She, His Enigma

The courtroom was suffocating in its silence, the weight of anticipation pressing against every breath. Even the fluorescent lights seemed sharper, more unforgiving, casting stark shadows across Ellaya Stone’s face. She stood tall—spine straight, chin lifted—but her eyes burned with something beyond defiance.

Pain. Exhaustion. Resignation.

Then, she uttered those damning words:

“I plead guilty.”

The gasp wasn’t just a sound—it was a ripple of disbelief, swallowing the room whole. The judge, wrapped in his black robes, leaned forward, his gaze steady but edged with scrutiny.

“Ms. Stone, are you absolutely certain you wish to say nothing in your defense?”

A sardonic smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Not joy. Not regret. Just a quiet bitterness, something worn thin with time.

“I, Ellaya Stone, accept responsibility for all of my crimes.”

Her voice was steady, but the sadness beneath it ran deep—like water pressing against cracked glass.

“As Mr. Iden Ruan’s personal assistant at Ruan Corporation, I stole and sold the company’s proprietary information to the M&D group. I also poisoned Mr. Alex Ruan, leaving him comatose.”

Another gasp—sharper this time. Disbelief rippling through whispers and widened eyes.

But Ellaya remained still, unwavering. She didn’t look away. Not from Iden—not from the man who had once promised her safety.

She kept her gaze locked on him. Not accusing. Not pleading.

Just… tired.

Iden’s hands gripped the edge of the bench in front of him so tightly his knuckles blanched. A small tremor ran through his fingers. His jaw clenched, unclenched. He blinked once, slowly, like trying to believe what he was seeing wasn’t real.

But it was.

And it was too late.

The judge’s gavel struck, each echo sealing her fate.

“Life in prison is the sentence for Ms. Ellaya Stone.”

The officers approached. The handcuffs clicked around her wrists—not violently, not dramatically. Just final.

She barely reacted.

But just before the exit—a voice cracked like glass.

“Laaya…”

The sound ripped from his throat, but only in the confines of his mind.

Iden sat bolt upright in bed, gasping.

"Fuck this dream again." He muttered.

Sweat soaked his bare back, trickling down his spine, clinging to him like a second skin. His breathing was ragged, fists tangled in the sheets. He dragged a hand over his face, fingers digging into his scalp as if he could claw the memory out of his brain.

Four years.

And yet every single night, the same dream. The same trial. The same smile.

Her eyes—burned into his soul. Not with hate, but with disappointment. That was the worst part.

He stumbled out of bed and reached for a cigarette. The lighter clicked, flame meeting tobacco, and he inhaled like it might fill the hollowness in his chest. Stepping onto the balcony, he let the wind whip through his hair.

The city lights below blinked like scattered memories, too distant to touch.

---

Elsewhere, in an alley drowned in darkness, several men lay crumpled on the ground, blood leaking into the cracks of the concrete. Broken groans filled the silence.

A figure leaned against the wall—a silhouette bathed in moonlight. She held a cigarette between two elegant fingers, tapping it against the brick wall in slow, arrhythmic beats.

One of the men beneath her whimpered.

She stepped on his hand.

“Tell him I’m back.”

Her voice was calm, dangerous—like a razor wrapped in silk. Then she turned and walked away, her shadow trailing her like a second self.

---

Back in the high-rise, Iden stared at the moon through a haze of smoke. It hung low and swollen, a pale reminder of the face that refused to leave him alone.

He didn't feel the cigarette until it burned his fingertips. He flinched, dropping it to the marble floor. Ash scattered like dust over a grave.

Soft arms circled his waist from behind.

“You’re awake.”

Her voice was sweet, concerned.

He untangled her arms gently but firmly, turning away. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“I had a nightmare.”

He said nothing, just started walking toward the bedroom. She jogged up behind him, clinging to him again.

“I saw her,” she whispered. “She came back. In my dream… she stabbed me in the heart.”

He stopped. Her fingers dug into his shirt, trembling slightly.

“This is just a dream,” he murmured. “Even if she returns, I’ll protect you.”

“Iden…” Her voice cracked. “It’s been four years. And you still can’t sleep. I wake up too. Every night. Do you ever think—do you believe what we did was wrong?”

Silence.

Then, finally, his voice—low, broken:

“She only got what she deserved.”

But his lashes trembled. His jaw clenched, and something twisted in his throat like regret trying to rise and choke him.

He turned away from her and reached for his jacket. And left the building.

Iden’s car pulled up to a small yet beautiful structure, once bright and full of laughter, now abandoned. Vines curled around the walls like forgotten promises. He sat there, the engine idling, as memories climbed into the passenger seat beside him.

He opened the door and stepped into the rain.

The scent of wet earth, rusted metal, and fading jasmine hit him hard as he reached under the doormat for the spare key. His fingers shook. The click of the lock echoed like a gunshot.

He pushed the gate open.

Dust swallowed his senses. The air was heavy—soaked with time and memories. The walls still held their scent, even if the furniture had been stripped. He reached out to flick the light switch, but paused. His hand hovered.

Then he heard it.

A hum.

Faint, familiar.

Her song.

“Laaya!” he cried, breath caught in his throat.

He ran to the kitchen. Empty. The light flickered on, illuminating nothing but cobwebs and ghosts.

He stumbled backward, heart thudding in his ears. He knew he heard her. That melody—she always hummed it when she was alone. When she was happy. Or hurting.

Room by room, he searched, desperate.

Halls he used to know like the back of his hand now felt like a stranger’s home. But the humming—still there—echoed in every corner. Was it in his head?

The door creaked open slowly.

And there she was.

A figure—leaning against the wall. Humming.

He couldn't move. His feet refused.

His voice, hoarse and small, barely escaped his lips:

“Ellaya…”