Chapter 7
624words
I often jolt awake in the darkest hours, haunted not by gunfire or bloodshed, but by Victor's gentle, regretful eyes as he fell. I rule the empire he left behind, yet I've also inherited his profound isolation.
To completely sever ties with my past, I decided to erase all evidence of Officer Ada Brown. One quiet afternoon, I opened the long-sealed box containing my belongings from my student days and police academy mementos.
I fed these documents and credentials one by one to the flames, watching them curl and blacken into ash. As I lifted an old photo album to consign it to the same fate, a yellowed photograph slipped free, drifting gently onto the carpet.
I stooped to retrieve it.
In the image, a younger version of myself and Victor walked hand-in-hand across the university campus, bathed in sunset light. He wasn't yet the composed crime lord he would become—just a senior student with bright eyes and a warm smile. He attended university to better manage his family business, while I was assigned to get close to him.
The floodgates of memory burst open, memories rushing over me like a flood tide.
I remember that afternoon when the photo was taken. We were strolling along the tree-lined path toward the dormitories when we spotted a trembling stray cat hiding in the bushes—a tiny, filthy thing watching passersby with wary eyes.
Victor stopped immediately. He crouched down carefully and extended his hand, his voice impossibly gentle as he coaxed the frightened creature. He scooped it up, used his own handkerchief to clean away the dirt, then dashed like an excited child to a nearby shop for milk and cat food.
Watching the kitten devour its meal, the smile on his face outshone the sunset.
I teased him, asking if he planned to rescue every stray cat he encountered.
He turned to me, suddenly serious: "I hope that someday, all vulnerable creatures can find protection, no matter how small or forgotten they might be."
Back then, I dismissed his words as naive idealism, not grasping their deeper meaning. I even suspected he was performing, trying to impress me.
When he asked about my background, I told him I was an orphan raised at a facility on the city outskirts. He casually asked for the orphanage's name, then gave me a curious smile.
Driven by a sudden, inexplicable impulse, I called Mario and requested an investigation unrelated to my vendetta—into St. Clair Orphanage where I grew up.
The results arrived quickly—a single sheet of paper that shook me more deeply than any criminal ledger ever could.
For twenty consecutive years, the largest anonymous benefactor of St. Clair Orphanage had been the McMillan Family Foundation.
Fate had intertwined our lives long before we met. He wasn't some stranger who entered my world—he was the unseen guardian who had sheltered my entire childhood.
I drove to Victor's grave.
His name stood crisp and clear on the cold marble. I reached out, tracing those engraved letters with my fingertips, as if I might somehow feel his warmth through the stone.
He banned drugs to shield neighborhoods from addiction's ravages; he established order to protect those the law couldn't reach; he even safeguarded me despite knowing my true identity, wanting only to give me a chance at a better life.
In his imperfect way, he had stubbornly protected whatever light he could find.
And I only understood this after he was gone.
Under the vast Los Angeles sky, I stood motionless, letting the evening breeze dry the tears on my face. The silhouette of the underworld's new queen looked desperately alone in the cold moonlight—yet utterly determined.
