Athena walks into the bathroom and twists the faucet open. Water rushes into the tub, rising steadily, filling the space with a hollow sound that echoes too loudly in the silence. She doesn't wait for it to warm.
She steps in fully clothed and lowers herself into the water.
The cold bites through fabric and skin, seeping straight into her chest. Her breath catches, but she doesn't flinch. She sinks until the water reaches her shoulders, until the weight presses against her like hands trying to hold her down.
If I disappear like this, she thinks distantly, would anyone notice immediately?
Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Her clothes cling to her, heavy and soaked, pulling at her body like grief that refuses to let go.
Finally, she stands.
Water pours off her in streams as she walks back into her room, leaving a trail behind her. She peels off the wet clothes without care, drops them on the floor, and pulls on an oversized T-shirt and shorts—things chosen not for comfort, but for emptiness. Nothing that hugs her. Nothing that reminds her she's alive.
Barefoot, she walks into her parents' bedroom.
She stops in front of the family portrait.
Her father's calm eyes.
Her mother's gentle smile.
Her brother's laughter frozen in time.
Her face is hollow now, stripped of tears, stripped of softness.
"Father… Mother… Brother…" her voice is barely a whisper. "I need your help."
She presses her fingers against the frame, lingering, as if warmth might still be trapped there.
"Please… give me strength."
Her hands shake as she lifts the portrait and presses it against her chest, clutching it like a lifeline.
"I miss you all."
Her gaze lifts absently—and then freezes.
Something is wrong.
Behind where the frame rested, a small drawer is embedded into the wall.
Her heart stutters.
Slowly, carefully, she lowers the portrait to the floor, treating it like something sacred. Her fingers hesitate before reaching out. The drawer opens with a soft click, as if it has been waiting all along.
Inside lies a document.
And a letter.
Athena picks up the letter first. Her eyes move across the words—and suddenly, her chest caves in.
Her lips tremble.
"Father…" she whispers. "I promise to take over."
Her throat tightens.
"I love you too."
She takes the document, closes the drawer, and gently returns the portrait to its place, aligning it perfectly, reverently. She looks at their faces one last time.
"I'll stay strong till the end," she says quietly. "I won't rest until I avenge you all."
Her reflection stares back at her from the glass—unrecognizable. Sharper. Colder.
"I don't mind becoming a machine for revenge," she continues, voice steady now. "But compared to before… I cherish my life more."
Because dying would be easy.
Living with purpose will hurt them more.
"Wait for me," she murmurs. "I'll appease your souls—with their lives."
She places the document carefully on the table, then turns toward her wardrobe.
One by one, she pulls out every brightly colored piece of clothing. Reds. Yellows. Blues. Anything that once hinted at warmth, hope, or softness. She stuffs them into a laundry basket without hesitation.
Her movements are calm. Final.
"It's not like anything in my life is bright anymore," she says flatly.
She leaves only black and white behind.
Enough.
She closes the wardrobe and lifts her chin.
"BT Group," she whispers, her eyes dark and unwavering.
"Wait for me."
Her lips curve—not into a smile, but into something far more dangerous.
"I'll make you wish for death."