faint scent of lavender brushing past her as the breeze danced through the bouquet in her hands. She looked down at the flowers and smiled softly. Lavender—a symbol of calm and healing. Something told her he might need both.

The hospital entrance loomed ahead, white and cold, but she pushed past the doors with a sense of purpose. As she stepped in, she spotted the staff member she had seen the night before.

“Excuse me,” she called gently, walking up to him. “Yesterday night I brought in a man. He was badly injured. Can you tell me where he is?”

The staff member glanced at her, recognition lighting his eyes. “Yes, ma’am. Second floor, third room on the left.”

“Thank you,” Niamph nodded politely, adjusting the flowers in her hands as she made her way up the stairs.

She reached the door, inhaled, and gently pushed it open.

The smile on her face faded instantly.

The room was empty.

She stepped inside, blinking in confusion. The bed was made. The tubes and machines were gone. There was no sign of anyone ever having been there.

Her gaze wandered the sterile space. “Where…?”

Just then, a nurse walked in with a clipboard in her hand. She stopped mid-step when she noticed Niamph.

“Oh! Ma’am?”

Niamph turned quickly. “Uhh… the man—where’s he?”

The nurse gave her a small smile, not catching the worry in Niamph’s voice. “He left just earlier, ma’am. Discharged himself.”

Niamph parted her lips slightly, processing the words.

“Oh…” she breathed, nodding slowly. “I see.”

She stood there for a second longer.

Niamph looked down at the lavender bouquet in her hands and sighed softly. The petals had started to droop, and somehow, they mirrored how she felt inside—disappointed, uncertain, maybe even a little foolish.

"Maybe I should just leave it here," she murmured to herself.

She gently placed the bouquet on the small bedside table near the empty hospital bed. Someone else might need the comfort, the hope, the peace that lavender brings. Whoever would occupy this room next—perhaps it would mean something to them.

With one last glance at the quiet room, she turned and walked out.

As she stepped out of the hospital building into the open air, her mind drifted back to the fake identity card. The memory of it alone made her stomach twist with anxiety.

She quickly pulled out her phone and dialed Aiofi’s number, hoping she had found it. The phone rang once… twice… then stopped.

“The number you are trying to reach is not available…”

Niamph frowned, her fingers tightening around the phone. Her heart skipped a beat before it picked up a fast rhythm. Calm down, she told herself. There could be many reasons for that.

Still unsettled, she flagged a cab and slid into the back seat.

When she finally arrived, she took a deep breath, paid the fare, and stepped out. She made her way straight to cara'd suit.

Her feet dragged slightly, weighed down by a restless urgency.

She knocked on the door.

A few moments later, the door opened with a soft creak. Cara stood there, her expression unreadable as she glanced at Niamph once before turning and walking back inside without a word.

Niamph entered and quietly closed the door behind her.

She hesitated for a moment before asking, her voice barely above a whisper.

“When are we going to leave from here?”

This foreign country is not feeling like home. She terribly missing her cats, aiofi and dancing her heart out.

Cara sat on the edge of the bed, casually applying lotion to her bare arms with an air of nonchalance.

"Whenever I want, duh," she said, her tone clipped, as if the conversation bored her already.

Niamph stood by the window, fists clenched at her sides. She pressed her lips together, trying not to snap.

"We can’t stay here forever, Cara. Dad and Aira Mom must be worried..."

Cara let out a short scoff.

"Don’t worry. They probably haven’t even noticed you weren’t there."

Niamph’s heart clenched. The words struck like a slap, not because they were cruel—but because they were true. No missed calls. No messages. No one had checked on her in days.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned away so Cara wouldn’t see the way her eyes shimmered.

Cara finally turned to face her, her expression unreadable.

"If you're done with your little interrogation, you can leave now."

Niamph nodded stiffly and turned toward the door to leave.

Niamph reached her suite, tossing her bag on the chair with a sigh. Her hand moved to her forehead just as her phone rang. She fumbled slightly before seeing the name flashing on the screen—Aiofi.

She immediately picked up.

"Aiofi!" she breathed out, a bit too fast, too desperate.

Aiofi’s familiar voice crackled through the line,

"Yeah, Niamph. Sorry—I’ve been having signal issues. That’s why I couldn’t contact you earlier."

Niamph nodded..

"It’s fine... but—did you... did you get my identity card?"

There was a sigh from the other end. A tense one.

"Niamph, I called the office where it fell. They said they did have it... but—" Aiofi hesitated.

Niamph’s pulse quickened.

"But what?"

Aiofi’s voice dropped slightly, cautious.

"But a man came there recently. Asked about you—your stage name. Minhat. And they gave it to him."

Niamph’s eyes widened. Her knees buckled and she sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Her heart was slamming against her chest.

"Wh—what? Who was he?"

"I don’t know," Aiofi admitted. "Could be one of your admirers maybe?"

Her palm pressed to her mouth, panic creeping into her veins... was it exposed?

Aiofi rushed to calm her.

"But listen—listen to me, Niamph. Even if they got the name 'Minhat'... they won’t find you. Don’t you remember? On that card, beside your stage name... I used Cara’s picture. Not yours."

Niamph blinked, realization dawning slowly. A shaky breath left her lips.

Cara’s face... not mine.

Her hands trembled, but the tiniest sliver of relief cracked through the storm in her chest. For now—just for now—her truth was still hidden.

"That time I did it for security purposes," Aiofi continued softly, her voice laced with reassurance. "In case someday you lost it. It’s not a problem to put someone else’s picture—especially when no one knows your real face. And today… finally, it worked."

Niamph exhaled sharply, relief flooding her chest like a crashing tide.

She whispered, "Jesus, thank you..." again and again under her breath.

She had almost forgotten that tiny detail—the small precaution Aiofi had taken.

The photograph printed on the card... wasn’t even hers.

It was Cara’s.

And now, that one clever lie has saved her truth. For now.

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"It’s not her. It can’t be her!"

Mikhail roared, and the deafening sound of a gunshot echoed through the marble halls of the mansion.

A guard beside Leonid crumpled to the floor—lifeless.

Leonid’s eyes widened in horror, his throat tightening.

From the moment he handed Mikhail the dancer’s details and the ID card with that picture… the man had turned into a raging beast.

Mikhail had already killed five guards in blind fury since arriving home. Blood seeped through the white fabric of his shirt, fresh from the hospital, the stitches split open from his reckless movements.

The crimson stain spread, but he didn’t even flinch.

Leonid took a cautious step forward, trying to remain calm.

"Czar…" he began, voice steady yet low, "I’ve double-checked everything. It's her card."

Mikhail turned away, running a bloodied hand through his hair, his chest heaving.

Something—something deep inside him—was screaming that this wasn’t right.

"No," he muttered, eyes dark, distant.

"It’s not her. It’s not my nymph. The one I’ve been looking for… she’s not this. I know her. I can feel it."

He crumpled the card in his palm, the plastic bending and groaning under the pressure of his grip.

His eyes didn’t spare a glance at the photograph—the deceitful, false image beside the name. Just looking at it churned something vile in his stomach, a disgust he couldn’t explain.

No… not her.

But his gaze——remained fixed on the name printed on the card.

Minhat.

The name that had haunted his dreams since the accident. The name that now sat stained in red.

He slowly dragged his bloodied finger across the letters, as if branding them with the weight of his obsession,his rage.

Smearing blood over it --like a signature… or a warning.

“You can hide behind someone else’s face,” he murmured, voice low and venomous..

“but your name… belongs to me now.”