Page 100 of Eternal

AZRA

“To Be Alone” by Hozier

Present

I woke up with a headache. Not bad. Just... heavy . The kind that tells you you drank a little too much, and your body’s not used to it anymore. Maybe that’s good. Maybe it means I’m not who I used to be. At least not fully.

The water is hot on me. Warm, soft.

Back then, when I had those phases, when I was crashing out and disappearing, there was no warm water. Just cold. They didn’t want me to have the luxury. Warmth wasn’t something I was allowed.

Now I do. It’s cozy. Comforting. Warm water for a cold heart.

My headache is dull now, not stabbing. I watch the steam rise, skin going red beneath it. But I don’t step out. I stay. I breathe. Slowly.

I remind myself what’s next. What I have to do. I can’t fall back now. I finally have control… I can’t… can’t let it slip.

After that, I pull on my clothes and go for a run. I don’t even think about it. I run like I used to, through a city that’s not mine but already familiar. Streets blur past me. Breath burning in my chest. That violent, numb rhythm of not thinking, not remembering.

Don’t remember. Don’t think. Don’t.

I ran and all of it felt automatic, like my body’s been doing this for years.

But my mind’s still stuck on last night.

Damir brought me here.

He hugged me.

He kissed my cheek.

He said he missed me.

That’s what I remember.

That, and his voice when he promised he’d come back.

I don’t know if I believe him. I never believe them. Any of them.

But something about the way he held me… It felt real.

And maybe that’s the worst part. Because I want to believe him. I want to believe he really came here to find me. That I was worth something more than just his mission.

Maybe he understands why I’m doing all this.

Why killing these dogs isn’t a mistake.

Why I stay sad, why I flinch when someone touches me too softly. Why I don’t know how to imagine love without thinking of bruises.

Maybe he gets it. Maybe not.

I stop by a flower shop, buy purple irises. It’s a ritual, I guess. Something painful I like to look at. Something to remind me that the mission’s not over. That I’m not done.

When I get back to the apartment, it’s quiet. Still early. I set the flowers on the table and drink a bottle of water in one long pull, like it might wash something out of me.

And then, I text Zanae.

Me

Hey, sorry I had to leave early last night. The party was great, thanks for inviting me. Hope to see you soon.

I don’t know why I feel guilty. But I do.

Then there’s a knock.

“Azra?”

My whole body freezes.

I don’t answer.

I stand there, waiting for him to go away. I can’t face him. Not yet. Not when everything still feels like it might split open again. I hear his footsteps retreat. And I finally exhale.

A few minutes pass. I open the door.

There’s a bag. A key beside it. A folded note.

I picked it up.

Brought your bike, partner. Have a nice day.

Inside the bag, my favorite breakfast. Still warm.

He came back. He brought my bike. He remembered what I liked.

And then he left again, like the point wasn’t to talk. Just to show me.

Why me?

Do I even deserve that?

Can I trust him?

I don’t know.

I don’t want to know.

I sit back in the chair, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing on my shoulders as I stare at the files on my screen. The church. The mission. The reason I’m here. Every detail, every lead, it all comes down to this.

I’ve been at this for years. I’ve hunted people, erased people, and now I’m hunting the ones who believe they’re untouchable.

The powerful, the hidden ones who think they’re above the law.

The church is just another front, another well-oiled machine disguised as charity and faith.

They think they can hide behind it, but I’ll find the cracks.

Kat came through again. She sent me more photos of the “Gathering of the Chosen” church, this time from old events.

The photos are blurry, grainy, old, but they're telling. Every gala, every ceremony, the same faces keep popping up. Rich men. Powerful men. Politicians, CEOs, people I’ve seen in high society.

Names I’ve crossed off my list of targets before.

But there’s one name I can’t ignore. One face that’s there in the background of every photo. It’s subtle, hidden, but it’s always there.

A girl.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. Just another kid in the background of these pictures.

But as I look closer, I see her in every single photo from every single gala.

At first, she’s a little girl, maybe eight years old, standing behind the pastor, a man with a kind face and a commanding presence, someone who looks like he belongs in front of a congregation, spreading the word.

But something about him doesn’t sit right.

He’s the type of man who knows how to make people trust him, how to make them feel safe, only to use that trust against them.

I keep flipping through the photos, and I notice something about this girl. She’s there, year after year. A kid. Then a teenager. Then... she disappears.

One of the most recent photos, taken about fifteen years ago, is the last one I can find of her. She’s in the background, standing behind the pastor just like the others, but after that? Nothing.

Where did she go?

I run her face through my face recognition system. And a name pops up. Lena Braxton. Nothing after that last picture.

I sit back, massaging my temples. I know this feeling. It’s that itch, that nagging feeling that I’m almost there. I don’t believe in coincidences, especially not in cases like this. This girl, she was there, in every single photo, until she wasn’t.

There’s a story there, and I need to find it.

I pull up my phone and send a quick message to Brian, Zanae’s friend.

Me

Hey, it’s Voron. Can I ask for your help if you're free?

The seconds feel like minutes as I wait for a reply, but then the message pops up.

Brian

Sure, what’s up?

I pause, thinking for a moment. I can’t go into too much detail. Not yet. But I need help, and I need it fast. So, I will explain the basics.

Me

I’m looking into a girl who was at the Gathering of the Chosen church for years, in photos dating back about 20 years. She was in every gala, but then she disappeared about 15 years ago. Her name was Lena Braxton. I can't find anything on her after that. Do you think you could dig into it?

Brian responds almost immediately.

Brian

Okay, weird. So, this girl was attending these events for years, and then gone just like that? That’s a red flag. Are you sure about the name?

Me

Yeah. Lena Braxton. But nothing after she disappears. It’s like she was wiped off the map.

I lean forward, staring at the screen, waiting. The more I dig, the more I’m sure there’s something dark behind all of this. Lena was a victim. A child. But to what end?

Minutes pass, and I continue flipping through the photos, unable to get rid of the feeling that I’m missing something.

Brian

Okay, I’ve found something. It’s not under the name Lena Braxton anymore, though.

She’s changed her identity. The name she’s using now is Emily Morrow.

She’s been using it for over a decade now.

I found an address linked to her in Nevada, just outside Las Vegas.

That’s interesting. You want me to keep digging?

I blink, the realization hitting me hard. This girl has been hiding for a long time, under a new name. Emily Morrow. She’s erased herself. She’s been living in the shadows, and she’s been hiding in plain sight.

Me

Yeah, keep digging. Let me know if you find anything else.

Brian responds quickly.

Brian

Wait, I found something else. I have an email address linked to her new identity. Want me to send it to you?

I don’t hesitate. This is it. This is my chance to get to her.

Me

Send it. Thank you, Brian.

She sends the email address and I look at it. Emily Morrow. I type her name into the search bar. The results are sparse, no social media, no official records. Just the email address and a few loose threads.

I pull up a few more details, trying to follow any kind of connection. Her new name seems to be completely scrubbed from the internet, no linked phone number, no family records. It’s like she doesn't exist in the world anymore.

The only things that come up are a couple of low-level charity events under the name Emily Morrow that took place in Nevada, but they’re years old.

There’s nothing recent. Nothing tying her to this world.

I drafted a new email, something professional, something convincing. I’ll give her no reason not to respond.

Subject: Investigative Journalist Looking into the Gathering of the Chosen Church

Dear Ms. Morrow,

My name is Lihan Crawford, and I am an investigative journalist researching the private church gatherings held by Desert Cross Church, known as the “Gathering of the Chosen.” Your name has come up multiple times in connection with these events, and I would very much like to hear your story.

I understand if you are hesitant to speak with me, but I can assure you that your privacy will be respected, and any information you provide will be treated with the utmost discretion.

I would appreciate any insight you can offer, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Best regards,

Lihan Crawford

I checked the email again. And then, I hit send.

Now, I wait. I don’t know if she’ll respond. I don’t know if she’ll even trust me enough to speak.

I then lean back, clutching the mug of water that's long gone lukewarm. My blanket’s still wrapped tight around my shoulders. I haven’t taken it off since I sat down two hours ago, not even when Vik called to check in.

The files are still open on my laptop. The last image of Lena, now Emily, is frozen on screen. In every picture, she looks like she’s somewhere else. She was never there by choice.

I exhale. Finally, something that feels like progress. Something my mother never found.

I get up, stretch, walk around the penthouse like it'll help me think straighter. The windows reflect the city, and the silence up here feels less suffocating than usual. Maybe I’ll grab a shower. Maybe food.

I’m halfway to the bathroom when I hear it. Ding.

Email.

I turn around. My heart hits my ribs once, hard. Already?

Back at the desk, I check the screen.

Subject: Re: Gathering of the Chosen Inquiry

From: [email protected]

Hi. Can you please call me on this number?

Tonight if possible.

-E.

There’s a number underneath. Nevada area code.

Weird. But not unexpected. If she’s hiding, she wouldn’t put anything in writing.

I stare at the number for a second, then grab the burner. Dial. One ring. Two. Three.

Then a voice, low and cautious: “Hello?”

I don’t use a name. Neither does she.

“You got my email?” I ask.

A pause. Then: “I’ve been waiting for someone to ask the right questions for a long time.” Her voice sounds older than I expected. “I’m not in Vegas right now,” she says. “But I live just outside. I could meet you somewhere in between.”

I nod even though she can’t see it. “I’ll be back in four days.”

“Good,” she says. “Don’t bring anyone. Just you. There are things I can’t say over the phone.”

“Understood.”

Another pause. “Thank you... for reaching out.”

Then she hangs up.

I sit back down, staring at the screen, the church photo still frozen behind my tabs. She’s real. She’s alive. And she wants to talk.

That’s more than I hoped for.

I open my notes, mark the date. Four days. I’ll be back in Vegas. And for once, there’s a clear next step. A good lead. I let myself lean back. Just a little. Let the weight shift off my chest. Finally, I can rest tonight. Just a little...