Rain lashed against the windows, It came heavy and cold, a relentless beat against the glass as Clara sat by the computer, eyes fixed on the flickering screen. The apartment was dim, save for the soft glow of the monitor and the low hum of tension that hung in the air like static.Damien leaned over her shoulder, arms crossed."Anything yet?"Clara shook her head. "The folder’s encrypted three times over. Whoever built this wanted it buried."Sophie walked in, carrying two cups of black coffee. She handed one to Clara. “Maybe your mother knew the passphrase. Any idea what it could be?”Clara hesitated. “She had a journal. Back at the house.”Damien raised a brow. “You mean the house Voss’s men already swept through?”Clara looked up, eyes burning. “They missed something. I know it.”Sophie shrugged. “Then let’s go. Tonight.”Damien exhaled. “This keeps getting deeper.”“Then we keep digging,” Clara said.Hours Later — Sterling ResidenceThe house had changed.Once a warm, vibrant home

Rain drummed against the rooftop in an anxious rhythm, as if the sky itself anticipated what Clara was about to find.Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the old envelope Sophie had found wedged behind a photo frame. It was yellowed and fragile, like it had been waiting years to be discovered.Damien leaned over her shoulder. “What is it?”“Another letter. From my mother.”Sophie looked up from where she sat cross-legged on the floor, Veronica Sterling’s journal open on her lap. “Seriously?”Clara nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s addressed to me... but never sent.”She began to read aloud.Clara,If you're reading this, it means I’m gone, or I had to vanish. Either way, I'm sorry. You’ve stepped into something far more dangerous than I ever wanted you near. But I know you. I know you’ll keep digging. That’s why I’ve left breadcrumbs.Trust Damien. And whatever you find—whatever they say—remember: the truth was always buried beneath the ashes.Follow the Orion Mark. It’s yo

Damien couldn’t sleep, The ceiling of the old Creed house loomed above him like a question he hadn’t answered in a decade. He had arrived hours earlier, hoping that this place—once his home—would feel like something familiar. Instead, it felt like memory had hollowed it out. There was no welcome in the creaking of the floors or the humming of the refrigerator that hadn’t been replaced since the fire. Only ghosts.Eliza Creed’s laughter used to fill these walls. Now, the silence stung like it was punishing him for leaving.Damien rolled out of bed, not bothering to turn on the lights. He knew the path by heart—down the hallway, third door on the left. His mother’s study. No one had touched it since her death. Even the locks remained stubborn, like they were guarding more than just furniture.He fumbled with the key until it gave a soft click. The door creaked open.Dust coated the air like smoke, and his lungs choked on it for a second. The desk was exactly where it had always been, si

The silence in Damien's cabin was thick with anticipation. Clara sat cross-legged on the edge of his sofa, a steaming mug of tea warming her hands, though the liquid inside had long gone cold. Damien stood by the fireplace, absently stirring the dying embers with a poker. Neither spoke for a long while.It was Damien who finally broke the silence. “You asked what I found out about my mother.”Clara nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving his. “Only if you’re ready.”Damien gave a slight, humorless smile. “Funny thing about being ready—you never really are. You just get tired of holding it in.”He walked to the other side of the room, opened a drawer, and pulled out a weathered manila folder. The edges were bent, the paper inside faded, and the cover bore his mother’s name in black ink: Marjorie Creed.He handed it to Clara, then sat beside her.Clara hesitated, then opened the folder. Inside were scanned medical records, letters, and one black-and-white photograph of a younger Marjorie,

The steady drumming of rain against the window was the only sound in Damien’s living room as he sat across from Clara, both absorbed in a sea of old photographs and letters spread across the oak coffee table. The flickering fireplace cast a warm glow, but the weight of what they were uncovering made the room feel cold, heavy with unspoken truths.Damien rubbed his temples, feeling the ache of sleepless nights and endless questions. “It’s like every time we find a new piece of this puzzle, it just makes the picture more confusing,” he said quietly, eyes locked on a faded black-and-white photo of a younger version of his mother, her smile fragile and guarded.Clara reached out, placing a gentle hand over his. “Maybe the confusion means we’re finally close to the truth.”He sighed and nodded, though a flicker of doubt lingered in his gaze. “My mom was a mystery even to me. She was strong, but beneath that, broken in ways I didn’t understand. Her journal reads like a confession—filled wit