ASHES OF THE BLOODLINE

Morning Light The day started like any other. Aarya sat at the kitchen table, chin resting on her palm, spoon slowly spinning circles in a half-soggy bowl of cereal. The sunlight slipped through the blinds, striping the hardwood floor in gold. Outside, the city buzzed softly — sirens in the distance, dogs barking, life just… happening. She never liked Tuesdays, but she didn’t hate them either. They were quiet. Predictable. And maybe that’s why the universe picked that day to tear her life in half — because it would hurt more. She was seventeen. Old enough to sense things, too young to stop them. Her dad stood by the stove, flipping pancakes like he did every Tuesday morning. Wearing that ridiculous faded apron with “Grillfather” printed across the front. “You ever gonna eat that, or just hypnotize it into flavor?” he teased. She rolled her eyes, smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Just waiting for the chef to finish showing off.” He flipped a pancake onto her plate with exaggerated flair. “Boom. Art.” They laughed. It was dumb. It was perfect. The Drive. Later, they drove through the city together. The rain hadn’t started yet — clouds gathering, sure, but the sky still held onto a pale blue hope. Music played low on the radio. Something old. Probably one of his classic rock playlists. “When you graduate,” her father said, “we're going somewhere. No phones. No noise. Just oceans and stars.” She didn’t reply right away. Just stared out the window, watching the world blur. “Sure,” she mumbled. “Sounds fake, but okay.” He smiled anyway — one hand on the wheel, the other tapping a rhythm on the dashboard. He always did that — found rhythm in chaos. Calm in noise. The Routine Stop. They pulled up to a run-down convenience store on the corner of 43rd and Halden. Her father needed cigarettes. He’d promised her he was trying to quit — but promises, like most things in this city, were flexible. “Back in five,” he said, pushing open the door. “Want anything? Candy? Soda?” “Surprise me,” she replied. The door shut. The bell jingled. Just like it always did. She watched the rain start to fall. Just a drizzle, barely there — like the world was holding its breath. Inside, a man in a black hoodie was already moving. She didn’t see him yet. Didn’t hear the screams. Not yet. She was still in the world where everything was okay. Where pancakes and music and future vacations existed. Where fathers weren’t made of blood and silence. Where names didn’t become ghosts. But that world had only seconds left to live. And Then— Three gunshots. Sharp. Surgical. Final. The sound shattered the calm. Aarya’s spoon dropped from her hand. Time slowed. The sky opened up — the drizzle turning to rain, falling like glass. And just like that… The world she knew was gone. The rain had begun to fall harder now — not the gentle drizzle from earlier, but a cold, pounding downpour that stung her skin and blurred the glass windows of the small convenience store. Aarya stood just outside, her fingertips grazing the door handle. She turned her head slightly, watching the reflection of her father in the glass. He was inside, half-laughing with the old shopkeeper, buying her favorite chocolate — the kind he always pretended not to remember, but somehow always did. For a moment, she smiled. She was still wrapped in the warmth of the ordinary. Still floating in that fragile bubble of "normal" — the kind of day that doesn’t feel special until it’s the last one you ever have. And then— CRACK. The first gunshot didn’t sound real. It was muffled by the storm, sharp but distant, like someone popping a balloon in the next room. Aarya blinked. Her eyes darted to the back of the store. The sound had come from there. CRACK. c***k. Two more — louder, closer. Her heart lurched violently in her chest. The old shopkeeper collapsed to the floor, a red halo blooming beneath his head like a grotesque flower. And then— her father turned. His eyes caught hers through the rain-smeared glass. His mouth opened slightly. Not in fear. In warning. As if to say run. But before she could move— before she could even breathe— The final shot. Direct. Echoing. Merciless. Right between his ribs. Her father fell. The world stopped. Aarya didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She just stood there, eyes wide, rain crawling down her cheeks like tears too numb to feel. Her breath caught in her throat. Her body froze — for only a second. And then everything in her broke loose. “Baba!” The word left her lips like a scream torn from the gut. She didn’t remember telling her legs to move — but she was already running. Her shoes skidded on the rain-slick tile. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it would tear open her chest. She barely noticed the shopkeeper’s crumpled body. Barely noticed the scattered candy, the spilled milk, the shattered silence. All she saw was him. Her father — lying on the cold floor, eyes wide open but not seeing. Blood bloomed beneath him in slow, merciless waves, spreading like ink on paper. “Baba... Baba—” Her voice cracked, her knees hit the floor so hard it stung. She crawled the last few inches to him, grabbing his shirt, her trembling fingers smearing blood as she shook him gently, then harder. “No no no no— wake up!” His lips moved. Barely. She leaned in, the tears streaming freely now, mixing with the rain and his blood and everything she would never get back. He whispered something. A word. Maybe her name. Maybe nothing at all. And then... he was still. Completely, terrifyingly still. She let out a sound — something between a sob and a howl. Raw. Animal. Shattering. “HELP!” she screamed, even though no one was coming. “Somebody help him!” But there was only the rain. Only the hum of flickering fluorescent lights. Only the soft, rhythmic tapping of blood dripping off the edge of the counter. She clutched his hand — still warm — and pressed it to her cheek. She couldn't believe it. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She looked around in panic, as if this was a dream she could crawl out of — As if someone could fix it, rewind it, take it back. But then her eyes caught something. A flicker of movement at the back. A figure slipping through the emergency exit. Tall. Hooded. Calm. The man who killed her father. Walking away like death was just another chore. Her grief twisted into something else — something hotter. Heavier. Her sobs came harder now, ragged and helpless. Her fists clenched into his blood-soaked shirt, shaking, as if willing time to rewind — as if love alone could shock his heart back to life. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered, forehead pressed to his chest. “Please... not like this.” But he was already gone. And in that silence, something inside her... snapped. The girl who loved soft Sundays and her father’s cooking — she died right there on that floor, beside the man who raised her. Aarya lifted her head slowly. Her face was wet — with rain, with tears, with blood. Her hands trembled, but her eyes had gone still. Too still. She turned. The back door swung gently on its hinges — left open by the killer who didn’t even look back. Didn’t know his name, his story, or why he did this. But she would. She would rip apart every corner of the city if she had to. She would dig through the filth, the lies, the rot. She would bury the girl she was… and become something else. As the sirens began to wail in the distance and red-blue lights painted the rainy street in stuttering flashes, she sat back on her heels, covered in her father's blood — not sobbing anymore. Only silent. Burning. Becoming.