My gaze drifts, slow, distracted, until it stops.
The kitchen island.
Papers are spread across it, scattered without order, covering almost every inch of the surface. My breath catches, subtle but sharp. I take acautious step closer, then another, my coffee forgotten in my hands. I don’t touch them at first. I just look.
And then the realisation settles in.
These are the contents of the envelope.
The one that’s been haunting the edges of my thoughts since the moment I noticed it. The one Khai never explained. My pulse quickens. Curiosity coils tight in my chest, winding itself around something dangerously close to fear.
This time, I don’t fight it.
Khai has given me fragments of the truth, just enough to keep me close, just enough to keep me trusting. But he’s been careful. Strategic. Evading the details that matter most. And standing here now, staring at the evidence of a life he keeps locked behind his eyes, I know this might be my only chance to understand who he really is.
Before I fall too far into his gravity.
Before his darkness closes around me completely.
Though, deep down, I already know, I may be in too deep already.
It’s a truth I’m not ready to face.
Not yet.
I circle the kitchen island slowly, as though approaching something that might bite. I find a small, bare patch of stone among the chaos and set my coffee down, untouched, already forgotten. Then I let my eyes roam.
There’s too much.
Photographs. Grainy and intimate, stolen moments frozen in time. Notes scribbled in tight, precise handwriting. Addresses. Timelines. Screenshots of text messages stripped of context but heavy with implication. Every piece feels deliberate. Calculated. Obsessive.
My breath turns shallow.
Then I see it.
An order.
My fingers close around the page before my mind can stop them. Khai’s name sits at the top, stark and undeniable. Below it, a date. A location. And one final word that makes the room tilt violently on its axis.
Target.
The paper slips from my grasp as a sharp gasp tears from my throat. My heart slams against my ribs, frantic and unforgiving. Heat rushes tomy face, then drains just as quickly, leaving me cold and light-headed. I clutch the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening as I struggle to steady my breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
It doesn’t help.
With trembling hands, I reach down and pick the paper up again. It shakes violently between my fingers, or maybe that’s me. My eyes scan the page once more, slower now, more careful. Each word lands like a blade.
And then understanding blooms, dark, absolute.
This isn’t just an order.
It’s a kill order.
The world seems to dull around the edges as the realisation sinks in, colour bleeding away until everything feels muted and unreal. My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out the silence.
“I manage problems.”
His voice echoes through my head, calm and controlled, as if he’d been talking about invoices or meetings. That’s what he told me. Nothing more. Nothing less.
