Page 156 of Eternal

AZRA

“Arcade Acoustic Version” by Duncan Laurence

Present

Damir’s gloves are on, tight around my hands, stupidly warm, but I wear them anyway. They’re the only thing that feels calming right now.

The gate cracked open like someone forgot to lock it properly. Luck or fate, I don’t know, I’m not questioning it.

I’m dressed in black, knife strapped to my thigh, gun tucked low where I can reach it fast.

I take a slow breath, trying to calm the rush in my chest. The whole compound sprawls in front of me, like a small city designed to trap secrets behind fences and cameras.

But I know the weak spot.

The old root cellar tunnel beneath the storage building, it’s dark, with no lights, no cameras, I’ve been circling it in my head all day.

This is my way in.

I pull my phone out one last time, and the satellite map glows dimly in the dark, I tap the route I planned, double-check the timing, the final fireworks don’t start till 9, and that’s my cover.

I can move quickly during the chaos, there’s no turning back now, I push the gate wider, slip inside, and disappear.

The bass from the main house is loud and vibrating through the ground beneath my feet.

Music floats on the warm desert air, mingling with laughter and clinking glasses, I can see guests dressed in their prettiest suits and dresses through the far-off windows, all smiles and distractions, cameras flash by the pool, lights twinkle, and fireworks are already starting to pop in the sky above.

Just a few like they’re testing them.

I slip through the shadows, keeping close to the treeline as I edge toward the central compound. It’s bigger, older-looking, like a fortress within a fortress.

I pause outside one of the outbuildings, heart thudding so loud I’m sure someone can hear it. The guards patrol in pairs, their eyes sharp beneath the brim of their hats, black suits, earpieces, guns holstered but ready, they don’t laugh or relax like the guests.

8:23 PM - East Dependency

The further I move from the main estate, the louder the fireworks sound behind me. But here it’s quiet. Wrong kind of quiet.

This dependency’s set off from the others, bigger, bulkier, and crawling with guards.

I watched from the trees for almost five minutes, no music here, no guests, just patrols, tight movements, radios pressed to shoulders, like they’re protecting something, or hiding it.

I move low, fast.

One guard walks too far from his post, I catch him before he sees me, a sharp twist. He slumps to the ground with a soft exhale, two more come from the other side, I shoot one clean, silence the other with my knife before he can raise an alarm.

No one’s calling in, no one’s seen.

I breathe hard, blood buzzing in my ears, my boots are wet now, and I don’t look down.

I slip inside, the hall is narrow, lined with small rooms, metal doors, some cracked open, some locked tight. A few have noise behind them, muffled, shifting. I pause, listening.

Whispers, someone crying, but I keep going.

There’s one room at the end, bigger, not like the others, the door isn’t metal, it’s painted black.

I push it open, it smells like perfume and bleach and something sickly underneath. The bed is large, and made too perfectly, there’s a camera bolted high in the corner, off.

The walls are white, there’s a stuffed animal in the corner, a vanity table, this isn’t a child’s room… It's a stage.

I go straight for the closet. Inside, shelves, boxes, a locked cabinet I force open with the butt of my knife.

Albums, cassette tapes, folders.

I opened one, the first photo’s blurry, like someone didn’t want to be seen, a man in a suit, a girl, maybe twelve, the backdrop is this room, that same bed.

I opened another album, I don’t get through three pages before bile hits the back of my throat.

They documented everything.

Kids, teens, girls, boys, some of them were terrified, others were clearly drugged. Men with badges, men I recognize, a judge, a congressman, a man I once saw shaking hands with the president on live TV.

I clutch the edge of the shelf and breathe through my nose.

Don’t vomit. Not now.

They kept trophies, they kept proof, here, right here in this fucking room.

I snap photos, hands shaking, but I get them, every page, every name tag, every face, I record everything. I’ll burn the albums after if I have to, but now I need them.

Because this isn’t simple proof, it’s criminal, at the highest level, and it’s still happening.

I press my hand against the wall, forcing myself to stand.

There’s more, there has to be more, and I’m not leaving without it.

My phone vibrates against my thigh once, but hard, it almost makes me drop the album.

I pull it out, thumb the screen, a string of texts from Damir fills the lock screen.

Damir

Where are you?

Damir

Partner.

Damir

It’s almost 9. Are you okay?

Damir

Are you already inside?

I open the thread, my fingers hesitate, then tap out a reply:

Me

Almost done. I’ll explain everything when I see you. Promise.

Three dots show up immediately.

Damir

Okay. I have your location. I’m almost here to pick you up.

My chest does something strange, pulls tight, warm, I almost text something dumb back, ‘ okay love you,’ but I don’t have the time.

I barely register the sound behind me until it’s too late, a crack, the floorboard to my right shifts.

I freeze, turn slowly.

There’s a boy, maybe thirteen standing in the doorway, too skinny. His shirt’s torn, lip split, face too pale, and he’s holding a gun. One of the guards’ probably, it’s shaking in his hands, too big for him, too dangerous.

His eyes flick from the photos on the table to me. Wide. Hollowed.

“Are you…” he chokes on it, voice breaking. “Are you one of them?”

My heart’s in my throat, I raise both hands, calm, steady, voice soft. “No. I’m not. I swear.”

He’s still standing there, frozen, the gun wobbling in both his hands, he looks so small under the hallway light, just a kid in someone else’s nightmare.

“I’m not one of them,” I say again, gentler now, stepping forward slowly. “I promise.”

His lips tremble, his eyes keep darting past me, toward the room behind us, like he’s expecting someone worse, a shadow, a monster.

“Hey.” I kneel a little, staying soft. “You don’t have to be scared of me. I swear I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

Silence; except for the fireworks cracking outside, distant and beautiful and cruel.

He doesn’t lower the gun, but his elbows start to sag like he’s too tired to keep holding it.

“Listen to me, you did good surviving this long, okay? But now you need to go, find a place to hide until it’s over.”

He blinks, fast and wet, the gun lowers an inch, then another.

“I’m gonna count to three, and you’re just gonna run. Alright? Just run.”

One.

He nods, barely.

Two.

I straighten a little, hand out, not reaching, just steadying.

Three.

He turns to bolt, and I step past him to urge him forward, and the gun goes off.

Pain .

My chest jerks back like it’s been hit with a hammer, my mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

There’s just this white-hot burn ripping through me, and a sticky wetness spreading under my ribs. I stumble. Hard . Knees slamming into the floor.

He’s staring at me, eyes wide, already crying.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, dropping the gun with a clatter. “I didn’t mean…I didn’t…I thought…”

“It’s okay,” I manage, breathless, choking on it. I blink… I’m shaking. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m fine sweetheart, just, just go. Hide. Now .”

He hesitates, one step forward like he wants to help, but I shake my head, push at the air.

“Go.”

He runs.

I try to breathe, my hand finds the wound, warm, wet, deep. It’s bad, really bad, blood’s already pooling under me.

“Fuck,” I whisper. “ Fuck. ”

The album’s still there, splayed open on the floor. I see a face, blurred, terrified, and a name I know too well typed beneath it. Senator, Nevada, smiling like nothing's wrong.

My whole chest is wet, I can’t tell if it’s sweat or blood.

No. It’s blood. It’s mine.

I press Damir’s gloves against the wound, and I don’t even realize I’m whispering, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” because I’m ruining them, I’m ruining the only thing he gave me that kept me happy tonight.

I blink hard. Everything’s going fuzzy, like I’m underwater, and everything’s pulsing in slow motion.

The photos, the cassettes, the albums. I gather everything I can from the desk with shaking fingers, clutching them like they’re oxygen.

He has to see this, the world has to see this, they can’t erase it, not this time.

I lean forward, and that's when I feel something shift in my pocket.

The note. His note.

I forgot I even brought it with me, folded, nearly torn, simply sitting between the lining. I pull it out with blood-stained fingers and unfold it slowly.

The writing’s messy, rushed. So him .

We’re Eternal, baby. I’m probably missing you right now. See you tonight. - Damir

A sharp breath escapes me. It’s not a sob, not really, only this ugly, broken sound that escapes before I can stop it.

“I’m trying…” I whisper. “I’m trying to see you...”

But my hands are slipping, and it’s getting harder to stay upright.

My body is failing, but something inside me… softens, like something tight in my chest finally lets go. Like I’m floating above the pain, even though it’s still there.

I can see my life in flashbacks. My mother’s voice and smile. Alexei teaching me how to dance. The dogs chasing me around the backyard, barking, wild. Vik’s grin. Kat’s laughter. Damir’s voice in the dark. I see everything.

The pain, the torment, the screams.

But it’s not hurting anymore, there’s a strange kind of freedom in this.

In not having to run anymore, not having to be afraid every second, not having to live with the noise in my head, the one that always whispered I wasn’t enough.

And I can see it now, the way I fucked up this life, the only one I had.

And still… sometimes, people forget how beautiful life can be.

These pictures, these kids. Girls and boys with haunted eyes, sitting terrified in the laps of smiling men.

The world lets them smile, the world forgets.

But maybe I was lucky. I had a second chance, and I used it to fight for them. Even if it led me here, bleeding into the tapes and albums and the floor beneath me, while the fireworks outside pretend the world is worth celebrating.

I’ve been alone for as long as I can remember. Lost between pain and denial, never really opening myself to life, never knowing if I was worth fighting for, or even if I wanted to live at all.

I built walls so high I forgot what freedom felt like, and I confused isolation with protection.

Love ? Love was never part of the plan. How could anyone love me? Broken. Disgusting. Abused. Discarded. How could anyone look at shattered glass on the floor and think, “I’ll fix it,” instead of sweeping it away?

No one thinks that. But maybe… he did. Maybe he’s seen too many broken things to walk past them anymore, maybe he’s a little bit broken too, a little bit masochistic.

It probably hurts him to touch me, but he still does, and maybe if he holds this one jagged piece, me, it won’t feel so alone anymore.

He promised this birthday would be different.

He said he had a gift, he was so excited, and said he had something to tell me.

This birthday was supposed to be different, and it is.

Because for the first time in twenty years, my broken heart came back to life, and then shattered all over again. All it took was a bullet. Maybe we don’t die just once.

Because the pain in my chest is screaming, this is the second, but it’s also the last.

I can feel it now, the warmth leaving my body.

Like my soul is unraveling quietly, slipping through my fingers, drifting away.

I wish I could see him one last time.

I wish he were here so I could say it.

Because he deserves to know that he made me happy, that for the past year, he made me feel human. That my pain meant something because he saw it, and stayed, that I was a child once. A little girl who couldn’t stop the people who were supposed to love her from hurting her.

Who didn’t understand what a mother should be, who couldn’t stop her father from giving up, who used to dream of stars… who only wanted to smile.

But the world took that from her, because she was unlucky, because she was too quiet, because she apologized too much, because she needed something, anything, to make the emptiness less loud.

Because sometimes, the only voices she could trust were the ones in her head, whispering that maybe she wasn’t truly alone. And now… Now it’s quiet.

But it’s okay. I’m okay, I found what I needed. I have proof, I can save them. I did it.

And maybe… maybe that’s okay.

I wish…

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy.

A voice, cracking with fear,

“Hey…HEY!”

Damir.

But I’m already sinking.

And all I can do is look up, blurry, shaking, bleeding, and whisper: “Damir…”