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The glow of the screen had faded, and the room settled into silence, save for the sound of Arlet’s breathing. It had grown shallow, each exhale a whispered secret of the fear she tried to bury. She stood by the window, gazing into the darkness that stretched beyond the glass like a void.
“Arlet,” I called softly, not wanting to startle her from her reverie.
She turned to me, and I saw it—the fear that flickered in her eyes like a candle in the wind. It was a rare sight; Arlet, the woman who faced down corporate giants and rallied communities with unwavering resolve, now stood vulnerable before me.
“They’ve never stopped looking for me, you know.” Her voice was a frail thread of sound. “My father’s enemies... they swore revenge. They believe spilling my blood will settle old scores.”
I stepped closer, close enough to see the tremble in her hands. “They declared you dead. They mourned you. Your grave stands as proof.”
Arlet laughed, but it held no humor. “A grave is just a marker for those left behind. It’s an illusion of peace for my family. But my father’s sins... they’re written in blood, and there are those who won’t rest until they’ve balanced the ledger.”
Her vulnerability pulled at something within me, an urge to shield her from the shadows that clawed at her spirit.
“You’re not alone in this,” I said firmly. “I’m here—as your guard, your ally.”
She shook her head slowly. “What if it’s not enough? The witness protection program assured me they covered all trails leading back to Charlotte Bruno. But what if one thread unravels? What if someone connects Arlet Rune to the mafia princess who was supposed to be six feet under?”
I reached out, placing my hand on her shoulder. Her muscles tensed under my touch before relaxing ever so slightly.
“Then we face it together,” I assured her. “We’ve already taken on threats to this forest and this community. We can handle shadows from your past.”
Arlet leaned into my hand, seeking a solace I hoped to provide. “I don’t want to drag you into the darkness of my old world.”
“You won’t be,” I said with conviction. “I stepped into this willingly when I accepted the task of protecting you.”
Her gaze met mine, searching for the certainty I projected. In that moment, our roles reversed—I became her anchor in the storm of doubt that threatened to consume her.
“We’ll continue as we have,” I continued. “Gathering evidence, supporting your cause, strengthening our defenses... If anyone dares come for you, they’ll find more than they bargained for.”
Arlet nodded slowly, a silent acknowledgment of our shared resolve.
“And if it comes to light?” she asked quietly.
I let out a breath that was heavy with unspoken promises. “Then we’ll stand together and face whatever comes our way.”
I leaned back against the rough bark of the pine tree outside Arlet’s window, the cool night air a balm to the tension that had crept into my shoulders. Inside, Arlet rifled through a file thick with the remnants of her former life, her silhouette backlit by the soft lamplight.
“Let’s wait,” I suggested, my voice carrying through the open window. “This article... it might be nothing more than a smear campaign by West Corp.”
She paused, fingers lingering on a faded photograph. “You think it’s just a ploy?”
“It’s possible,” I replied. “They’re desperate to discredit you, to shift the focus from their own sins to fabricate tales about you.”
Arlet let out a dry chuckle, resuming her search through the papers. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to muddy my name.”
She pulled out a diploma from a small university—the name of which had changed twice since her attendance. It was one of many threads carefully woven to create Arlet Rune’s backstory. To anyone digging, it would appear authentic, an unremarkable past leading to an extraordinary present.
“Everything here,” she said, holding up the file, “stands up to scrutiny. My degree, ‘childhood’ photos with parents who worked in Detroit’s automotive industry before it crumbled.”
I crossed my arms, considering every angle as I always did. “They did thorough work. It should hold up against any casual inquiry.”
She nodded and continued sifting through her fabricated history. The documents told a story of a girl born into a middle-class family—a narrative so meticulously crafted that sometimes I forgot it was all fiction.
Arlet’s hand trembled as she traced the edges of a picture showing her as a child, with people posing as her parents at some nondescript park. The image was convincing—happiness etched into their faces, a moment frozen in time that never truly happened.
“This is all that stands between me and them,” she murmured.
I stepped through the window into the warm glow of her cabin, closing the distance between us. “It’s not just papers and photographs that protect you,” I assured her. “You have allies, people who believe in what you’re doing now.”
