ARSHILA POV
"I am going to the cops."
The words leave my mouth like a decision, but the moment they settle, doubt crawls in, slow and suffocating, wrapping around my chest until it feels harder to breathe.
I don't know if this is smart, or suicidal, or exactly what he wants me to do next, and that thought alone makes my grip tighten on the steering wheel until my knuckles ache.
It doesn't stop me.
I hit the gas again, harder this time, the car shooting forward as the road stretches endlessly ahead, dark and empty, the port fading behind me.
The police station is too far from here, miles away from this isolated stretch of road, and every second it takes to get there feels like a risk I don't understand yet.
My phone starts vibrating.
At first, I ignore it.
Then it keeps going.
Again.
And again.
The sound fills the car, sharp and insistent, breaking through the noise in my head until it becomes impossible to push away. My jaw tightens as I glance at it, then back at the road, trying to focus, but it doesn't stop.
It only gets worse.
"Fuck…" I mutter under my breath, my pulse spiking again as irritation mixes with something colder. I slow the car down and pull over to the side of the road, the tires crunching softly against gravel as I stop completely.
The engine stays on.
The darkness outside feels heavier now, thicker, pressing against the windows like it's trying to get in.
There are no lights here, no movement, nothing but the distant sound of the sea and the faint hum of the engine beneath me.
For the first time—
I feel it.
Fear.
Not of him.
Not of what I saw.
But of the dark itself.
My fingers hesitate for half a second before I grab my phone, unlocking it quickly, my breath still uneven as the screen lights up my face.
Notifications.
Too many.
News alerts.
Unknown sites.
Everything at once.
My eyes scan the screen, and for some reason—
I'm not surprised.
"Global Pop Star Ares Vance Found Dead."
A dry, bitter scoff leaves me, hollow and disbelieving, because it hasn't even been an hour. I just walked out of that house.
I just saw him alive—bleeding, broken, but alive—and now the world is already being fed a clean, polished lie.
My thumb moves before I think, opening the article, my eyes scanning the words that come up, sharp and professional like they belong to a completely different reality.
International pop sensation Ares Vance was found dead late tonight in his private beachside residence, according to initial reports from local authorities.
The artist, who had reportedly been missing for several days, was discovered under circumstances that are currently under investigation.
My breath catches slightly, my fingers tightening around the phone.
Private beach house.
So that wasn't Zayan's place.
It was his.
A cold realization settles deeper in my chest, heavier than before. He didn't just kill him.
He killed him in his own house.
My eyes move faster now, reading the rest, every word feeling sharper than it should.
Authorities have confirmed that the body was recovered following a welfare check after concerns were raised regarding the artist's sudden disappearance.
While preliminary observations suggest signs of struggle, official statements regarding the cause of death will be released following a full postmortem examination.
Fans across the world have begun mourning the sudden loss, with tributes pouring in across social media platforms. Further details are expected as the investigation progresses.
I stare at the screen for a second longer, my mind struggling to catch up with the speed of it all.
It's already done.
Cleaned.
Packaged.
Given to the world like a story they can digest.
"Unbelievable…" I whisper, my voice barely there.
My grip tightens around the phone, anger cutting through the fear now, sharper, clearer, something solid I can hold onto.
He did this.
And he got away with it before I even reached the road.
A slow breath leaves me as I drop the phone onto the passenger seat, my eyes lifting to the darkness ahead, my reflection faintly visible in the windshield, looking like someone I don't recognize.
He has everything.
Power.
Money.
Control.
Half the world bends without even knowing his name is behind it, and still—
He does this.
"Fucking Zayan…" I murmur under my breath, my jaw tightening as something colder settles into place, something steadier than the panic from before.
"There's no way I'm letting you walk away from this."
I push the car back onto the road, the engine roaring louder than before as if it can outrun the storm building inside me.
My hands are still unsteady on the wheel, but the fear has shifted into something sharper now, something that burns instead of freezes.
My thoughts keep circling back to him, to who he is outside of what I just saw, and the contrast makes it worse in a way I can't ignore.
He is not just some man.
He is the heir to a trillion-dollar empire, the Tavarian bloodline sitting at the top of everything, the kind of power that doesn't need permission to exist.
He has money that could bury crimes without leaving a trace, influence that bends systems before they even realize they are being touched, and a name that people don't question because they don't even know where it truly begins.
And still—
He chooses this.
Not necessity.
Not survival.
Choice.
The thought sits wrong in my chest, heavy and suffocating, but it only pushes my foot harder against the gas as the road finally starts to shift, the empty darkness slowly giving way to something more structured, more familiar.
Lights.
Buildings.
Civilization.
The police station appears ahead, bright against the night, the sign glowing steady like something real, something grounded, something that exists outside of him.
I slow the car as I pull in, the tires rolling over the pavement before I come to a complete stop just across from the entrance.
For a second, I just sit there.
My hands remain on the steering wheel, my chest rising and falling slower now, my eyes locked on the building in front of me.
The light spilling from inside feels too clean after what I saw, too normal, almost unreal compared to the darkness I just walked out of.
This is where it ends.
This is where he doesn't win.
My jaw tightens as I reach for the door handle, my fingers curling around it, ready to step out and say everything, to burn whatever illusion he built so perfectly.
He doesn't get to walk away.
He doesn't get to erase this.
My hand pulls slightly—
And then my phone vibrates again.
The sound cuts through the silence, sharp and sudden, freezing me mid-movement. My brows pull together in irritation as I glance down, expecting another headline, another perfectly crafted lie from the world that already moved on.
But it's not the news.
It's him.
My stomach drops.
The notification sits there, his name staring back at me like it already knows what I am about to do.
For a second, I don't touch it, my fingers hovering just above the screen as something colder creeps in, something quieter but far more dangerous than panic.
Then I open it.
It's a video.
My breath slows without permission as I press on it, the screen shifting instantly, loading for barely a second before—
I freeze.
It's a recording.
From the sea house.
Of me , watching ares getting killed.