CHAPTER 12: THE FINAL WARNING
940 Words
Freya rushed out of her house, gripping her phone tightly as she hurriedly made her way through the dimly lit street. The night air was cold, carrying with it a stillness that would have been comforting under different circumstances. But at that moment, all she could feel was the thunderous pounding of her heart against her chest, an erratic rhythm fueled by unease and apprehension.
"What did Uncle Cerio find out? Why would he call me at this hour?"
Her mind raced, her thoughts spiraling uncontrollably. The urgency in his voice during their brief phone call replayed in her head, sending shivers down her spine. There was no mistaking it—his words had been laced with fear. And if this had something to do with her father and Lysandra, then Uncle Cerio was in danger.
With every hurried step she took, the shadows along the street seemed to stretch farther, their dark tendrils swaying ominously under the dim glow of the streetlights. The town, usually peaceful at this hour, now felt eerily deserted, as though the silence itself was watching her, waiting for something to happen.
After what felt like an eternity, she reached a secluded street near the abandoned building of Suarez Corporation. This was where Uncle Cerio often went when he wanted to avoid people—a place hidden away from the prying eyes of the world. Freya took a deep breath, steadying herself before scanning her surroundings, searching for any sign of the old man.
“Tito Cerio?” she called out softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Silence.
The lack of response only heightened the tension in her chest. She took a cautious step forward, the gravel crunching softly beneath her feet. The wind howled through the trees, rustling the leaves above her, but aside from that, there was nothing—no movement, no sound, nothing that indicated another presence.
Her heart pounded harder as she continued walking, her eyes darting to every shadow, every dark corner, hoping—praying—that she was not too late. Eventually, she reached the back of the building, where an old wooden bench sat beneath a towering tree. The faint moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns onto the worn-out seat.
That was when she saw him.
A lone figure sat motionless on the bench, his head bowed slightly, his posture unnaturally stiff.
Freya’s breath hitched.
She swallowed the lump forming in her throat and forced herself to move forward, her steps slow and hesitant. The air around her seemed to thicken, suffocating her with an overwhelming sense of foreboding.
“Tito Cerio?” she called again, her voice trembling.
Still, there was no response.
She took another step. Then another.
When she was finally close enough, she hesitated for a brief moment before raising her phone, turning on the flashlight. A beam of light cut through the darkness and illuminated the man before her.
Her heart stopped.
Uncle Cerio was slumped forward, his hands resting lifelessly on his lap. His chest—stained with blood. His mouth was slightly open, as if he had been in the middle of speaking when—
Freya staggered back, her breath coming in ragged gasps. A wave of shock crashed over her, her hands trembling uncontrollably.
"T-Tito Cerio…?"
No answer.
She stood frozen, unable to comprehend what was right before her eyes. It felt as though time itself had stopped, trapping her in a moment too cruel to be real. Her mind screamed at her to move, to do something, but her body refused to obey.
I'm too late.
A sharp, stinging pain bloomed in her chest, one that had nothing to do with physical wounds. It was the crushing weight of helplessness, of regret, of knowing that whatever information Uncle Cerio had been so desperate to tell her… had died with him.
But then, her gaze fell on something.
A piece of paper.
It was clutched loosely in his hand, barely held between his fingers, as if he had tried to pass it to someone before his strength left him completely.
A fresh wave of dread coursed through her veins.
Slowly, with shaking hands, she reached out and took the note, carefully prying it from his lifeless grip. The paper was slightly crumpled, stained in places, but the words scrawled across it in bold, hurried strokes sent a chill straight to her core.
"Do not trust Lysandra."
Freya's pulse roared in her ears.
The world around her seemed to blur, the weight of those words pressing down on her with suffocating force. A warning. A final, desperate attempt to tell her the truth before it was too late.
She barely had time to process the message when she heard it—
A footstep.
Behind her.
The sound was barely audible, but in the deafening silence of the night, it was as clear as a gunshot.
Fear surged through her like a violent current.
Before she could react, before she could even turn around, a cold hand clamped over her mouth.
Her eyes widened in terror.
A scream built up in her throat, but it was muffled, swallowed by the tight grip against her lips. She struggled, kicking, thrashing, but her attacker was strong—far stronger than she was. The darkness seemed to close in around her, her vision tilting, the lack of oxygen making her limbs heavy.
Her body weakened.
Her mind spiraled.
And just before unconsciousness claimed her, a voice—low, chilling, laced with something sinister—whispered in her ear.
"You should have never searched for the truth, Freya."
Then, everything faded to black.
- Writer
