Black rain on call One secret

chapter 4 Game Begins

I returned to my mountain home with a storm raging inside my mind. The silence that once comforted me now felt hostile, as if the walls themselves were listening. Questions didn’t fade with distance—they multiplied, folding into one another, growing sharper the more I tried to suppress them. Every answer I reached felt incomplete, like a sentence severed before its meaning could be revealed.

Who was that woman?

What did she mean when she said the solution lay within the words?

And how could she possibly know what was haunting me—unless she was already connected to the danger I was trying to escape?

By the time I reached my door, I trusted nothing. Not my instincts. Not coincidence. Every encounter felt engineered. Every detail too precise. It was as though I had stepped into a maze designed by someone who already knew every decision I would make.

Meeting her hadn’t been random. I was certain of that.

She knew more than she had revealed—and whatever she knew had drawn her to me for a reason.

The following morning, the rain had stopped, but the sky remained bruised with heavy gray clouds, hanging low as if threatening to break again. The world felt tense, suspended in anticipation.

I drove back to the hotel where I had first met her.

The receptionist recognized me instantly. His smile appeared polite, but something in his posture stiffened the moment I asked about her.

“She checked out late last night,” he said carefully.

I asked for her name. Her address. Anything that proved she had been more than a passing illusion.

He shook his head. “Guest privacy. Legal policy.”

His eyes flicked toward the security camera above the desk.

I slid a hundred-dollar bill across the counter.

The hesitation vanished.

He glanced around, typed quickly into his computer, then tore a scrap of paper from a notepad and scribbled on it. When he handed it to me, a chill crept up my spine.

The paper felt familiar.

Too familiar.

It looked disturbingly similar to the note the star-tattooed man had once left for me at the restaurant—the same cheap paper, the same rushed handwriting.

Fate… or manipulation?

I unfolded it and read the address.

My breath caught.

I knew it.

I knew it far too well.

I had designed that building myself.

Which meant returning to the city.

The drive back felt unreal, like stepping into a life I had already abandoned. When I stood across the street from the building, memories surged—long nights of architectural drafts, impossible deadlines, the pride of seeing my vision rise from concrete and steel.

Once, that building had symbolized everything I wanted to become.

Now, it felt like a monument to a version of myself that no longer existed.

The street name had changed.

“Nizar Qabbani.”

The name stirred something deep in my chest. A memory surfaced—lyrics from the song Words, a melody that had followed me for days like a whispered code.

Words.

Always words.

But what unsettled me most wasn’t the name—it was the security.

Private guards flanked the entrance, alert, armed, their presence excessive. This wasn’t protection for a normal resident. This was the kind of security reserved for diplomats, intelligence assets… or targets.

When I attempted to enter, they stopped me immediately.

“Identification.”

“And who are you here to see?”

I gave the name written on the paper.

Their expressions changed.

“There is no resident by that name,” one of them said flatly. “This apartment belongs to the daughter of the British ambassador.”

The words struck hard.

The woman wasn’t just mysterious. She was untouchable—protected by power, influence, and international authority.

Whatever game I had stepped into, it was far larger—and far more dangerous—than I had imagined.

I asked to contact her directly.

They refused.

“All communication must go through the British Embassy.”

That closed every legal door.

Whatever connection existed between us had been forged in shadows, not diplomatic corridors.

That night, at exactly 6:45 PM, the phone rang.

I answered immediately.

No voice.

Only music.

The same song.

But this time, the lyrics were clearer—deliberate.

Words again.

Not a coincidence. A signal.

For three days, I searched for a way to reach her. Every official path was blocked. Every request denied.

So I created my own.

A friend owned an apartment on the same street—close enough to watch, far enough to avoid suspicion. From there, I observed her routine with growing unease.

She left at exactly 10:00 AM.

She returned at exactly 6:00 PM.

White car.

Always alone.

There was discipline in her movements. Precision. Control. Nothing accidental.

On the fourth morning, I followed her.

I kept my distance, blending into traffic. She never once checked her mirrors, as if she knew no one could touch her.

She stopped at a private tennis club.

I followed.

Using my company’s corporate card, I entered under the guise of a business executive meeting a client. No one questioned me. Money, I realized, opened doors faster than truth ever could.

Inside, the air smelled of polished wood and privilege. The court gleamed beneath soft lighting.

Then I saw her.

She moved with power and elegance—every strike deliberate, every step controlled. She didn’t just play to win. She played to dominate.

She was breathtaking.

I applauded quietly after each point, willing her to notice me.

Eventually, she did.

Our eyes met.

Memories collided—rain, a blue dress, silver light, a crown shimmering like a warning.

She approached my table and sat across from me, calm, composed—as if this meeting had been inevitable.

“Do you realize being near me puts you in danger?” she asked softly.

Her voice carried no fear.

Only certainty.

“Maybe,” I said. “But I’ve always been attracted to danger.”

A faint smile curved her lips.

Then her gaze sharpened.

“This isn’t attraction,” she said quietly. “It’s conditioning.”

The world tilted.

A sudden rush tore through my mind—my father running beside me as I learned to ride a bicycle, his hand steadying the seat, his voice urging me not to fear the fall.

I gasped.

My vision blurred.

She leaned closer and whispered, so softly only I could hear:

“The calls weren’t warnings.”

My strength vanished.

“They were training.”

My face struck the table.

As darkness swallowed me, I heard her say my name—

Though I had never told it to her.

And I understood, too late…

I had never been chasing her.

She had been leading me all along.