Chapter 102 Ch. 72
“You have no control yet,” one of them said in a quiet voice as he studied Zara. Zara’s heart skipped a bit at this. He was right, and she hated that despite the walls she had tried to put up, he could still see past all that.
“I beg your pardon?” she questioned, blinking innocently.
“You have no control over whatever it is you have. I can see it in your eyes that you want us to be scared. But why would I be scared of a weakling who can’t control her powers?”
“I am not a weakling,” Zara seethed, “and I can control my powers. Now fuck off.”
“Yeah, sure, and that explains why you haven’t done anything till now.”
“I beg to differ,” she snorted.
“Okay, one thing. Is that the only trick you’ve learnt? Go ahead, break my arm too.”
The man laughed and moved towards Zara, coming at her with something clasped tightly in his palm.
“You’ll regret everything,” she said. “I’m warning you. Ethan will come, his father will.”
“Well, we’ll be happy to have him.”
Before she could respond, he had his hand over her mouth and nose. She tried to struggle against his grip, but her head suddenly felt woozy, and then the world turned blank.
• | •
Zara felt like death the moment she opened her eyes. She was still tied up but in a different room that was larger than the last. There were tables and shelves around, stacked with vials, bottles, and small machines. She tried to move and also remember how she had gotten there, but her body was too weak to even do anything.
Moreover, she was still tied up.
A woman with a familiar face handled vials carefully, glancing at her with fear every few seconds the moment she noticed Zara was awake.
Zara’s heart hammered against her chest as she tried to understand what they wanted and what they had done to her. From what she could tell, she knew this was some kind of weird experiment with her, and then images flashed through her head. The race, the gunshots, she broke a woman’s arm.
A single tear dropped from her face.
Her mind drifted to Ethan, and she had hoped he would care, that he would even notice. Did he even know what she was going through? Did he care at all? Her chest constricted painfully, and she swallowed hard, wishing for his face, his voice—anything to reach her.
But there was nothing.
Her eyes flicked across the tables, and she froze when she caught a second glimpse of the vials. Rows of small glass bottles filled with deep red liquid, some glowing faintly under the lights. Her blood. She knew it was hers. She could see the color, the faint shimmer in the glass, and the realization made bile rise in her throat. Her hands twitched against the ropes, trying to reach them, but she couldn’t.
Hot tears ran down her cheeks. She pressed her face to her chest, rocking slightly in the chair, wishing, hoping, needing someone to come and save her—someone to hold her—but the room was empty of comfort.
• | •
Neon24 looked almost the same as Ivanna remembered.
It was hard to walk in without pretending she knew where she was going. She paused by the front desk, peering over the counter at the receptionist like she was supposed to be someone important. The receptionist glanced up, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m here to see the chief editor.”
The receptionist’s brow lifted. “You can’t just see the chief editor. Appointments only. You have one?”
“I don’t need one,” she said with a cocky smirk on her face.
“And why is that?” the receptionist, Lena, questioned. Ivanna had never liked her because she always acted like she was at the top of the world.
“I came for a job.”
“We are hiring, but we haven’t started interviews. You’ll have to wait for that. That’s the door,” Lena replied haughtily.
“Well, there’ll be no need to organize interviews because I’m here, and he is going to hire me.”
“Get lost, I’ll call security. We don’t just take walk-ins. You need an appointment, references, an interview—”
“He will want to see me. I don’t need those. I’m not your average writer.”
“Lots of overconfident folks these days,” she muttered.
“Lots of unqualified people on jobs like yours.”
The receptionist blinked at her, caught somewhere between disbelief and irritation. Ivanna didn’t wait for a reply. She stepped past the counter and moved down the hallway, her heels clicking lightly against the floor. She paused at the first office door, pushed it open, and peered inside. Papers were stacked everywhere. A man glanced up at her.
“Hi. Can I get directions to the chief editor’s office?”
She knew exactly where it was, but it felt natural to ask, like she did not know her way around the place.
“Oh!” the man said, raising his brows. “I thought he had no appointments today. You’re not a staff here, are you?”
“I will be.”
“Did Lena let you in?” the man asked.
“Yes, is that a problem?”
“No, no, I’m just surprised,” he said. “Take the elevator to the fourth floor.”
“Gracias,” she responded.
When she got to the elevator, a man was standing there—waiting. It was none other than the Chief Editor, her overbearing boss who hated excuses.
Still, she acted like she didn’t know him.
“I know all my staff, and you’re none of them,” he commented. “Who are you here to see or visit?”
“You’re the Chief Editor?” she asked. “You look different from the papers.”
“In a good way or a bad way?” he questioned as they both stepped into the elevator.
“Good way.”
A big smirk crossed his face. “So what brings you here?”
“I am here to see you.”
“You don’t have an appointment. Who let you up?”
“I’m your new writer—new lead writer.”
“I have not even interviewed anyone. And lead writer has to have worked here. I’m simply hiring a writer.”
“That rule is about to change.”
“That’s very bold of you,” he said, a small chuckle escaping him. “What makes you qualified?”
“Yesterday, you received an article about the serial killer, focusing on a journalist, Ivanna, and it blew your mind that you responded with: ‘adequate, who are you’.”
“Your point being?”
“We both know adequate means, ‘Oh, how I wish all my writers were like this—like your lead writer who was killed.’”