by Tahreer khayal

Rain lashed against the broken windows of the crumbling house as thunder cracked through the sky like gunfire. The stench of whiskey, rotting wood, and old blood hung heavy in the air. It had soaked into the walls. Just like the pain.

She hadn’t moved in hours. Curled in the corner of the room—knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around her trembling frame—she waited. Not for rescue. Not for her father. Just… waited.

Because that’s all she’d ever learned how to do.

Wait for silence.

Wait for pain.

Wait for someone to finally end this.

A creak in the floorboard.

Heavy boots crushing broken glass downstairs.

Her breath caught.

They were here.

The front door hadn’t even made a sound when it gave in, but she knew someone was here. This wasn’t the drunken chaos of her father stumbling in. No slurred curses, no broken bottles, no women giggling behind him.

This sound was different. Purposeful. Precise.

Deadly.

Dark silhouettes spilled into the house like shadows come to life—guns drawn, voices sharp and low. Her heart pounded like a war drum inside her ribs.

And then—he stepped in.

Black suit soaked with rain, jaw sharp as a blade, eyes like winter steel.

Cold. Calculating. Commanding.

She didn’t know who he was… but she knew what he was.

Danger.

He scanned the room until his eyes landed on her—so small, so broken, forgotten in the corner of a man’s filthy hideout. She couldn’t speak. Her throat tightened. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Behind him, a man muttered, “Boss, no sign of her father. Looks like the bastard ran.”

The man didn’t flinch. He kept his gaze on her like a sniper lining up a target.

Then he spoke—his voice low, sharp, cruel.

“This is the daughter?”

“She was left behind,” another voice answered.

A pause.

His lip curled. Not in pity.

In disdain.

Then he said the words that made her blood freeze.

“He took my brother’s life. So I’ll take his.”

She didn’t breathe. Her nails dug into her arms.

He raised his gun.

Was this it?

But instead of pulling the trigger… he lowered it.

“No,” he said. “Killing you would be mercy.”

He turned to his men.

“Bring her.”

⸻

– Earlier That Day –

The sky was clear that morning. No storms, no wind.

Yet something still felt… wrong.

She remembered lying on her old mattress, sketching a dream on the cracked ceiling with her eyes—a quiet home, soft music, freedom. But the silence around her was unnatural.

Too still. Too calm.

No smell of alcohol. No women. No blood.

Her father hadn’t touched the vodka bottle all day. No parties. No threats.

No gambling men yelling from downstairs.

He walked past her room once—didn’t even look at her. Just kept walking.

That’s when she knew.

He was planning something.

Something bad.

She remembered gripping the edge of her mattress tightly, the way her mother once held her hand before she left forever.

The silence wasn’t peace.

It was a warning.

She wished she’d run.

But where could she go?

To be continued!

By Tahreer khayal

She was the kind of girl the world never noticed…

Not because she blended in —

But because shadows don’t scream.

Her name was Liora Odessa Whitmore.

Pale skin like winter moonlight.

Eyes too blue for a life this gray.

Hair the color of black ink spilled across the page.

She was beautiful —

In a way that didn’t belong in places like this.

A kind of delicate cruelty,

inherited from the woman who birthed her,

but never loved her.

Her mother had been a flame in stilettos —

A woman men paid to lie.

A former prostitute with a cruel smile and silk bedsheets.

She called Liora a mistake.

Said she ruined everything.

And one day, she simply disappeared —

leaving behind a perfume bottle, a cracked mirror, and a child too old to cry.

Her father…

Well, he never had love to lose.

Thomas Whitmore wasn’t a man.

He was a weapon.

A ghost with a gambling problem and blood under his fingernails.

And when she didn’t flinch from his rage anymore,

he stopped seeing her altogether.

A child too quiet to beat.

A daughter too empty to break.

So he left her behind.

⸻

She survived in pieces.

Working in kitchens.

Cleaning tables in smoky restaurants.

Handing over her wages, every single coin, to the man who called himself her father.

A man who filled their house with whiskey bottles and strangers.

But even in the darkest corners, she found small sparks.

⸻

There was Zayn Gallagher —

the bakery boy with soft Irish features and a smile like sunlight.

Liora liked him once.

Not love — but something warmer than fear.

He never knew about the bruises hidden beneath her sleeves.

She never told him about the nights she dreamed of running away.

And there was Emery Hart —

Liora’s one true friend.

A refuge.

The keeper of stolen laughter and secret escapes.

Emery worked at the bakery too —

She knew the truth about Liora’s home.

She saw the scars no one else did.

And every night, she let Liora sneak into her room,

where the world felt soft and safe, if only for a few hours.

⸻

Liora’s secret life was found in colors.

She painted her pain on the cracked walls of her small room.

Brush strokes that whispered of places she’d never been —

A cottage by a quiet lake.

A library filled with sunlight.

A world where silence meant peace, not fear.

In those moments, with paint-stained fingers and a racing heart,

she was free.

She dreamed of soft mornings,

of no guns, no blood, no screams.

Of a life where love didn’t hurt.

⸻

But those dreams were fragile.

Her dream was to become an artist —

to fill blank canvases with light,

not darkness.

To live a life untouched by bloodshed,

far from the smoke of guns and the stench of greed.

A life where no dirty deals were made,

no shadows hid behind whispered threats.

A life without killers, without drink-fueled rage,

without the weight of a past that clawed at her every step.

She longed for small moments of peace —

soft mornings with golden sunlight spilling through curtains,

the quiet hum of birdsong instead of sirens,

the taste of fresh bread from the bakery,

and the gentle touch of a world that didn’t want to break her.

But dreams like hers were easy to paint —

and so much harder to live.

Because some nights, when the world was quiet,

she could still hear the footsteps coming back.

And she knew —

the darkness wasn’t done with her yet.

By Tahreer Khayal

The memory faded like smoke in winter air.

And when Liora blinked again—

She was no longer a girl with painted walls and broken dreams.

She was a prisoner.

Her wrists still bore the red lines where the ropes had rubbed raw.

Her clothes smelled faintly of ash and blood, mingling with the stale air trapped inside the blacked-out car.

Her tears traced silent paths down cheeks still radiant with a fragile, haunting beauty—

Proof that even in pain, she could not be dimmed.

But her chin was high, her back straight—

Because weakness had no place here.

Not in his world.

The black gates groaned open as the car pulled up the long driveway, tires whispering over smooth marble.

It wasn’t a home.

It was a kingdom carved from shadow and silence.

And at the center of it all stood his mansion—

Cold, beautiful, and untouchable.

Like him.

The guards opened her door.

She didn’t move.

Not until one of them yanked her roughly by the arm.

She stepped out. Barefoot. Silent. Proud.

A lamb walking into the lion’s den…

But she refused to look like prey.

The massive doors swung open before her like a mouth waiting to devour its next victim.

Inside, everything was gold and black.

Glass chandeliers dripped like frozen fire, casting fractured light across marble floors that echoed with each reluctant step.

And then—there he was.

Gabriel Amedeo Salvatore.

Il Diavolo.

The man who had stormed into her home like a nightmare with a heartbeat.

He’d seen her before.

Touched her chin.

Looked into her eyes as if reading a secret only she thought was buried.

But here, in his world, he looked colder—

Sharper—

More untouchable.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

Because power didn’t ask.

It commanded.

Liora’s breath hitched—

Not from fear.

But from the cold, bitter fire rising in her chest.

He was exactly the kind of man she hated.

The kind her father was.

The kind who used violence as language and blood as currency.

The kind who never broke—only broke others.

Gabriel Salvatore was everything she despised.

And now she was in his house.

In his world.

At his mercy.

“Bring her upstairs,” he said finally, voice low and smooth like poisoned wine.

“She and I need to talk.”

They led her through endless hallways lined with heavy oil paintings and the silence of secrets.

Each step carried her deeper into his kingdom of shadows and power.

Her heart beat louder with every footfall, a drum of defiance and dread.

A sharp, anguished voice pierced the air—

She was crying, screaming, shattered.

“You brought the daughter of the killer into my house!”

The words echoed like broken glass thrown against stone, bitter and raw.

Liora froze.

Behind one of the doors, a woman’s sobs collapsed into rage.

“You should have killed her, Gabriel! Her father murdered my son—and you bring her here?”

The voice cracked, feral with grief.

“She’s his daughter! His blood!”

A hush fell.

Then Gabriel’s voice cut through the chaos—cold, sharp, final.

“She will pay for her father’s sins.”

“I will find him,” he added, each word like a blade.

“And when I do, I’ll bury him with my own hands.”

A gasp slipped from Liora’s lips.

But she didn’t stop walking.

She just held her head higher—

Even as the weight of vengeance grew heavier behind every door.