Page 181 of Fractured Devotion
And I don’t plan to be buried under this war.
I lock my gaze on the screen, a new determination sparking hot inside me.
I’m going to get to the truth.
No matter what it costs.
Fatigue drags at me, but my gaze stays rooted to the surveillance feed, wide open, unwilling to blink.
She’s asleep now, finally.
It’s the first time all night she’s stopped moving.
I watch her steady breathing from the camera in her apartment. Her limbs are tangled in her sheets, her face softened by exhaustion. She doesn’t know I’ve been watching every second.
I rewind the footage to the moment she tucked the box beneath her desk, the exact spot burned into my memory.
I know where it is.
And I know she won’t wake up anytime soon.
This is my chance.
I rise from the chair, grabbing my backup tablet and sliding it into my coat pocket. My steps are purposeful and steady as I make my way down the hall toward her apartment. The building is quiet, the hour still early, with no one around tonotice me. I move with practiced ease, each step measured. Her door is just ahead. It’s familiar, dangerously so.
I slip my hand into my coat pocket, my fingers brushing over the tablet’s cool surface. I pull it out with care, glancing at the live feed as I approach her door. She’s still asleep, deep, unmoving, and lost in whatever dreams have claimed her for the moment. My steps remain steady, my focus sharp, my every move deliberate.
I reach for the door without a sound, the lock familiar beneath my fingertips. I disable it with a practiced flick of my wrist.
The door opens with a hush, and I slip inside.
The air is thick with her scent—lavender and skin, soft and sharp.
I glance toward the bedroom. She doesn’t stir.
Good.
I move straight to the desk, crouching low. My hands work quickly, pulling out the box with precision.
There it is.
The key to everything.
I set it carefully on her desk, sliding open the lid with careful movements.
My eyes rake over the contents—photos, old letters, a thin notebook worn at the spine.
I pull out my tablet and begin snapping photos, documenting every page and every name.
Piece by piece, I scan it all, my pulse steady but my breath tight.
It’s not just old letters and photographs. It’s raw history—evidence of her family’s ruin. Newspaper clippings about her father’s death, personal letters that hint at darker and deeper circumstances surrounding her mother’s demise. Her childhooddrawings, scribbled in shaky hands, some depicting masked figures and locked doors.
My throat tightens.
I’ve seen her footage. I’ve watched her broken on old tapes and watched her trained like a puppet.
But this… this feels different.
