Page 92 of Eternal

“I crawled until I found Volk’s phone and called the police.

They arrived and I was the only one who lived.

” I heard Zanae’s breath catch, felt Elijah’s silence grow colder.

Nikolai blinked slower, nodding faintly.

They all knew what that kind of pain looked like.

So I pointed at the file. “My mother… She kept a journal. She was a lawyer for a lot of people, but she also worked, quietly, with a women’s rights group.

She was tracking contracts. Domestic abuse cases that led her to discover strange stories about influential people.

She found things, documents tied to disappearances, to names.

That’s why they came. I only got the journal back from the police when I turned eighteen. ”

Nikolai reached for the folder, and Elijah just stared.

“I’ve been working through it, killing the ones I could trace. But the last man I hunted… he slipped up. Told me something, he said the girls and boys were being ‘cleaned’ before being shipped. Like… disinfected. Groomed, washed clean and branded new.”

I swallowed, the coffee untouched and cold in front of me. “I talked about it with Vik and he told me we might be fighting the same group.”

Zanae’s hand curled slightly, her eyes darkened and Elijah’s fingers squeezed hers. Nikolai just looked like he was processing, calculating the next step.

“Where were you all those years?” Zanae asked, studying my face, my breathing, everything coming out of me.

“In Hell .”

She didn’t flinch, she just reached out and squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. Not like she pitied me. Not like she needed the details. She just said it in a way that didn’t feel hollow or cheap, in a way that made me think she knows.

Maybe not my exact pain, but something close.

She felt like a woman who’d suffered the way only women do.

And somehow, that made my chest ache, because she was still here, smiling, in love, alive. Healing .

Nikolai leaned forward, tapping his fingers on the table. “What’s in the file, Voron?”

I exhaled slowly and opened it. Names, shipping routes, surveillance photos, scribbled notes.

“I started following a case some time ago, a girl disappeared, no papers, no family looking for her. She worked at a vineyard, under the table, she was really round.” I pointed to a photo of the estate, rolling fields, quiet gates, and secrecy painted in soft light.

“The vineyard’s owned by a wine magnate, old money with expensive lawyers.

He's had allegations in the past, trafficking rumors, workplace abuse, but nothing stuck. All sealed behind NDAs.”

Zanae didn’t breathe, Elijah barely blinked.

“That same night the girl vanished, a shipment left the vineyard. Destination: a Vegas restaurant. One night only, exclusive dinner. The owner?” I slid a photo forward.

“A chef. You know the type, Michelin stars, TV shows, high-society praise. But he disappeared years ago, he went quiet after whispers started.”

Nikolai frowned. “Disappeared how?”

“Voluntarily. He retreated from the spotlight, no legal accusations.”

I took a slow breath. This was the part that had haunted me for weeks.

“My mother knew his wife. She wrote about her, she said that the woman came to her, terrified, she said she found files on his laptop. Videos, photos, girls, barely conscious, half-naked. Tables surrounded by rich men pretending they were at some kind of fucking banquet. She begged my mother to help her and didn’t trust the cops.

Three days later, she was dead. A car crash, they said.

But someone mailed my mom a piece of her skin, a visible tattoo to recognize her, and a threat. ”

I pulled another image: the chef, present-day, with grey hair and a fuller face.

“I found him, though. He was holding a comeback dinner for Halloween last year. Secret guest list, at a private venue. I found his name buried under a new LLC. He was hiding, but not from everyone, just enough to avoid headlines.”

Zanae’s hand tightened on her coffee.

“I got to him that night.” The memory was cold in my mouth. “And just before I was done with him, just before he died, he said, ‘the church. ””

I dropped the last photo on the table, the vineyard owner, the chef, and behind them: a white-columned church.

“Invitations only, rich men in black suits and gold crosses. All white walls and gold trim. They’re both donors at the same congregation.

I followed the records, the sermons this pastor gives are disgusting.

Purity-obsessed, misogyny dressed as holiness, but no charges ever stuck. He’s protected.”

My voice got quiet.

“I think that’s the last stop. Where they break them, scrub them clean. ‘Sanctify’ them. Before they’re sold. Like it was protocol, like it was a procedure.”

I hesitated, then whispered the part I hadn’t written.

“And I think it’s part of something bigger, something organized. I just… I don’t have a name.”

Elijah leaned back slowly, eyes still on the photo. Then his voice, like the crack of bone. “ You do. ”

I blinked. “What?”

Nikolai’s voice this time, softer. “The organization behind all of this. We’ve been tracking it for years, they’ve been hiding under charities, corporations, even religious institutions.”

He looked at Elijah, a nod passed between them and Zanae leaned forward, her face different from what I’ve seen. She looks like her reputation, the Emira, the Huntress, filled with rage. “They call themselves The Veil .”

And just like that, every thread I’d followed suddenly had a name.

Zanae spoke again, and I caught Nikolai’s worry in his eyes, like he knew his friend went through hell because of them and hated them for that. Elijah’s hand tightened around her wrist like he was checking… her pulse?

“They don’t just kill. They sell silence, disappearances, reprogramming and complete erasure. That’s the real mission.”

I blinked. “How do you know?”

She looked at me, and there was something feral behind her eyes. “Because my mother ran part of it.”

Nikolai and Elijah didn’t move. They already knew.

Zanae didn’t flinch, she smiled sadly. “I was a victim when I was younger,” she said, voice calm but something beneath it cracked. “Elijah and Nikolai rescued me.”

She didn’t sound broken, she didn’t sound grateful, she sounded angry.

Like someone forged in pain but still burning.

“Last year, I started really searching,” she went on.

“I found others. Girls. Boys. Not all of them survived. They were marked, disposable, and I found contracts connecting rival gangs, hits. But it was never personal.” She inhaled slowly, like the truth still scraped going down. “It was systematic.”

I didn’t speak, I let her fill the silence with what she clearly needed to say. “We always knew about the contracts. How clean and coordinated they were, like mercenaries, not criminals.” A pause. “But we didn’t know the trafficking was real, not until that one mission.”

She turned to me. “That man’s phone, from the thief case a few months ago. The one you took on Nikolai’s order?”

I nodded, that mission…the night I got stabbed. The one where Damir carried me home and stitched me up like I wasn’t just another broken thing. The night everything changed.

“Brian, our hacker in Vesper, she went into that phone. Encrypted logs. Hidden videos. GPS caches. Media archives. Text chains with only first names and burner IDs.”

She glanced at Elijah, then back to me. “Whoever was texting your target wasn’t just helping him move money or product.” A breath. “They were planning entire transfers, routes, people and packages; some of the faces in those chains matched my files.”

She tapped the folder in front of her. “So, I started digging. Old ops, recon footage and survivor notes. Every blurry face I didn’t trust. Some of those same faces showed up again.

And again. In survivor testimonies and in missing persons reports.

” She met my gaze. “Kids we thought were safe, gone again within weeks.” Then her voice dropped.

“And every time, before they disappeared… They met someone. A pastor, a guest, a teacher, a donor. At a church, a restaurant, a school, even at a fundraiser.”

“They were just living.” Her voice cracked. “Then they were gone.”

She reached into her bag, pulled out a folder filled with photos, and spread them across the table.

“Some bodies were found years later. Dumped, burned, even buried. Unrecognizable until DNA confirmed who they were.” She didn’t flinch as she looked at them.

“They found signs of torture, starvation, and abuse. The kind that leaves either nothing… or everything.”

The silence after that wasn’t quiet, it was heavy, suffocating. “And that’s just the ones we know about.” Her eyes locked on mine. “We know it’s national. But how many more? How many countries? How many branches?”

“You brought us proof. Enough to burn the first layer of this thing down.”

I stared at the photo, at the church.

This was ritualized violence, sold like communion.

Elijah reached over, pulled Zanae closer and left his hand around her neck, like he was still checking her pulse. She smiled at the gesture, then turned back to me.

“Thank you for coming,” she said softly. “I have so many things to show you. Maybe we can work on this together.”

“How long are you staying in Vesper?” Nikolai asked.

“Probably a week or two,” I replied. “I’ve got that pastor to chase down back home.”

She laughed at that. Even Nikolai chuckled. “Perfect,” she said. “We’ll make you a copy of everything. You’ll leave here with answers.”

Zanae slid her number toward me across the table, her fingers brushing the edge of it like she wanted to make sure I actually took it. “Call me if you need anything, okay?” she said. “And let’s see each other tomorrow. There’s a gala, nothing too formal, but... we’d really like you there.”

I gave a small nod and tucked the paper into my pocket. “Alright, yeah. Thanks.”

Elijah stood, reached his hand out again and I took it, firm and brief. “Welcome to Vesper.”

Nikolai was already moving toward the door, holding it open for me with a glance I couldn’t quite read. I followed him out into the bright midday sun, the coffee shop patio got quiet behind us.

I pulled my helmet off the back of the bike, but my head still ached.

As I adjusted the strap, Nikolai shifted beside me, hands in his coat pockets.

“If you’re staying a few days,” he said, “and you feel like training,” I looked up at him. “We’ve got a place. Quiet, off the grid. A friend and I are sparring there tomorrow morning. A few others might join.” He paused. “No pressure.”

I didn’t answer right away, the sun hit my eyes and I nodded. “I’d like that.”

That near-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Alright then, I’ll send you the address.”

“Thank you, Nikolai. Really .” I smiled even if he couldn't see it.

He smiled back and replied, “You’re welcome, Azra.”

And I mounted the bike, clipped my helmet on, and pulled away from there.

The ride through Vesper was almost too bright, warm wind cutting through the streets, kids playing near fountains.

Back at the penthouse, I let the elevator carry me to my floor. As soon as the door closed behind me, I slid my boots off, let my jacket fall to the floor, and walked to the couch.

The headache was still there but not screaming as loudly anymore.

I glanced at the slip of paper with Zanae’s number, now sitting on the marble counter next to my keys.

Didn’t call. Didn’t text.

But I left it there.

Maybe tomorrow, I'll pick it up again.

I stayed all day long watching Casablanca, again and again, called Vik and Kat to tell them about what I learned today and fell asleep.