The morning after the storm was deceptively bright.
Sunlight spilled through the blinds, painting golden lines across the floor. Outside, the city had come alive again — taxis honking, music echoing from a passing car, children laughing down the hallway.
But to Dombi, it all sounded distant — like she was listening from beneath water.
She hadn't slept.
The folder still lay open on her bed, its papers scattered like confessions. Her eyes kept finding the same line, again and again:
Transfer approved by G. Ntuli.
Her aunt's name — clean, final, undeniable.
She pressed her palms over her eyes, trying to breathe. Maybe she'd misunderstood. Maybe Molefe had lied. Maybe—
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You shouldn't have gone to Molefe.
The mug slipped from her hand, shattering against the tiles. Her pulse roared in her ears as she grabbed the phone — but the message had vanished. No name. No number.
She ran to the balcony, searching.
The world below looked normal: a woman watering her plants, schoolchildren running, the sound of a radio from somewhere nearby. But normalcy had turned hollow. Every face could be a mask. Every shadow could be watching.
Back inside, she flipped through the folder again — desperate for sense in the chaos. Near the bottom, a page she hadn't noticed before.
A financial transfer.
Signed by Gugu Ntuli.
And another name.
Mandla Khoza.
Her breath caught.
Last year, at a gala dinner, Gugu had introduced her to a tall man with a calm smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"This is Mandla Khoza," Gugu had said proudly. "One of our strongest business partners."
Now his name sat on a document tied to her parents' downfall.
Her phone buzzed again — this time, a call. Private Number.
She hesitated, then answered.
"Hello?"
No sound. Just quiet breathing.
"Who is this?"
A man's voice came through, smooth and low, almost gentle.
"Miss Ntuli," he said, "you've been asking the wrong people the right questions."
Her fingers trembled. "What do you want?"
"To help. But only if you stop before it's too late."
"Too late for what?"
"For you."
The line went dead.
For a long moment, Dombi stood motionless. The sunlight felt harsher now, slicing through the blinds.
Something unseen had shifted — as if the air itself was watching.
She moved to the window.
Across the street, a black car sat parked beneath a tree. Tinted windows. Engine off. Waiting.
Her stomach turned to ice.
Molefe's warning echoed in her head:
"Once you start chasing ghosts, they start chasing you back."
Her phone buzzed once more — this time from Gugu.
We need to talk. Don't do anything stupid.
Her breath came uneven now, a mix of fear and fury.
Then another message arrived.
Same number.
Different tone.
You have one hour. Then it's too late.
She didn't know who sent it — or which threat to believe.
Only that the light outside suddenly felt colder.
She grabbed her bag, stuffed the folder inside, and whispered to herself, steady but trembling:
"Whatever they started… ends with me."
As the elevator doors closed, her reflection in the mirrored wall stared back — a girl who no longer looked like a victim, but someone being forged by the fire of truth.
Outside, the day was bright and dec
eptively peaceful.
The black car eased out of its parking spot, quiet and patient, following her into the sunlight.