ARSHILA — POV
My phone is pressed to my ear and I'm sprawled on the bed like a corpse that died dramatically.
Ifrah is talking.
Correction—Ifrah is confessing sins.
"So," she says, voice smug as hell, "he didn't leave."
I stare at the ceiling. "Didn't leave… like stayed-for-breakfast didn't leave, or stayed-for-regrets-and-therapy didn't leave?"
She giggles. Actual giggle. Disgusting. "Stayed-for-round-two didn't leave."
I groan and roll onto my side. "You were the fucking nerd in our class."
"Was," she corrects. "Past tense. Growth arc."
"You used to blush when someone said 'hand holding.'"
"And now," she says proudly, "I'm doing chemistry in the dark."
I choke. "What is this character development? Who authorized it?"
She laughs. "I did. At 2 a.m. On my couch."
I rub my face. "What did you even do?"
There's a pause.
A loaded pause.
Then she says, casually, "He kissed me like I was edible."
I sit up. "Absolutely not."
"And he kept touching my waist," she continues, unfazed, "like he was scared I'd disappear."
I gag dramatically. "You're lying. You cried during our Shakespeare exam."
"Shakespeare made me horny," she fires back. "Don't blame me."
I snort. "Shakespeare was gay, bitch."
She laughs. "Exactly. All those sonnets about a pretty young man? Man was down bad."
"Historically down bad," I agree. "Emotionally unwell. Poetically slutty."
"Just like me now," she says.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. "I can't believe you."
"You're just mad," she says, "because I'm getting laid and you're married to Adam Zayan Tavarian."
My stomach does a stupid flip.
I don't like that she says his full name.
Feels illegal.
"Unfortunately," I mutter.
"Oh please," she says. "How are you surviving without dying? That man looks like he was designed by a bored god."
"Rude," I say. "Also inaccurate."
She scoffs. "You are bouncing on that man every night."
I choke again. "Absolutely not."
"Liar."
"He's my husband," I remind her. "Not my stress ball."
"And my boss," she adds cheerfully. "TIG pays me more than anyone in this damn country. I sneeze and get a bonus."
I smirk. "Capitalism loves you."
"It does," she agrees. "Your husband loves money more though."
I open my mouth to reply—
My phone vibrates.
Once.
Twice.
A notification banner slides down.
I glance at it without thinking.
And then my brain stalls.
BREAKING: DAMIEN CROSS LIQUIDATES ALL ASSETS — FUNDS TRANSFERRED TO MULTIPLE ORPHANAGES AND SHELTERS
My heart stutters.
"What?" I whisper.
Ifrah is still talking. "—and then he fell asleep on my chest like a cat—Arshila?"
"I'll call you back," I say quickly.
"Ooooh," she sings. "Let me guess. He walked in and now it's time?"
"Fuck off," I snap, already ending the call.
Silence.
The room feels different now.
Heavier.
I tap the notification.
The article loads fully and my brain immediately starts pacing like it drank six coffees and chose violence.
Headline first. Big. Loud. Confident as hell.
DAMIEN CROSS ASSETS TRANSFERRED — SIGNED, VERIFIED, COMPLETE.
I scroll.
Fast.
Too fast.
Charts. Legal language. Dates. Transfers logged clean and boring, like this is a grocery receipt and not a man's entire empire evaporating.
Orphanages. Shelters. Legal aid funds. Child protection NGOs. Multiple countries. Multiple accounts.
All under his name.
His signature.
Timestamped. Verified. Neat as hell.
My thumb stops on its own, like my body already knows this is where things get fucked.
I sit back on the bed, phone hovering in front of my face like it personally owes me answers. My brain leans back in its chair and cracks its knuckles.
Okay. Pause. Rewind.
Damien Cross gets abducted weeks ago. Public place. Airport road. Cameras. Witnesses. Black cross symbol left behind like a middle finger carved into reality.
Black Wraiths.
Not a rumor. Not Reddit fanfic. Actual underground hit group governments pretend not to know about while quietly shitting themselves.
People who don't kidnap for leverage or ransom. People who take you off the board and make it look like gravity did it.
You don't negotiate with Black Wraiths. You don't escape them. You don't get Wi-Fi and a laptop and decide to do charity while they're holding you.
So how the fuck is this man signing documents.
I blink. Once. Then again, slower, like maybe the article will realize it's wrong and apologize.
It doesn't.
"How," I mutter, staring at the screen, "are you signing paperwork when you're supposed to be fucking erased?"
I scroll back up. Read it slower. Then again. My eyes skim the legal jargon like they're running fingers over braille, hunting for the lie.
There isn't one.
No proxy.
No representatives.
No posthumous clause.
Initiated by Damien Cross himself.
Alive people do that.
Dead people don't.
My stomach tightens and heat crawls up my spine.
Okay.
Possibility one: Damien faked the abduction. Ran a whole theater production involving Black Wraiths—the one name no sane criminal ever borrows for cosplay.
That would mean he's alive, hiding, and arrogant enough to invoke a group that could erase him for the disrespect alone.
Yeah. No. Even arrogant men have survival instincts.
Possibility two: he's dead and somehow still moving money, which only works if hell upgraded its admin tools.
Black Wraiths don't do mercy. They don't do delayed paperwork. They don't liquidate assets and hand them to the exact people their victims came from.
Criminals hoard.
They hide.
They run.
They don't donate.
Unless—
The thought doesn't finish. It just sits there, heavy and wrong.
I scroll again.
Analysts confused. Lawyers arguing. Comment sections on fire. Everyone throwing theories like darts and missing the board entirely.
This is the exact point where sane people stop digging. This is where normal wives close the article, blame insomnia, and go back to pretending their husband is just rich and hot and mildly unhinged in an acceptable way.
I am not that wife.
I slow down. Dates. Timelines. Patterns.
And then it hits me.
Not like a punch.
Like a cold hand sliding under my ribs.
This feels familiar.
Kidnap first.
Public exposure.
Assets redistributed.
Then silence.
No money.
No legacy.
No escape.
My skin prickles. Goosebumps race up my arms like my body figured it out before my brain caught up.
Because I've seen this before.
Not here. Not with him. But in other cases. Other men. Powerful ones. Untouchable ones. Politicians. CEOs. Judges. Media darlings.
Men who hurt women. Men who crushed children. Men who walked free and smiled about it.
They vanished.
And after they were gone, their money was gone too.
Not stolen.
Redirected.
Every time.
People called it coincidence. Luck. Justice porn.
The forums had a different name.
The vigilante.
Five fucking years. No face. No name. No one ever seeing him. He kidnaps. Forces confessions. Leaks them. Kills them.
Leaves nothing behind except funding for victims and a paper trail that feels more like judgment than theft.
That is not Black Wraith behavior.
Black Wraiths are blunt instruments. Hired storms. They erase. They don't rebalance. They don't make statements with spreadsheets.
This article is a statement.
My pulse starts thudding loud enough to hear. Thoughts pile up, ugly and insistent.
Option one: Damien staged everything, gave away his money for some unhinged reason, and is sipping cocktails somewhere laughing at the world.
Unlikely. Also stupid.
Option two: Black Wraiths suddenly decided to change their entire philosophy and start a charity arc.
Absolutely fucking not.
Option three—
My breath slows. Careful now.
Option three: the vigilante did this.
But the reports say Black Wraiths. Witnesses. Symbols. Public abduction. That's their signature.
Unless—
My stomach flips and the room feels smaller, the air heavier.
Unless it's the same person.
Unless the world split one monster into two stories because it couldn't handle the truth.
Unless the hit group everyone fears and the ghost everyone worships are the same shadow wearing different masks.
The thought settles in my chest, quiet and terrifying, like it's been waiting there all along.
What if Black Wraiths and the vigilante aren't rivals.
What if they're the same person.