Chapter 4 The Afterburn 2

Ivy stared at the photo as if it could burn her fingers.

There he was-Viktor D'Angelo, lifeless, blood pooling beneath him, eyes glassy, jaw slack. But the horror wasn't just in the corpse.

It was in the background.

In the blurred but undeniable shapes of five teenagers-them-captured at the scene.

From a distance, but close enough to ruin their lives.

The note fluttered in her hand like it was alive.

"Lies bleed. So will you."

"What the hell is that?" Jaxon asked, stepping beside her.

Ivy handed him the box.

The moment he saw the photo, his expression darkened.

"That's us," he said flatly.

Cameron yanked it from his grip. "No. This has to be fake-"

"It's real," Mira whispered.

Lena looked at her. "How would you know?"

Mira hesitated. "Because I saw a red light that night. A small one. Like... a laser pointer. I thought I imagined it."

Cameron swore. "Someone was filming us? Watching?"

"Someone wanted us to bury the body," Jaxon muttered. "Wanted us to clean up their mess."

"Or wanted leverage," Ivy said. "Control."

Lena looked at each of them. Her voice was steady, but low. "They have us. All of us. And if they go to the police-"

"They won't," Jaxon said.

"How do you know?" Mira asked, her voice thin.

"Because the mafia doesn't do cops," Jaxon replied. "They do fear. Threats. Control."

Cameron rubbed his temples. "So what? We're blackmailed into silence forever?"

"No," Lena said. "We don't let them control us. We find out who took that photo-and we destroy it."

Later that night...

The group split.

Lena and Jaxon went to The Crimson Vault.

Cameron returned to his father's mansion.

Ivy and Mira stayed behind in the shack.

The storm had left everything slick and cool, but the heat between the girls lingered.

"You don't believe me," Mira said finally, sitting on the cot, hugging her knees.

"I believe you're scared," Ivy replied, carefully organizing her sketch tools. "I believe you want to protect Lena."

"But not that I shot him."

Ivy met her eyes. "I believe you want us to believe it."

Mira flinched. "Why would I lie about that?"

"I don't know," Ivy said. "But you did. Or someone did. And until I know why, I can't protect you."

Mira blinked rapidly. "You'd protect me?"

"I used to think I'd protect any of you," Ivy said. "Now I'm not sure if I'm protecting a friend... or a killer."

The silence that followed was full of tension.

Then Mira stood up. Stepped forward.

Ivy didn't move.

Mira's hand brushed Ivy's cheek. Soft.

"You think I'm a liar," she said quietly, "but I've never lied about how I feel."

"I don't know how you feel," Ivy said.

Mira's lips trembled. "Terrified."

And then she kissed her.

A soft, shaking kiss that tasted like panic and guilt.

For a moment, Ivy kissed back.

And then she pulled away.

"Don't confuse fear with love, Mira."

Mira turned away, silent tears falling.

Elsewhere...

The Crimson Vault was locked.

Closed since the murder.

But Jaxon had a key.

Stolen from Viktor's office days before.

He and Lena slipped inside like shadows, the scent of stale alcohol and expensive perfume still clinging to the velvet curtains.

The room was colder now. Like death never left.

Lena walked to the spot where Viktor fell.

She stood there, arms crossed, heart pounding.

"He said he loved me," she murmured. "Said I belonged to him."

Jaxon lit a cigarette, watching her. "He said that to a lot of girls."

"Did he say it to you?"

Jaxon chuckled, low and bitter. "Not his type."

Lena looked over. "What is your type?"

He met her eyes. "Someone who doesn't pretend to be a monster to survive."

The words hung between them.

Then Jaxon crouched by the bar and pulled out the hidden DVR system.

"He had cameras everywhere," he said. "If anyone caught that night on film-it's here."

Lena stepped closer. "Can we erase it?"

"We can watch it first," he said, slotting the hard drive into the nearby screen.

Static. Black and white footage. Dozens of clips.

Then-there-a file dated two weeks ago.

They watched in silence.

The room. The fight.

The screams.

The flash of a gun.

But the angle was off.

The shooter... wasn't visible.

Just the flash. Just the body falling.

Then static.

Then-seconds later-another file began to play.

One the mafia must have recorded.

From the upper balcony. A perfect angle.

Their faces. Their actions.

And someone-off-screen-watching.

Breathing.

Filming.

Not Viktor.

Someone else was in that room.

Back at Cameron's mansion...

Cameron poured himself a glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter his father kept locked.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

He was about to head to his room when he saw a red envelope on the grand piano.

No name.

He opened it.

Inside was a single photograph.

Not of the murder.

Of him-in bed.

With a man.

His father's political opponent's son.

Taken through a window.

Taken without permission.

Taken for blackmail.

His chest went cold.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

"Keep your mouth shut. Or the next photo hits the press."

Cameron dropped the glass.

It shattered.

Just like everything else.

Back in the shack...

Ivy stared at her sketchpad.

She flipped back to the first drawing she ever made of them all.

The beach. Five teens.

Under stars.

Whole. Naive.

Before the fire.

Before the lies.

Before the blood.

Now... she began a new drawing.

The same beach.

Same five bodies.

But this time...

They were all holding guns.

And one of them was dead.