Page 158 of Eternal

DAMIR

“Skyfall” by Adele

Present

I took the gun she couldn’t use, the one outside from the guard she killed. I feel nothing but heat, not rage, not yet, only… purpose. It’s quiet inside me now, like grief just… vacuumed the soul out of me.

So I walked to the party, to the ones who did this, to the ones who smiled while she bled.

Because love like that doesn’t die without war. The gun’s heavy in my hand. The second one is heavier. Loaded. Warm from the dead guard’s holster.

No one notices at first. Laughter, glasses clinking, fireworks screaming across the sky.

Red, white, blue. It should’ve been her day, it should’ve been hers.

She should’ve had another cake, candles, a swing in the garden, instead… Instead… She’s lying still, in a room with blood on her gloves, on her smile, my jacket under her head.

Someone turns to greet me, I shoot them in the face, screams erupt, another firework explodes overhead, too loud, too bright. I hate the noise. I hate the people. I hate the colors.

The guards raise their weapons too slow.

I shoot. One. Two. Another.

I don’t aim to wound.

They fall like dominoes, I move through the chaos like it’s automatic, like I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life. Maybe I have.

Blood on the marble, on the walls.

The music stops, but the fireworks don’t, stupid fireworks, they should be for her, only for her, a celebration of life she never got to finish.

I reload in the middle of the panic.

It’s not revenge, it’s grief, dressed in bullets, a requiem for the only thing that ever made me human.

The clip clicks empty.

I pull the trigger again. Nothing.

Click.

“…Fuck,” I whisper. I’m too tired for rage.

I drop the gun, pull the knife from my belt, it’s small, sharp, personal.

The man in front of me screams before I even move.

One step, one clean slice across his throat.

He gurgles as he drops, and I just keep walking.

The Governor’s trying to run. Stupid. Slow.

I catch him outside the garden, panting, red in the face, begging already.

He falls backward as I approach, boot to his chest, pinning him down.

“This is your house?” I ask, calm.

“Y-Yes! Yes, please?—”

“Okay,” I nod. “Good.”

I slice his ear off like I’m cutting steak.

He screams, high-pitched, animal .

I drag him by the collar, through the blood-slick grass, past bodies and glass and bone.

The fireworks keep going. Loud, bright, like celebrations are still happening.

It makes me sick.

I sat him in a chair in front of the house, the one they used for toasts, for speeches.

His ear’s in on the ground, his blood’s on my hands.

I step inside, find the kitchen without thinking, lighter in the drawer, cabinet full of alcohol, curtains dry as kindling.

I soak everything. Trail the liquor across the floors. Over rugs. Tables. The drapes. I even splash it across a painting. His fucking legacy.

I walk back out. He’s still in the chair. Shaking. Crying.

I flick the lighter.

“This is what my Fourth of July looks like,” I tell him. Then I dropped it.

The fire catches fast, and I walk away, not even looking back. The fire’s eating the walls, the velvet, the bones of their house.

Her fire. Her vengeance. Her truth.

But it’s not over yet, not if I let him die.

I turn to look at the dependency behind me.

They’re coming out slowly now, teenagers, and a few women. Some were barely walking, some not even speaking.

I tell them it’s okay.

I tell them help is coming.

And it burns something deep in my chest when I realize I sound like her.

Like Azra, when she talked about what she lived through, that quiet ache when she still thought someone might come, that someone might save her.

I couldn’t save her .

But I can save them .

I walk back to the small dependencies this bastard had hidden in his enormous hell on earth.

Now, it’s burning. I take a gun from a dead guard and shoot every closed door, one by one. Room by room. I kick open a door. Three girls, young. Fourteen? Maybe younger.

They stare at me like I’m death, I don’t say anything, I simply step aside. “Leave. Now. You’re free.”

Another door. People. Again. And again.

Hell. Fucking hell.

Under our noses for so long.

The last door, the one I came through when I found her.

A boy, curled under a desk, trembling, arms locked around his knees. Alone.

No one else.

And he’s crying, quiet, wrecked, not even looking at me when I step in.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Again. Again. Again. Like a mantra. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t mean…”

It’s him, the one who shot her. I feel it like a knife in my throat, and for a second, a stupid, selfish second, I want to kill him.

This small, shaking thing. I want to put my hand around his neck and scream, You took her. You took her from me.

But I don’t move.

Because then he looks up, and I see her.

The same hollow fear in his eyes she used to have when the memories got too close.

The same silence. The one screaming ‘I didn’t mean to survive this way.’

I swallow, my hands are fists, my whole body’s a fuse. But I kneel anyway.

“Hey,” I say. It comes out hoarse. Too soft for what I feel. “Come on, buddy. It’s okay. Get up.”

He flinches, and doesn’t believe me.

I reach for him, slowly, like I did for her the first time she let me touch her face.

“You’re going to go outside. People who can help are coming.”

He barely stares, like I’m not real, like he’s already somewhere else.

Then his lips move. Barely.

“Is… is the lady okay?” He’s still crying. “I… I didn’t mean to shoot. I didn’t… I didn’t even see… it just… it just went off.”

I should hate him… But all I can do is nod. Smile like it doesn’t kill me, because she would’ve forgiven him.

“She’s okay,” I lied. “She wanted to save you. So you better live. You better fucking make it mean something.”

His footsteps vanish down the hall, then, nothing. Just the crackle of fire somewhere behind. The soft creak of walls that have seen too much, I stay there, kneeling.

The air stinks of smoke and old blood. Hers.

Something in me is collapsing in slow motion, and I can’t stop it.

I stared at the spot where the boy had been, and I whisper, barely breathing:

“You saved them, baby. You really did.”

My throat burns. Then I pull out my phone. My hand is still slick with her blood, drying between my fingers, and I dial. 911. Vegas. Rings. One, two, three… Click.

A voice on the other end. “911, what’s your emergency?”

My voice comes out low, like I’m watching myself from somewhere else.

“There’s a house. Outside the city. Governor Callahan’s private estate. He’s alive. Tied up. You’ll find him on the front lawn.” I don’t wait for the pause. I keep going. “There are bodies. Guards. Guests. Evidence.”

I glance back, the dependency’s door is wide open now. Teenagers. Women. Survivors. Huddled near the edge of the road like they’ve forgotten what sunlight feels like. “In the back wing, there are minors. Girls, some boys. You’ll need trauma teams. CPS. Everyone.”

Silence on the line.

Then: “Sir, who is this? Are you saying the Governor…”

“I’m saying the Governor of Nevada kept underage kids and victims locked in his estate,” I cut in, voice flat. “And I have evidence.”

I breathe once. It hurts. Every breath.

“Get the feds. Get the press. Get your goddamn DA.”

Another beat, the dispatcher sounds like she’s trying to catch up. “We’re sending units now. What’s your name?”

I hang up, and I whisper to no one, “Let the world see who you really were, Governor. Let them all see what she died for.”

I walk back to the room behind this wall, where she’s still waiting for me.

And she’s laying on that bed, beautiful. My angel. My tired angel. I can’t… I can’t do this.

I lifted her again, gently. Her body rests against my chest, I carry her through smoke, past crying women, shivering teens, shadows that used to be people.

Some are walking into the night, barefoot. Some are waiting for help, sirens flickering against their stunned faces. Blue and red lights flood the estate.

I lay her in the passenger front seat, slow, careful, buckle her in, like she’s asleep. Brush a strand of hair from her face. “You wait for me, okay?”

Then I go back. Through the tears. Through the smoke. Through the people she saved.

I returned to the room where she found it all.

And there, on the desk, she left them.

A small pile, tapes, a few photos pulled from albums stacked nearby, cassettes with names, everything she found.

I pause, my throat closes. I search for something, a bag, anything, and all I can find is a small trash can with a liner inside, I empty it onto the floor and start filling it.

Everything she touched. Everything she uncovered. Every goddamn piece of proof.

They’ll see it, all of it. I sling the bag over my shoulder and head back out, back to her, back to the car. She’s still buckled in, still peaceful.

I slide the evidence next to her like it’s part of her body now.

It is, it’s her voice, her fight.

I sat beside her, her head resting on my shoulder now, my hand holding hers, cold. Always cold.

“Always had such cold hands, baby,” I whisper. “And I always warmed them, didn’t I?”

I call Vik’s phone, and Kat picks up first, her voice is quiet. “Damir?”

I open my mouth, nothing comes out at first. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“It’s Azra.”

A pause, then Vik’s voice, on speaker. “What happened? Where is she?”

I stare ahead, her head on my shoulder, her hand is still in mine.

“She’s… not doing well. I’m taking her to the hospital.”

Kat’s voice breaks. “Not doing well? What does that mean?”

I think I’m lying, but I know I’m not.

Still... maybe she’s simply cold. Maybe she’s still waiting for warmth.

Vik: “Damir, what the fuck happened?”

“Please be there, she wanted to see you. Both of you,” I whisper. “She really did .”

Then I hung up.

Because I can’t do this part on the phone, I turn the key, and we drive.