The Demolition Date
1293 Words
(Mireya Solis's POV)
The black sedan didn’t move.
That was the strange part.
Most people who watch you from a car eventually drive away.
Maybe they get bored. Maybe they realize they’ve been noticed.
But this one stayed.
The engine hummed quietly while the dark window reflected the morning sun.
I stood on the sidewalk across from the railway building, arms folded tight against my chest.
The orange tape fluttered in the wind like a warning flag.
“End of the week,” the construction worker had said.
Three words.
Three words that meant the mural would disappear.
My mural. The wings.
Two weeks of climbing ladders and mixing colors until my fingers were stained gold and blue.
Gone.
Just like that.
“You still here?”
The bearded construction worker stepped closer, hands resting on his hips.
I didn’t look at him.
“My things are inside.”
“Lady, I already told you.”
“I heard you.”
My eyes stayed on the building.
The red demolition symbol sprayed across the wall looked like a wound.
Ugly. Careless.
My jaw tightened.
“I just need my paint bag,” I said.
“Come back later.”
“Why later?”
“Because we’re starting work.”
I finally looked at him.
“What kind of work?”
He hesitated.
Then he shrugged.
“Preparation.”
Something about the way he said it made my stomach twist.
“You mean tearing the place down.”
He didn’t answer.
Silence stretched between us.
Behind me, a car door closed somewhere down the street. A bus rumbled past the corner.
Normal sounds.
But my eyes drifted again toward the black sedan.
Still there.
Still watching.
I turned back to the worker.
“Who owns Atlas Development?”
“Why?”
“I’m asking.”
He scratched his beard.
“Some rich guy.”
“That narrows it down.”
“Name’s Mercer. Adrian Mercer.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Just another man with money and too many buildings.
“Tell him something for me,” I said.
The worker raised an eyebrow.
“Tell him this district isn’t empty land. People live here.”
He gave a tired smile.
“Lady… he already knows.”
My chest felt tight.
“Then he doesn’t care.”
The man shrugged again.
“That’s usually how it works.”
A familiar voice suddenly called from behind me.
“Mireya!”
I turned.
Tomas jogged toward us from the corner, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. His mechanic shop was only a block away.
His dark curls bounced as he ran.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, pointing at the tape.
“Atlas.”
He frowned.
“Already?”
“Apparently.”
Tomas stepped up to the tape and stared at the building.
His eyes landed on the mural.
Then the red demolition mark.
His expression darkened.
“They touched your painting.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not okay.”
“I noticed.”
He looked at the construction workers.
“Who gave the order?”
“Atlas,” the bearded man said.
Tomas folded the rag slowly.
“You know there’s a permit process for demolition.”
“Talk to the city.”
“We will.”
Tomas glanced back at me.
“You good?”
I forced a small smile.
“I’m fine.”
He knew I was lying.
We’d known each other since we were kids running through these streets.
He could read my face like a book.
“You don’t look fine,” he muttered.
“I just need my paint bag.”
The construction worker shook his head again.
“No entry.”
Tomas sighed.
“Unbelievable.”
My eyes drifted back toward the sedan.
The window was down slightly now.
Just enough to reveal a silhouette.
A man sat inside.
Still. Watching. My skin prickled.
“Tomas,” I said quietly.
He followed my gaze.
“The car?”
“Yeah.”
“Been there long?”
“Since I got here.”
He studied it for a moment.
“Maybe they’re with Atlas.”
“Maybe.”
But something about the car felt… different.
Too quiet. Too patient.
The driver wasn’t talking on a phone.
Wasn’t smoking.
Wasn’t moving at all.
Just watching.
Like he was studying something.
Or someone.
Suddenly the passenger door opened.
Both Tomas and I turned.
A man stepped out.
Tall.
Dark suit.
The kind of suit that costs more than my entire shop inventory.
His hair was black, cut clean and sharp.
And his posture… calm. Controlled.
He closed the door slowly.
For a moment the street seemed to grow quiet again.
Even the construction workers looked at him.
The man adjusted his jacket.
Then his eyes lifted.
Straight toward the mural.
Not toward the building.
The mural.
His gaze moved across the wings slowly, studying every painted feather.
Then his eyes shifted.
And landed on me.
Something strange happened in my chest.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
Just a sudden awareness.
Like when someone walks into a room and the air changes.
He started walking toward us.
The construction workers straightened immediately.
The bearded one muttered under his breath.
“Shit.”
Tomas noticed.
“You know him?”
The worker nodded slightly.
“That’s Rourke.”
The name meant nothing for half a second.
Then Tomas whispered beside me.
“Cassian Rourke?”
My stomach dropped.
Even I knew that name.
Everyone did. Tech billionaire.
One of the richest men in the country.
And right now…
He was walking straight toward us.
His shoes barely made a sound on the pavement.
When he reached the tape, he stopped.
Close enough now that I could see his face clearly.
Sharp cheekbones.
Dark eyes. Cold.
But those eyes didn’t look at the workers.
They looked at the mural again.
Then back to me.
Silence stretched between us.
Finally, he spoke.
His voice was calm. Low.
“Who painted the wings?”
My throat felt dry.
But I answered anyway.
“I did.”
Cassian Rourke studied me for a long moment.
Then his gaze shifted to the demolition mark sprayed across the wall.
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Remove the tape,” he said suddenly.
The construction workers froze.
“Sir?”
“I said remove it.”
The bearded worker glanced nervously at the others.
“But the demolition order—”
Cassian’s voice didn’t rise.
But something in it sharpened.
“Did you misunderstand me?”
The worker quickly started pulling down the orange tape.
Tomas blinked in shock.
I stared at Cassian.
“Why are you doing that?”
His eyes met mine again.
For a brief moment, something flickered there.
Curiosity.
Maybe something else.
Then he said quietly,
“Because that building shouldn’t fall yet.”
My heart skipped.
“Yet?”
Cassian didn’t answer.
Instead, he looked back at the mural again.
And something about his expression suddenly changed.
The calm billionaire mask cracked for half a second.
Like he had just realized something he didn’t expect.
Something dangerous.
He turned slowly toward me again.
And asked one question that made my stomach twist.
“When did you start painting these wings?”
I frowned.
“Two weeks ago.”
Cassian’s eyes darkened.
“Two weeks…”
He whispered the words almost to himself.
Then he pulled a folded paper from inside his jacket.
I saw it for only a second.
But that was enough.
Because printed clearly across the top was a date.
The date is only a few days away
Cassian stared at the paper.
Then at me.
And the look on his face was no longer curiosity.
It was fear!
- Writer
