The night was unnervingly silent.
Usually, the Docks had a rhythm—the clinking of iron chains, the distant hum of machinery.
But tonight, those familiar sounds were absent.
Suddenly—
Knock…
Knock…
Knock…
Asha opened her eyes in the middle of a half-sleep.
"Who could it be… at this hour?"
She waited.
The sound returned. Knock… knock… Slow. Rhythmic. Measured.
Asha sat up, her feet touching the cold floor. She descended the stairs, her movements light but heavy with dread.
The house seemed to be swallowing the faint light of her lamp. The shadows were growing, stretching, creeping toward her.
She stood before the door.
The knocking stopped. Silence.
She slowly turned the handle.
Creak…
The door opened to a void. No one was there.
But on the ground sat a small, grotesque object.
A doll.
At first, Asha didn't understand. Then, she saw the details.
The doll's face was frozen in a wide, mocking grin. But its eyes were gone—neatly, surgically gouged out.
Asha's breath hitched.
In the doll's chest was a small, blood-stained knife.
And beside it lay a bouquet of fresh yellow flowers.
Suddenly, the sky split open. A flash of lightning illuminated the courtyard for a single, blinding second.
In that cold light, the doll's eyeless face seemed to stare directly into her soul.
Asha's throat went dry. In a panic, she slammed the door shut.
Thud!
She leaned against the door, her body trembling, as the thunder roared outside.
The Morning
The cold was biting today, sharper than usual.
Iren arrived at Asha's house, his pace hurried, his instinct screaming of danger.
The house was silent. Too silent.
Asha usually had the windows open by six in the morning. It was now eight, and the curtains remained drawn.
An agonizing thought pressed against Iren's mind. The message. The yellow flower.
"Asha!"
He didn't wait. He pushed the door open and burst inside.
He found her in a corner, wrapped in a blanket, her body still shivering.
Iren rushed to her side, placing his hand on her cheek. She was cold as ice.
Hearing his voice, a flicker of life returned to her eyes. Slowly, she began to recount the night—the knocking, the doll, the knife, the yellow flowers.
Iren turned to stone.
The pieces were clicking together in his head like a death sentence.
The warehouse. The message. The jasmine. The doll.
A cold whisper echoed in his mind: "You are weak, Iren."
The Severance
Iren stood still, his gaze fixed on Asha.
There was a crushing weight in his chest. He knew what he had to do, and it was the very thing he didn't want to do.
"Iren…?" Asha whispered.
Iren turned away. "You need to… stay away from me for a while."
Asha froze. "What?"
"I mean it."
Her eyes widened, filling with tears. "Why? Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
"Then why?"
Silence. Then, Iren spoke, his voice hollow. "Because I am dangerous. To be near me is to be a target."
"No! That's not true!"
The argument escalated. She pleaded, she shouted, her voice breaking with every word. But Iren remained a wall of ice.
Finally, he stopped talking. He walked toward the door.
"Are you… really leaving?"
Iren didn't stop. He stepped out and shut the door behind him. The sound of the lock clicking felt like a final goodbye.
Asha sank to her knees, the first tears falling. She didn't understand what had broken, only that it was gone.
The Aftermath
Time moved at a glacial pace.
Iren sat on the edge of a deserted roof, watching the city below.
The Doll was unusually quiet. No reports. No logic. Just a waiting silence.
Iren closed his eyes, but he couldn't erase the image of Asha crying.
He knew he had hurt her. He knew he had left her alone when she was most afraid.
A single question circled his mind, over and over:
Had he done the right thing?
Or had he done exactly what the Shadow wanted him to do?
Chapter End.