispered, trembling. His knees nearly gave way. “Because to expose them would be to expose myself.” The words tumbled out like confessions wrung from his soul.

  The room was silent for a moment. Stephen could hear the rhythm of his own heart, thundering violently against his chest. He sensed her moving closer, the scent of gun oil and faint lavender filled the air. He didn’t need to see her to know the barrel of her gun was now aimed straight at him.

  He had spent his entire career chasing criminals, forcing them into corners like this. He knew the sound of fear, the shallow breath, the quick swallow, the pleading tone. Now, he was hearing it from himself.

  “Lia,” he murmured. “Please.” No answer came. Only the slow, deliberate sound of her boots against the tiled floor. He could almost feel her gaze pierce through him from behind the mask.

  “Do you remember what you told my father,” she said, voice lowering, “the night before you betrayed him?”

  Stephen’s mouth fell open. “I… I don’t.”

  “You told him,” she interrupted, her tone darkly nostalgic, “‘James, no criminal escapes justice.’” The irony of it burned him alive.

  Now, standing in the dark, helpless and stripped of power, Stephen finally understood the weight of those words. He tried to steady his voice, to appeal to the human inside her, the girl he once knew, the child who called him Uncle Stephen. “Lia, I didn’t mean for any of it to happen,” he whispered. “I only wanted to survive. You were still a little girl. I thought if I, if I cooperated, they would spare you.”

  A bitter laugh came from her direction. “Spare me?” she said. “They burnt our house down, Uncle Steve. My parents died screaming. And you—” her voice trembled for the first time “—you stood there at my father’s funeral and said it was an accident. You even cried.”

  He lowered his head, ashamed. “I thought it would end there,” he said weakly. “I thought pretending would protect everyone.”

  “Pretending?” she whispered. “You don’t get to call betrayal ‘pretending.’” The room fell silent again.

  Then she spoke, calm and final. “I’ve heard your part of the story and i am not convinced.” Stephen froze. There was no emotion in her tone now, just the cold authority of judgment.

  The moonlight caught the edge of her mask, he noticed dimly, and as she stepped into the faint glow leaking through the window, her silhouette sharpened. The gun in her hand gleamed under the pale light.

  “I, Lia Sundell,” she said, “find you guilty of the murder of James Sundell and Elene Sundell. Do you have any last words before justice is served?”

  Stephen’s body trembled uncontrollably. His legs buckled beneath him, and he sank to the floor. His hands rose instinctively in surrender. Tears streamed down his face.

  “Please, forgive me,” he begged, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, Lia. I truly am.” For a long moment, she didn’t answer.

  He could hear her breathing, steady, deliberate. And then, something unexpected: a faint, shaky sob. “They died like heroes,” she whispered. “They never begged for mercy. But here you are, begging like a coward.”

  Stephen nodded, choking back tears. “Because that’s what I am,” he admitted. “A coward. Only a coward kills his best friend to save himself.”

  Lia’s expression softened slightly under the mask. She could hear the raw truth in his voice. But she hadn’t come here for forgiveness. She had come for closure, for justice. “I hereby sentence you to death by gunfire,” she declared coldly. “Do you have any last request?”

  Stephen swallowed hard, shaking violently. “At least,” he said weakly, “let me see your face, let me see the woman you’ve grown into.”

  There was a pause. A eerie silence.

  Lia hesitated. She had never removed her mask before a kill. It was her shield, her anonymity, her code. But for him, her father’s friend. she made an exception. “Because of the love and respect I once had for you,” she said softly, “I’ll grant your last wish.”

  She pulled a small torchlight from her belt, clicked it on, and set it down on the table. Its beam illuminated her black mask, the same face captured in every blurred CCTV footage the police had studied for months.

  Stephen’s tearful eyes locked onto her. “I’m sorry for what I turned you into,” he whispered. “No child should ever live through what you did.”

  “No, Uncle Steve,” she replied quietly. “You didn’t turn me into a criminal.” Her voice grew steadier, colder. “You turned me into the one who hunts them. You turned me into Justice.”

  The words hung in the air, heavy and final.

  Stephen swallowed hard. The gun cocked with a sharp metallic click. He raised his trembling hand weakly. “At least,” he begged, “remove the mask. Let me see you, just once, before I die.” Lia’s grip tightened around the gun. For a moment, she hesitated, then slowly nodded.

  “It’s not my way,” she said, “but tonight, I’ll make an exception. You deserve to know how blind you’ve been all along.” Her hand reached up. She touched the edge of the mask and began to lift it off, inch by inch.

  The torchlight caught her face as the mask fell away.

  Stephen’s eyes widened, his jaw slackening in utter disbelief.

  His breath hitched. His body went rigid. The words escaped his mouth in a hoarse whisper, barely audible.

  “It has been you all along?” He breathed.

  Lia nodded. “How does it feel to be outsmarted multiple times?” She asked. Stephen couldn't say a word. He remained on his knees like a stature and like a curse he whispered her mask name.