FLASHBACK SCENE: Ava Anjello's Nightmare
The rain came down in sheets, angry and cold, slicing across the windshield as the tires skidded along the slick highway. Ava was only three, strapped into her car seat, her small fingers clutching a purple elephant(little Jumbo) plush that smelled like home. Her mother's voice, low and urgent, cut through the sound of thunder and screeching brakes.
"Don't look, baby. Just hold on tight."
Ava turned to her mother's face—the mascara-streaked cheeks, the eyes wide with fear. Her father was shouting, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Her younger brother, Alex, whimpered beside her, his hand reaching across the seat for her, his cries filling the car like he understood what was going on.
Then there were the headlights. Too close. Too fast.
Her father swerved the car violently. Metal screamed against metal. The world flipped sideways.
And then—a hand, trembling but fierce, gripped Ava's seatbelt.
It was her mother.
With one motion, she flung open the door and shoved Ava through the gap. The cold night air stole her breath. She rolled down a grassy embankment, crashing into wet mud and silence.
From the ditch, barely conscious, Ava heard it: the explosion. A deep, echoing boom that shattered the night.
Fire lit up the sky.
She screamed.
But no one heard her.
Present Day: Ava's Foster Home – 4:13 AM
Ava sat bolt upright in bed, her skin clammy, heart pounding against her ribcage like a trapped bird. Her sheets were tangled around her legs, soaked with sweat.
The dream again.
Only now, there was more.
This time, before her mother shoved her from the car, Ava saw him.
A man in a black suit, standing just beyond the treeline. Unmoving. Watching. Rain soaked his jacket, but he didn't flinch. He had no umbrella. No expression. Just cold, still eyes like onyx stones and the dreadful scar across his right eye.
He'd raised something—a device? A remote?
Then the explosion.
Her breath came in ragged gasps as she clutched her locket, the only thing she'd been found with. The police had ruled it an accident. A tragic highway pile-up. But no other cars were ever reported in the crash. No other victims. Just her family, and one unexplained fireball. Her brother, Alex, was never accounted for in the accident. The police gave no record of his body after the accident, making her feel like he was just an imagination.
But she swore she had a baby brother, or has, since he is still unaccounted for. He would be 21 this year, maybe in his third year of college. She wondered what he would look like and if she would still be able to recognise him. Their birthmarks were similar, his was just at the back of his neck, shaped like the letter A. People claimed that they were twins with one year apart from each other, the double A's of the Anjellos
And now, at 21, turning 22 in a week, the face of that man from that night had returned to her like a ghost.
She shoved the blankets off, stood shakily, and padded down the hallway of her foster family's home. It was quiet—too quiet. Only the ticking clock and her breathing filled the space.
As she reached the kitchen for water, something shifted outside the window.
A flicker.
A silhouette in the rain.
The man in the black suit.
Watching.
Waiting.
She dropped the glass.
It shattered on the floor.
5:30 a.m.
The alarm buzzed like a gentle whisper on repeat, tugging Ava from the last threads of her dream. She sat up, clutching her chest. Her heart was still racing, like her body hadn't yet realised the nightmare was over. The rain. The fire. The man in the black suit. The glass. The eyes, the scar.
Always the eyes and their blackhole, cold and unmoved.
She looked toward the window, every muscle tense.
Nothing. Just the city wrapped in dawn.
The silence in her room was different from the one in her dream. This one was familiar. Safe. Her walls were still covered in art prints and thrift-store poetry finds. The little string lights on her mirror flickered softly, and her worn teddy bear sat at the foot of her bed.
She exhaled slowly.
A dream, she told herself. Just a dream.
But in her bones, she knew it wasn't. Not really. It was memory—warped by time, but real all the same. She's been piecing the memories together, thanks to therapy.
Her mother had thrown her from that car. Had saved her life. But someone had meant for it to end differently.
They knew she had survived.
Ava shook her head, as if that could scatter the thoughts. She pulled her journal closer and wrote quickly.
5:37 a.m.
Bad dream. Him again. Same eyes.
But I woke up. I always wake up.
6:00 a.m.
The cold water smacked her awake. Ava tilted her head back and let the sting of the stream clear her mind. Some people hated cold showers, but she loved them. Needed them. They reminded her that she could choose discomfort. That pain wasn't something always forced on her.
She stepped out, the fogged mirror barely reflecting her. She traced a finger through the misted glass and paused.
No message. No ghostly figure behind her. Just her own tired eyes.
6:15 a.m.
The apartment's kitchen was barely bigger than a closet, but it was hers—or rather, hers and the Martinez family's. Her mother's best friend, who found her after she turned seven. Raising her like she was hers. Filling the space left by her mother, to the best of her abilities.
They were kind people. They gave her Rosa, her best friend Rosa. When the news of her partial scholarship to Columbia came, they were more excited than she was.
Rosa Martinez always left her sticky notes. Today's note:
"Go get 'em, Ava. You shine even when the clouds are jealous." —Rosa
She smiled at it, running a finger over the uneven handwriting. With quiet precision, Ava prepared her day. A turkey sandwich, an energy bar, and a piece of banana bread wrapped in foil. She slid them into her lunch bag.
Her class notebook was already packed. She double-checked: Sociology readings, umbrella, charger, highlighter.
She liked routines. They helped drown out the chaos she used to live in.
6:25 a.m.
Coffee in hand. The apron was folded neatly under her arm. Hair pulled into a soft bun. Lip balm. Big hoodie. Classic New York armour.
Before she stepped out, she caught her reflection in the hallway mirror.
"You're not that little girl in the ditch anymore," she whispered to herself. "You're not running. You're building and flourishing"
And that was everything.
6:31 a.m. – Big Beans Café, Lower Manhattan
The bell over the café door jingled in its usual sing-song tone. Ava stepped inside and was hit with the warm, familiar embrace of cinnamon, espresso, and comfort.
The early regulars were already seated, tapping away at laptops or nodding along to soft indie rock. The windows were fogged with city breath, and the overhead lights gave everything a golden warmth.
"Morning, sunshine," called Jasper, her manager. He was already elbow-deep in croissant orders.
"Morning," Ava called back, stowing her apron behind the counter. "The city's still asleep."
"Which is exactly why you make the best lattes before 7 a.m."
She smiled at him and got to work.
Behind the counter, everything made sense. Syrup pumps. Steam wands. Muffin trays. There were no shadows here. Only orders and grateful customers.
"Double shot with oat milk and a little cinnamon," said a voice from the end of the line.
Ava looked up and froze.
For a second, just a second, the man standing in front of her looked exactly like him.
The man from her dream.
Black coat. Tall. Clean-cut. Eyes are too dark.
But then he smiled. "Rough morning?"
She blinked. The spell broke. "No, I'm okay. Just….. déjà vu."
She made the drink without shaking, though she felt her fingers twitch once or twice. After he left, she kept glancing at the door.
Jasper noticed. "You good?"
"Yeah," Ava lied. "Just didn't sleep great."
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
11:45 a.m.
Shift over. Ava wiped her hands on a towel and sipped her third coffee of the day. It was too much caffeine, but it kept her anchored.
She walked the ten blocks back to her apartment slowly, taking in the noise, the faces, the stories unfolding all around her.
She wasn't like other girls her age. She didn't have parents to call or baby photos to laugh at. But she had books. She had warmth. She had her mind. Her dreams.
She had plans.
And nothing—not even the man in the black suit—was going to take them from her.
The day's rhythm at Big Beans Café was predictable—a quiet hum of espresso machines, regulars scrolling their phones, students tapping out assignments, couples trading tired morning jokes. Ava had always found it soothing, this bubble of semi-controlled chaos. It was where she could exist without question.
But today wasn't normal.
Not since she saw him.
12:02 p.m.
The man had been gone for over an hour, but Ava couldn't shake the imprint of his face, like a watermark beneath her skin. She replayed the exchange again and again.
Black coat. Tall. Cropped hair. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes so dark they felt hollow and the scar. Maybe she imagined, but she swore he had the same scar on his left eye.
Just like the man in her dream. The one her mother had shielded her from—the one who'd watched.
The bell above the door jingled again, and she nearly jumped, her fingers knocking over a stack of napkins. Jasper gave her a side glance.
"Maybe you should head out early," he offered. "You've been twitchy since sunrise."
Ava forced a half-smile. "I'm fine. Just tired."
Jasper didn't push, but he slipped her a muffin from the morning's leftover batch.
"For the road," he said. "You look like you need sugar and answers."
12:20 p.m.
In the breakroom, Ava poured herself one last coffee to go and pulled out her phone. Something compelled her to check the café's security feed. Not a thing she normally did—Jasper was the one with access. But she'd noticed the open laptop behind the counter while he helped a customer.
And he hadn't logged out.
She hesitated only a second before clicking into the archives. The feed from 6:30 a.m. was grainy and colour-muted. She fast-forwarded.
There. Him.
At 6:49 a.m., the man entered.
Ava pressed pause.
The frame froze—his eyes fixed on the counter before her. But it wasn't his face that struck her now.
It was the way he looked at the camera right before he turned to order. A glance so intentional it chilled her.
Like he knew he was being watched.
Like he wanted her to see.
She screenshot the frame and zoomed in. There was something clipped to his lapel. Not a pin. Not a badge. Something metallic. She enhanced the contrast slightly.
A small triangle. Silver.
She'd seen that shape before.
She didn't know where.
12:38 p.m.
As Ava stepped outside into the early afternoon sun, the city felt sharper than usual, like its usual chaos was overlaid with quiet whispers.
She turned toward her usual subway station, bag slung over one shoulder, coffee in one hand, phone in the other.
She opened a browser and typed:
"Triangle pin silver insignia black suit."
A few links about government officials. Secret societies. Military medals.
Then one stood out.
Sable Pointe Security – Private Intelligence Consulting.
A logo. A triangle with a serifed "S" inside.
Tagline: Surveillance. Silence. Solutions.
Her breath caught.
It wasn't some shadowy government agency.
It was a private firm.
She clicked into the site—sleek, clinical, faceless. No staff photos. Just a contact form and vague language about high-level clients and "crisis resolution."
A name flashed across the bottom of the page:
Founder & CEO: Lucien Crane Du Callian.
Her fingers trembled.
That name—Crane—was in the police report she'd stolen from her last foster home's file cabinet four years ago.
She knew the name. She swore she heard the name when she was younger.
Buried deep in the report's witness statements.
"Anonymous tip provided by a L.C.D. "
No other details.
It hadn't meant much back then. Now it screamed at her.