The Best Way To Kill A Villain

They say I died on a Wednesday. The news came at 11:47 p.m., delivered by a stiff-faced anchor in a velvet suit, blinking too fast, voice shaking through government fed lines. “Tragic fire claims the life of Cassandra Velasco, daughter of the late revolutionary Raul Velasco. Officials believe it to be an accident—though investigations are ongoing.” A f*****g accident. As if Velmora burns without a match. As if someone didn’t light the fire with my name scrawled on every flicker. As if I wasn’t inside screaming, clawing, melting while men in black coats watched from unmarked vans. I didn’t die that night. I was reborn. But let me start from the smoke. --- The night it happened, the air in the Eastern Slums smelled of sweat and kerosene. Father had been dead six months his ashes scattered in the Resistance Square they later bulldozed and paved over. They called him a traitor. A radical. A liar who peddled hope like h****n to the poor. But to me? He was thunder in a human body. A man who dared to bleed for a nation that preferred silence. My father didn’t die for freedom. He died because he exposed their chains. That night, I was supposed to leave Velmora. Passport forged. Bags packed. A train ticket hidden inside my bra. I was done. My father was gone. My fire was gone. But then the knock came. Three taps. Silence. Two taps. I froze. That was the Resistance code. --- He stood in the doorway like a ghost—Ezekiel Crane. My father’s old student. A firestarter in his own right. He looked different. Bigger. Colder. Eyes like razors. “Cass,” he whispered. “You have to come with me. Now.” “Why?” I asked, stupidly. My instincts screamed, but Ezekiel had always been family. A sword forged in my father’s heat. “They know. About you. About your escape. They’re coming. It’s not safe.” I should’ve run. Should’ve slammed the door and vanished into the tunnels. But I grabbed my boots, zipped my jacket, and followed him like a lamb. Only to walk straight into the s*******r. --- They took me to an old warehouse near the canals—Resistance HQ, I was told. But it smelled wrong. Too clean. Too cold. And when I stepped inside, I saw only strangers. And I saw the cameras. There was no trial. No accusation. Just a metal chair bolted to the floor, a priest in silk robes reading false scripture, and a general with eyes like rotted ice. They strapped me down. Ezekiel didn’t say a word. “You are the daughter of rebellion,” the priest said, circling me like a vulture. “Your blood poisons peace.” The general didn’t speak. He only nodded. And the fire began. They wanted a message. And I became it. They set the warehouse ablaze—with me still breathing, still screaming. They filmed it. Edited it. Broadcast it to every screen in Velmora. But fire has never killed me. It baptized me. --- I woke up in a storm drain three days later. My body? Shredded. My skin? Unrecognizable. My mind? Something new. Something monstrous. A woman found me. Aris. A nurse. A traitor to the State. She didn’t ask questions—just stitched, sewed, and swore to never speak my name aloud again. For a year, I healed in silence. Bones fused. Flesh returned. But something deeper inside me never did. I kept a journal. Not for healing. For war. I filled it with names. Senator Lorne – the smiling butcher in brocade suits. General Hadrek – the architect of my father’s execution. Cardinal Ven – the snake who blessed the match that lit my pyre. Ezekiel Crane – the Judas who walked me into hell. Each name a heartbeat. Each heartbeat a reason. This isn’t a diary. It’s a death list. And now, after 421 days in the underworld, Cassandra Velasco walks again. Not as a martyr. As a monster.