"You can't protect someone from a storm that lives inside them"
Training usually clears my mind.
Tonight, it barely touches the surface.
I sit on the gym bench, sweat sliding down the back of my neck, my breath jagged. The punching bag still sways from the last blow I landed—one that ripped something in my knuckles. I roll my shoulder gently, the bruise humming under the skin like a warning. Stupid. I'd taken the gloves off too early.
But anger has a way of blinding me before pain catches up.
And I was angry.
Angry at everything I can't undo.
My parents; dead because I wasn't careful enough. My grandmother; alone in her house, fighting Hepatitis B while pretending she's "fine" every time I call. And now Sophie... someone who never deserved a fraction of the shadows her life keeps attracting; being hunted by threats she can't even identify.
Every time I think about her panicking earlier, spilling every fear like she couldn't hold it in anymore...
I clench my jaw.
She's not supposed to be scared. Not like that. Not while I'm here.
I wipe my face with the towel, forcing air into my lungs. I need control. Anger doesn't serve anyone except the enemy.
As I step out of the gym, I pause.
For a second, I thought I saw her. A silhouette at the door—small, hesitant, familiar. But when I look again, Sophie is already gone, her footsteps barely echoes by the time the hallway falls silent. She must've seen me... like this. Sweaty, raw, half a mess. And I didn't want her to. Not when I'm supposed to be the steady one. The shield.
Not when vulnerability feels like a luxury I'm not allowed to have.
I walk to the kitchen to get water, head still buzzing. Then my eyes land on it.
A bottle of antiseptic on the counter.
That... wasn't there before. I stare at it for a long second, numb confusion giving way to something warm and unfamiliar. I pick it up slowly, almost afraid it'll vanish if I blink too hard. The bottle is ordinary. But the gesture...
That was Sophie.
She left this for me.
Not openly. Not with a note. Not in a way anyone would notice.
But in the only language she uses for the people she secretly cares for... quiet, subtle acts that she pretends don't matter.
I turn the bottle in my hand, feeling ridiculous for being this affected.
I shouldn't... let this mean anything. I shouldn't.
But I do.
Back in my room, I shut the door and pull off my tank top. The antiseptic stings as I apply it to my shoulder, the bruises blooming under the harsh bathroom light. I treat the cuts on my knuckles next, watching the red smear into the cotton pad.
I exhale slowly.
She noticed. She cared.
And that... that is dangerous for me.
Later, I head downstairs for dinner. Miranda enters with her usual soft smile, asking about my day. I shrug. Talking has never been my thing.
But something sits on my tongue. "Miranda... the cabinet in Sophie's room."
Her smile flickers, just a fraction. "That old thing? Victor's," she finally says. "He told her never to open it. Said it was... a hell hole." She hesitates. "He destroyed the key."
My jaw tightens. Destroyed? On purpose? "Did Sophie ever try opening it?" I ask quietly.
Miranda nods. "A few times. But she couldn't. Sophie doesn't talk about... anything, really. She keeps her storms indoors." She lifts a shoulder. "But she's kind. Even when she's tired or angry or worn out. She made me feel at home from day one."
I swallow the sudden heaviness. Sophie appears on the stairs shortly after, her eyes tired but sharp. She notices the documents in front of me.
"Clint sent them," I say. "Contracts."
"For what?"
"Commercial building."
She groans, annoyed immediately. "Leave it on my bed when you go up. I'm not dealing with Clint Chaos right now. I'll deal with it later"
She moves to the sofa, already typing on her laptop, voice slicing through phone calls with a precision that almost makes me smile. Even pissed, she's... impressive.
I take the stack and head upstairs. Her room is dim, soft, and quiet. I place the documents neatly on her bed.
My eyes drift. To the cabinet.
The forbidden cabinet.
I walk to it before I can stop myself. It doesn't open from the front, just like Miranda said. But when I tug gently, the back panel shifts. I guess it was because of how old this cabinet was. It looked like the wood had gotten really old. Really old.
My heartbeat spikes. I drag the cabinet forward just enough, then slide my hand through the opening. Papers. Books.
Something glossy. Photos.
I pull one out and freeze.
Victor... smiling. Hand wrapped around another man. Not Clint. Someone else.
Someone I know by heart.
My father. Chris West.
My pulse drops into my stomach.
W-Why?
Why were they together?
Why did Victor have this?
Hands shaking, I grab a few newspaper clippings, a file; anything that looked like it could explain or have answers... but footsteps echo faintly downstairs and I shove everything back, push the cabinet into place, and leave.
In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed, the photo burning in my hand like a truth I'm not ready to face.
My father... next to a man Sophie fears.
A man whose name is tied to threats, lies, and buried secrets.
Were they friends? Allies? Something worse?
What if knowing the truth... breaks everything I've built to survive? I close my eyes, gripping the picture until my knuckles ache.
No matter what the truth is, one thing is certain: I'm not letting anything happen to Sophie.
My room is dark except for the glow from my laptop screen still open on the desk.
Victor.
Chris West.
HavenCore.
Roses.
Threats.
Everything is a knot that refuses to loosen. I sit down, chest tightening as I open the file I'd taken from Sophie's locked cabinet.
Half of me feels guilty. The other half feels justified.
She's in danger and she deserves someone who actually looks beneath the surface. I flip through the thin stack of papers: old newspaper clippings, finance documents and scraps of contracts.
Most are water-stained, folded, torn at the edges... like someone had ripped them apart in a rush, then stuffed them back together.
Nothing... nothing... nothing.
Victor's name appears beside my father's only once in a meaningless charity article. That's it.
No feud. No interviews. No history of hatred.
Even if it was comparability of success, why would Victor hate my dad if they were friends?
Friends support friends; they don't sabotage each other. But then again...
It was Victor Montez.
A man who smiled like a saint in every media source and acted like he hadn't destroyed anyone in his life.
I exhale through clenched teeth. As I flip through the file, another paper slips out from between the pages; thin, and almost brittle.
A deed. A deed of partnership.
My heart stops.
"MontWest..." The word looks unfamiliar and familiar at the same time.
My fingers trace the heading: MontWest Global Enterprise.
Two signatures sit at the bottom:
Christopher West
Victor Montez
My lungs forget how to work. They were partners.
They didn't just know each other... They built an empire together. An empire which was erased from history.
I flip to the next document.
MontWest Global Empire:
A multinational conglomerate built for social impact, reintegration programs, job placement for the unemployed, rehabilitation projects, education funding for war-torn communities...
Everything my dad lived for. Everything Victor pretended to care about.
I read on.
The next folder section is darker. Uglier.
Montez's Operations Division — Confidential
Black-ops economic sabotage.
Disguised welfare funds redirected into private accounts offshore.
Contracts with shell corporations to buy out land illegally.
Manipulated "charity raids" stealing tech from relief shelters.
Payments to political figures for silent approvals.
My stomach drops.
My father built MontWest to help people... and Victor used it to exploit them.
I keep flipping through the newspaper articles. They were praising the empire.
Pictures of Victor shaking hands with officials; pictures of my dad, smiling, hopeful; gentle... standing with him like they were brothers.
Then I hit a newspaper clipping from 2016. A photo of Chris and Victor entering a gala together — representing MontWest Global.
The headline: "MontWest: The Rising Giant of Social Innovation"
I swallow the burn in my throat.
Another article from 2019 shows my father in a disaster zone, handing out food and blankets under the HavenCore banner.
I leaned back as I thought it through. Up until 2016, MontWest Global Empire was a successful conglomerate and achieved a lot to the point where Victor and my dad were invited to Galas to represent it. But HavenCore was founded by dad in 2018...
So what the hell happened in 2017?
Where did MontWest go?
Why was every trace deleted?
Why did Victor bury everything in a locked cabinet and label it as a 'hell hole'?
My hands shake as I type into the search bar: "MontWest Global Empire"
Nothing. Not a single hit.
I try archived news databases. Nothing.
Completely wiped.
Like it never existed.
Like someone was terrified of people finding out.
I scrub a hand down my face. My chest feels tighter and tighter until it hurts. I grab the picture of my dad and Victor again. My father had a way of looking at people like they mattered.
Like they could still be saved.
A breath slips out of me, shaky and unsteady. He didn't deserve any of this.
I... miss him.
More than I let myself admit.
More than I let myself feel.
My eyes blur, and I blink hard, forcing myself upright. The screen reflects the moisture at the corner of my eye.
For the first time in a long time, it hits me: I'm alone in this house.
With answers buried in locked cabinets.
With a girl who's being hunted by someone who knows how to erase people from existence.
With a dead father who trusted the wrong man.
And a dead man, Victor Montez, who might have been the reason my father needed HavenCore in the first place.
A tear slips down before I can catch it.
I wipe it fast.
I will get answers.
Even if I have to crawl into hell to dig them out.