I Don't Want To Be A Hero

Chapter 13 Secrets?

"Just another day," Davina thought as she sat in the back row, her pencil tapping lightly against the desk. The classroom buzzed with the quiet anxiety of test‑taking—pages turning, sighs muffled, chairs creaking—but none of it touched her. The questions on the paper felt like old friends she'd met a thousand times. She moved through them with mechanical ease, barely needing to think.

It didn't take long before she flipped the test over, satisfied.

She rose from her seat with the same quiet confidence she carried everywhere, her boots barely making a sound on the polished floor. Mrs. Hampton didn't even look up at first—until Davina's shadow fell across the desk.

"Have a great day," Davina said, placing the paper neatly in front of her.

Mrs. Hampton blinked, surprised. "Already?" she muttered under her breath, but Davina was already walking out the door.

The hallway was mostly empty, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. Davina pressed the elevator button and folded her arms, tapping her finger against her elbow. She was already thinking about the rest of her day—RenTech paperwork, maybe a quick patrol later—when a faint metallic clatter echoed behind her.

She turned sharply.

Nothing. Just the long, empty corridor stretching behind her.

The elevator dinged. She stepped inside, pressing the button for the first floor. The doors slid shut with a soft hiss, and she exhaled slowly, though she wasn't sure why her pulse had quickened.

When the elevator reached the lobby, she stepped out quickly, almost too quickly, and pushed through the glass doors into the crisp afternoon air. Her pace picked up as she crossed the parking lot, the uneasy feeling still crawling along her spine.

She unlocked her car, slid into the driver's seat, and had just reached for the ignition when—

"Don't move."

A woman's voice, low and cold, right behind her.

A blade pressed against her throat.

Davina froze, her breath steady despite the sting of metal against skin. "What do you want?" she asked, her tone flat, almost bored.

"My master wishes to see you," the woman hissed.

"And your master is…?"

"No more questions." The knife pressed harder, a thin line of heat blooming on Davina's skin. "Just drive where I tell you."

Davina started the car, her movements slow and deliberate. She eased onto the road.

"Turn left here."

"You know," Davina said calmly, "we'd get there faster if you just told me where—"

"Keep your mouth shut."

Davina smirked faintly but obeyed.

Ten tense minutes later, the woman finally told her to park beside a row of luxury cars. As soon as the engine cut off, a man appeared at her door like he'd been waiting for the exact second she stopped.

"Try anything and you'll be killed," the woman warned as the man yanked the door open.

"Out," he ordered.

Davina stepped out slowly, her eyes flicking around. She could feel them—shadows shifting, breaths held, bodies hidden just out of sight. Whoever orchestrated this had come prepared.

They led her into a towering hotel, the kind with marble floors polished to a mirror shine and chandeliers dripping with crystals. She'd stayed in places like this before. This one was nice… for most people.

The elevator ride to the top floor was silent except for the soft hum of machinery. When the doors opened directly into the penthouse, she was shoved forward. The man and woman took their positions by the elevator, hands clasped behind their backs like trained guards.

Davina scanned the room. Floor‑to‑ceiling windows. Velvet furniture. Art that probably cost more than most people's homes. Excessive, but tasteful.

"You must be Davina."

The voice came from near the windows.

A tall man rose from a chair, his silhouette framed by the city skyline. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Black hair, streaked faintly with silver. Green eyes that felt… familiar, though she couldn't place why.

"And you are?" Davina asked, her tone sharp as glass.

"I find it unfortunate you don't recognize me," he said, stepping closer. "Considering how close we are."

"Why would I recognize someone I've never met?" she replied coldly.

He moved to a counter where a bottle of whiskey waited. "It seems your mother failed you in that regard. I apologize." He poured himself a drink, the ice clinking softly.

Davina didn't respond.

"I'm your father," he said, turning toward her.

Davina let out a small, amused breath. "I doubt that." She walked over, picked up the bottle, and took a swig. "My father is nonexistent."

He laughed, genuinely entertained. "Perhaps a DNA test to prove it?"

Without hesitation, Davina pulled a pocket knife from her jacket, flicked it open, and sliced her palm. A clean, practiced motion. She held his gaze the entire time.

She grabbed a paper towel, wiped the blood, and set it on the counter. "Feel free. Send the results in the mail."

She turned toward the elevator, but the man and woman stepped in front of the doors.

"You don't leave without the master's permission," the man said.

"Get out of my way," Davina said, her voice low, "or live to regret it."

They glanced at their master.

He shook his head.

The woman lunged, throwing a punch

The fist cut through the air—fast, but not fast enough.

Davina tilted her head just slightly, letting the punch graze past her cheek. She caught the woman's wrist mid‑swing, twisted, and drove her elbow into the woman's ribs. A sharp grunt escaped her attacker as she stumbled back.

The man claiming to be her father didn't flinch. He simply sipped his whiskey, eyes gleaming with amusement.

The male guard lunged next, aiming to grab her from behind. Davina pivoted, using his momentum against him. She hooked her foot behind his ankle and swept him off balance. He hit the floor with a heavy thud, but he was up again quickly—trained, disciplined, dangerous.

Good.

He swung at her, a wide arc meant to knock her out cold. Davina ducked under it, feeling the air shift above her head, and drove her palm upward into his jaw. His teeth clacked together with a painful snap. Before he could recover, she spun and kicked him square in the chest, sending him crashing into the side of an expensive marble table.

The woman recovered and charged again, knife flashing. Davina sidestepped, grabbed her wrist, and slammed it against the edge of the counter. The blade clattered to the floor. The woman hissed in pain and tried to knee Davina in the stomach, but Davina blocked it with her thigh and shoved her backward.

The man attacked again, this time with a roar of frustration. Davina met him head‑on. She ducked under his arm, grabbed his collar, and flipped him over her shoulder. He hit the ground hard and didn't get back up.

The woman, breathing heavily, tried one last desperate swing. Davina caught her by the front of her shirt, yanked her forward, and delivered a clean, controlled strike to the side of her head. The woman's eyes rolled back as she collapsed beside her partner.

Silence settled over the penthouse.

Davina stood in the center of the room, chest rising and falling steadily, a few thin scratches marking her skin. Nothing serious. Nothing she hadn't handled before.

The man—her supposed father—slowly clapped, the sound echoing through the suite.

"Well done," he said, smiling like this was all a delightful performance.

Davina wiped a smear of blood from her cheek with the back of her hand and turned to him.

"Next time," she said coolly, "maybe send a text."

She stepped over the unconscious bodies without hesitation, pressed the elevator button, and walked inside as the doors slid shut behind her—leaving the man still smiling, still watching, still plotting.

TO BE CONTINUED