Chosen Blood

Chapter 18 - Echoes of the Past

That night the Dela Cruz estate felt too quiet. Alejandro sat alone in his study beneath a lamp’s amber glow, bourbon untouched.

Papers, encrypted files, and old photographs lay splayed across the desk—a private museum of debts and deals.

He had just sealed the dossier he’d given Hima. Her words still echoed in the room: This is ours now. And behind them, a face surfaced—Hiro Malisorn, Hima’s father.

“You really did pass it on,” Alejandro murmured to the dark. “That same stubborn defiance.”

A soft knock: Luciano, his right hand, entered. Loyal and weathered. “Still awake,” Luciano said. “Let me guess—thinking about the girl?”

Alejandro smiled thinly. “Girls, plural. They drive me mad. They also remind me why any of this matters.”

Luciano’s chuckle eased the space between them. Alejandro turned a photograph face-up: him, Antonio Malisorn, Victor Villarreal—three men once allied, arms slung like kings.

“The old triad,” he said. “Once unbreakable.”

“I left for their safety,” Alejandro said softly. “Antonio died protecting his family. Victor vanished with everything he’d built.” He traced the faded smile in the photo. “Now his son stirs the past.”

Luciano frowned. “Over the singer?”

“Aria Valencia is the pretext,” Alejandro replied. “Convenient. But this smells older than a crush. Marco’s not reenacting a one-night obsession—he’s replaying inherited rage. When Antonio exposed Victor’s laundering years ago, Victor lost everything. Marco inherited that vendetta.”

“Old ghosts,” Luciano said simply.

“They always come back,” Alejandro answered.

He stood and faced the city lights. “Hima deserves the truth, but not all of it. If she knew everything about that night—about who fell and why—she’d tear the city apart. She’s ready to fight. She’s not ready to lose herself.”

Luciano’s question hung in the air. Alejandro let his gaze land on the photograph once more: one dead, one disappeared, one living

with the price. “Marco’s a piece on the board,” he said. “The hand that moves him worries me.”

Outside, the night deepened. Inside, two men watched the city as if waiting for it to remember old bargains. Alejandro’s final thought, quiet as a vow: If this war wakes, I’ll make sure my children survive it—even if I do not.

The clock clicked toward dawn. Old debts were stirring awake, and the game—long dormant—had just been reset.

Morning light spilled softly across the room — golden, slow, tender.

The curtains swayed gently in the breeze, and for the first time in weeks, the air didn’t smell of antiseptic or blood. It smelled like home.

Hima stirred, blinking against the light.

Her shoulder ached faintly — the kind of dull pain that reminded her she was still healing, still human. She turned her head slightly… and froze.

Aria was there.

Asleep beside her, curled up at the edge of the bed with a blanket half-slipping from her shoulder. Strands of hair brushed her face, her lips parted softly with each calm breath. The singer’s usual perfection was gone — replaced by something simple, unguarded, and painfully real.

For a moment, Hima forgot how to breathe.

Her heart twisted strangely — part disbelief, part awe.

Is this really happening?

She used to watch this woman from a screen, half a world away — a voice that carried her through sleepless nights, a face that reminded her of warmth when her world had gone cold.

Aria had been light-years away. Untouchable. Unreal.

And now… she was right there. Close enough that Hima could see the faint shimmer of mascara smudged at the corner of her lashes.

Hima looked away, swallowing hard. The bandages on her shoulder tugged faintly, but that wasn’t the pain making her chest tighten.

She’d dreamed of this once — in those rare, quiet hours before dawn, back when her life revolved around missions, debts, and survival. But dreams like that were for people who had time to hope. People who weren’t built for wars.

And yet…

Here Aria was — sleeping soundly beside her, hand resting near the blanket’s edge, like she’d stayed awake half the night just to make sure Hima was alright.

She shouldn’t be here, Hima thought, guilt curling in her stomach. She should be somewhere safe. Somewhere bright. Not caught up in my shadows.

Her gaze softened despite the thought.

She reached out — hesitated — then brushed a loose strand of hair from Aria’s cheek. The motion was small, barely a whisper, yet it sent a strange warmth crawling up her arm.

Aria shifted, sighing softly, her hand instinctively finding Hima’s — fingers brushing skin.

Hima froze, torn between pulling away and not daring to move at all.

Aria’s eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep.

For a second, she just looked at Hima — no words, no pretense — just quiet recognition.

Then, softly, she smiled. “You’re awake.”

Hima nodded, her voice low. “Yeah. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Aria murmured, voice still laced with sleep. “I just… wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Hima’s chest tightened again.

She didn’t know what to say, so she gave a small, awkward smile — shy, but genuine. “Guess I am. Thanks to you.”

Aria frowned slightly. “Don’t say that. You took the bullet for me.”

“That’s not something I planned,” Hima said quietly. “My body just… moved.”

Silence hung between them — comfortable, warm, yet threaded with unspoken fear.

Hima leaned back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. “Things are going to get messy again, you know. After what happened.”

Aria’s voice softened but stayed firm. “Then we face it together.”

Hima turned to her, startled by the quiet certainty in her tone.

Aria smiled again — tired, but sure. “You don’t have to keep fighting alone anymore.”

Hima didn’t answer. She just looked at her — this woman who had once been an idol, now an anchor — and thought, Maybe… maybe it’s okay to rest for a while.

The morning light caught in Aria’s hair, turning it to gold.

And for the first time since the chaos began, Hima allowed herself to close her eyes — not to guard, not to plan — but simply to be at peace.