4. HIS ATTENTION
LAYLA
Anger. Frustration. Grinding teeth, clenched fists. A heavy sigh. That’s all she felt lately. Pushing through the crowd on the footpath, the endless rain soaking everything, she wanted to scream. Why did the city insist on being this crowded and this wet?
Ylumia’s population had surged. With its booming IT sector and sky-high real estate promises, the city attracted dreamers. She remembered sixteen-year-old Layla, staring at women in tech parks, blazers and laptop bags, striding in stilettos. Now, she couldn’t even imagine a life like that.
The rain worsened the traffic. LZ Tech-Park loomed ahead, a glass-and-steel fortress of wealth. Each click of her pumps reminded her she didn’t belong. Each expensive scent, each scornful glance, made her feel small, ugly, out of place. But this job, this one was necessary. For Lilly.
She inhaled, counted ten to one, straightened her spine. Nothing helped. She had interviewed everywhere: bartender, waitress, tutor, babysitter, helper, receptionist, small coffee shop accountant, local newspaper. None had been like this—none so unreachable, so grand.
You got this, she whispered, stepping into the lobby.
Spacious. Airy. High ceilings. Natural light spilled through glass windows, illuminating polished marble floors and sleek furniture. Potted plants, contemporary artwork, subtle scents—everything screamed refinement. And nerves danced inside her.
The receptionist gave her a dirty look, as if she didn’t belong, and pointed her to the interview floor. Layla reached it, waiting among the other applicants.
A laugh made her turn. And everything hit at once.
“Ayesha.”
Her childhood friend. Once inseparable—they had dreamed together, laughed together, promised forever:
“Layla, we’re late!”
“Let’s go to the mall.”
“We’ll get married on the same day.”
“Our children will be best friends.”
And then Ayesha disappeared, like everyone else.
Now, eighteen-year-old Layla would not have recognized the woman before her: stilettos, pencil skirt, silk blouse tucked perfectly. Pregnancy, hunger, sleepless nights—they had reshaped Layla. And something ugly rose in her chest—anger, envy, shame. She was happy to see her, yet bitter.
She offered a small smile. Ayesha looked away, unbothered, and walked on. One of them had escaped that world. Layla hadn’t.
The interview went smoothly. She impressed HR, her years of practice pleasing people paying off.
Again, she brushed past Ayesha. Awkward silence fell.
“I didn’t recognize you,” Ayesha said.
Layla smiled faintly. “How are you?”
Ayesha nodded. “I heard… I’m sorry about what happened.” Her voice rushed, a tether to another life.
“It’s in the past. Good to see you,” Layla replied, stepping away, shielding herself from the sting of old rejection.
“I heard you have a child,” Ayesha called.
Layla paused mid-step, glanced back.
“She came after that… incident?” Ayesha’s concern was clear, though not entirely for her.
Layla nodded. Relief softened Ayesha’s expression. A wave and a smile said goodbye—and Layla understood.
ZALEY
He thrived on chaos. Destruction, disorder—it comforted him. The screams faded as he approached his car, the headlines tomorrow inevitable. Peace was temporary in his city; he enjoyed tearing corners of it apart. The public didn’t need to know yet.
“Three murders in two weeks. Is that really necessary?”
Zaley leaned on his hood, one hand on the car, the other on the door. Remi, his soldier, met his gaze and looked away, opening the door silently.
Necessary? Not really. A poor man had touched a little girl. Did he deserve to burn? His conscience said yes. Judge or executioner? Neither. Yet he passed judgment without hesitation.
Her grey eyes flashed in his mind, pleading, defiant, the soft lips under his thumb, the trembling hands. He had seen her before, somewhere. Not a child, not forced, yet submission lingered. And that gaze… he hated not understanding it. Hunger, fatigue, fire in her eyes—what was it about her?
“Did you find out about her?” he asked.
“Yes, boss. She has a daughter. Five years old. Suffering from bone marrow cancer.”
Something tugged at him. He had watched innocents burn, yet nothing moved him like this five-year-old redhead, or her mother’s suffering.
“And the father?”
Remi’s eyes stayed on the road. “She was assaulted as a teen. Gang-rape. The girl… her name is Lilly.”
That changed everything—her, the girl, and him.
“And…” Remi hesitated, unusual for him. “…one of the men was the Mayor’s son.”
“So her daughter might be the Mayor’s heir?” Zaley asked, eyes narrowing.
Remi shrugged.
Interesting.
Zaley stared out the window, mind racing ten steps ahead. “Remi,” he murmured. “How much do you think a dying secret is worth?”
“Boss?”
His smile was pure darkness.
“Everything.”
