Page 150 of Eternal

AZRA

“When The Party’s Over” by Billie Eilish

Present

T he parking lot is almost empty. A few sun-bleached cars, heat almost visible over the asphalt. The hospital stands in front of me. I go in quickly, before the urge to turn back home gets too strong. Inside, the air conditioning hits me first, cold, sterile air.

I’ve never liked hospitals.

I don’t know why exactly, maybe the memories always win in places like this.

Because I can still feel that angry and heavy weight oppressing me, whenever I’m inside these walls.

A woman at the reception desk looks up, gives me a polite smile, and I give it back but I’m not asking for help. I already know where I’m going. Brian sent me everything.

Room 308. Oncology ward.

The elevator groans as it rises. I stare at the little screen above the doors. The number 3 lights up. My fingers tighten around my bag strap, and I don’t know what I’m expecting behind that door. A ghost? A dying man with truths locked inside him?

The hallway smells like disinfectant and something softer, maybe wilted flowers. It’s quiet.

I walk slowly, my boots heavy against the linoleum.

Room 308.

I stop.

My reflection stares back at me in the little window. The door creaks softly as I push it open.

The man inside is frail, his frame sunken, skin pale, brown eyes still sharp. He turns his head slowly toward me, but his face means nothing to me, but he looks at me like he’s been waiting for years.

“You came,” he says in a thin voice.

I freeze for a second, then close the door behind me. “You knew I would?”

He smiles faintly. “Not for sure. But... you chose your mother’s path. You found me faster than I expected.”

I stare at him. “I’m Voron .”

He falls silent. A small, dry laugh escapes him.

“ Azra… So you’re the one I’ve heard whispers about. The murders... they're vengeance, aren’t they?”

My name… Of course he knows it.

Vengeance, survival, life, it’s all the same.

I don’t know what to say, how to explain myself, my actions, so I open my mouth and only honesty comes out.

“My mother lost her light the day she started working on this case. She spiraled. Started drinking. Drugs. She went mad, slowly. And she died before she ever got a chance to climb back out. My little brother didn’t even learn to speak properly before they killed him.

So yes. I’m following her path. And I will find out who did this to them. And to me .”

I’m following her path…

He closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, they shine with something close to grief.

“She loved you. All of you. She would’ve given everything for her family.”

Loved me? Loved us?

How can a stranger be so sure of something he never had to survive?

How can he claim to understand?

Was he ever a child, watching his mother slowly destroy herself, helpless, powerless, with no way to stop it? My mom loved me once.

Before her love turned to bottles and pills, to things that made her forget how to feel .

Things that made her forget how to look at me like I was her own child.

Like she was blind to the love I had for her.

I watched her lose her beauty to confusion and pain.

And he…he stands there like he knew her? Maybe he’s simply blinded by the version of her he wanted to see.

“You loved her?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He smiles, softly. “Probably. But she only had eyes for her husband, her kids... and justice.”

I step forward slowly, pull out a chair, and sit near his bed. “How did you meet her?”

“It was after a court case. My boss told me to keep tabs on her. She was asking too many questions, digging into sensitive files. They said she was a potential national threat.” He gives a short, bitter laugh.

“But the moment I saw her, I knew that was bullshit. She was chasing the truth. Not chaos.”

He pauses, like he’s remembering an old life.

“We spoke a lot. Sometimes for hours. She told me what she was discovering, little by little. About the organization, about the women she was trying to protect. She volunteered in shelters, you know. While working with the Bratva. Strange, right? But it made sense to her. She trusted me. And I decided to go in. Infiltrate. From the inside. For her.”

“You talk about her like she’s still here,” I whisper.

She’s not, she was never here.

He coughs, a deep painful sound. Then slowly straightens up in the bed. “Before she died... she found something. Someone.”

I pull the journal out of my bag and hand it to him. “Do you recognize this?”

His hands tremble as he takes it. He frowns, inspecting the cover. “ This... is this the real one?”

I shake my head. “I recognize her writing in a lot of pages, but I think they tampered with it. Some things are probably missing, and some rewritten.”

He nods slowly. “She had a name. She thought she’d found the man at the top of the network.”

“Do you know who it was?” I ask.

“No. I never got the chance. After she died, I vanished. I was sick. Changed my name. I wanted the world to forget me. But cancer doesn’t give a damn about secrets.”

“So, you can’t help me?”

He looks toward the window, as if searching for something outside.

“Azra, there’s something I never told anyone.

” He leans forward with effort, opens the drawer beside him, and pulls out a worn, yellowed envelope.

He hands it to me. “She gave me this. An address. A private estate. Not too far from Vegas. Massive. Isolated. Dozens of outbuildings. Security is like a fortress.”

“Whose property is it?”

He stares into my eyes. “Edward Callahan.”

I go still. “The governor?”

He nods. “Back then, he was a simple congressman. Ambitious. Quiet. Now he’s untouchable. Close to the president. Untouchable in every way that matters.”

“And you’re sure it’s him?”

“As sure as anyone can be without evidence. I think that’s the name you mom found. She thought the address meant something.”

He squints, suddenly thoughtful. “You’ve come at the right time. Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July. Every year, he hosts a private celebration. Fireworks, press, big displays. It’s one of the rare days the place isn’t locked down like a bunker.”

I tilt my head. “And it still has no weak points?”

He chuckles faintly. “Everything has a weakness. You’ll have to find it. And hey... at least you’ll get to watch the fireworks.”

“I’ve never liked the Fourth of July anyway,” I mutter.

He laughs, the sound thin and warm. “Your mom did. She used to say that her life began that day.”

Me?...

I just…

I want him to stop talking about her. Because the wounds are opening again, and I can feel myself bleeding raw from the inside, with no evacuation system.

Talking about her is the same as reliving it.

And my heart… it’s not accepting it.

It refuses, the image of her, alive and happy, feels blurry. Fake . Imagined and created by a kid’s hope who needed her to be better than what she became.

It feels like a lie someone’s forcing into my brain.

He reaches back into the drawer, this time pulling out a small, scratched metal object. He then places it gently into my palm. An old FBI badge. The edges worn. The emblem faded.

“Keep this with you,” he says softly. “I like knowing that some part of me will always stay with a part of Amane. And maybe... maybe it’ll bring you luck.”

I close my fingers around the badge. It’s cold. Heavy.

He studies me one last time. “Please, Azra. Be careful.”

I rise to my feet slowly, his words echoing in me. The badge is tight in my hand, the address pressed against my ribs.

My mother’s story didn’t die with her.

Not yet. I step out. Everything’s spinning. Faces, sounds, all drowning me.

Breathe. You need to breathe.

But my chest tightens, heart pounding.

Calm down. You’re okay.

The elevator doors close, cold and suffocating.

In… out… in… out…

My breath’s shallow, fast, panic creeping brutally on me. I press my forehead to the wall.

Focus. Focus.

Doors open. Blinding sun. I stagger out, gasping, my hands shake as I grab my bike.

Get moving. Don’t think.

Helmet on. The engine roars. I ride away before my head bursts.

“Iris” by The Goo Goo Dolls

The moment I step into the apartment, I’m hit with the smell of garlic, tomato, and something else. The smell is familiar…

My chest tightens, not in panic this time, but something warmer. Deeper.

I slip off my boots slowly, like I’ve stepped into a dream, and let my bag slide from my shoulder with a soft thud.

I’m home.

Not thinking about the man at the hospital, not thinking about tomorrow.

“Hey,” I call out, voice a little hoarse.

“In here,” Damir answers and I follow the sound to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway.

He’s in a fitted black tee and loose grey sweats, barefoot, stirring something in a pan like it’s the only thing that matters, but what freezes me isn’t the food. It’s him.

He’s wearing… glasses.

Thin-rimmed, resting low on his nose as he looks down at the pan. His damp hair curls slightly at the edges, still messy from a shower. He looks soft, and infuriatingly gorgeous.

I blink. “Since when do you wear glasses?”

He glances up with a crooked grin. “I’m getting old, partner . Can’t lose my eyes now. What would I look at all day?”

“They’re new,” I murmur, stepping closer.

“They’re for resting my eyes. Bought them this morning,” he says, turning to face me. Spoon still in hand. “Do you like them?”

It should be studied, the way this man messes with my nervous system, the way the low timbre in his voice curls heat low in my belly, every damn time.

“Your eyes?” I tease, standing toe-to-toe with him. “Or the glasses?”

He leans in, lips grazing mine in a fleeting kiss. “Both.”

I smile. “I do.”

I’m not telling him tonight, not about what I feel, not about tomorrow, not yet.

I want to be here. His. For tonight.

He turns back to the stove, flipping the pan with an effortless flick of his wrist.

“How was… everything?”

“It was… a lot.”

I don’t want to say it, I don’t even want to remember it.