"The dead don't rest until the truth is unearthed."
Leonard didn't remember where he first heard those words—some late-night conversation, maybe. Or a book his father once read to him in whispers before sleep. Either way, they clung to his ribs now, the only thing keeping him from shattering completely.
He swept sticky floors for minimum wage, mopped up strangers' vomit, and forced a dead-eyed smile every time a drunk leaned over the bar and pretended their greasy fingers in the tip jar were some kind of gift.
He'd once stood beside politicians, toasted with crystal glasses to futures he thought were real, spoke in rooms where his name actually meant something.
Now?
Now he scraped dried piss from the base of urinals in a place called Rusty Tongue, where the beer tasted like soap and the manager gave him night shifts because "you look like something the day shouldn't have to see."
But Leonard didn't complain. Not out loud.
He needed the shadows.
He needed people to look through him like he was already gone.
Because in that silence, in the hours between midnight and morning, something inside him was crawling back to life.
Not hope.
Not peace.
Fire.
Every tip went to a Naira-for-data vendor who didn't ask questions. His cracked Android barely held a charge, the screen had spiderwebbed weeks ago, but it still lit up. Still connected. Still gave him access.
Every night after his shift, he sat behind the bar on a crate, scrolling. One thumb. Dead eyes.
Looking for threads.
Looking for ghosts.
One night, the ghost answered.
A half-lost thread. Buried in an old Gmail backup, tucked under spam folders and forgotten drafts.
Subject: SG-Phase: Close the Past
Five emails.
From Victor.
From Ernest Dane.
And one unknown sender: SG.blackrose@outlook.com
They weren't long. No emotion. Just ice.
Victor: "The account under Matthias has been terminated. Burn the trail. I'll handle the boy."
Ernest: "No paper. No prints. Make sure the lawyer 'accidentally' misplaces the will again."
SG: "We warned him. He didn't listen. The fire must never reach surface again."
Leonard just stared.
Matthias.
His father. The name his family refused to speak after the funeral like it was a curse.
They told him Matthias had died broke, drunk, alone in a rented flat with overdue bills and unpaid regrets.
But this—this wasn't the story they fed him.
This was something else.
This was evidence.
Evidence that his father wasn't just a failure.
He was a problem.
A threat.
A man they needed to erase.
His breath came shallow. Rage clawed at his throat.
They'd all lied.
"They're all in on it."
Three days later, the Dane Mansion gleamed on every screen.
A charity event. Something spotless and polished: Daughters of Virtue.
Leonard scoffed at the irony.
He was about to scroll past until he saw the headline:
"Dane Family Welcomes Back Exiled Matriarch – Lorraine Dane Returns from Monaco."
His chest seized.
Lorraine.
The name was a blade.
Aunt Lorraine hadn't come to his wedding. Hadn't sent a condolence card when Matthias died. Hadn't so much as breathed in his direction since he was a child.
But in the halls of the Dane house, she was a legend told in low voices.
The Iron Widow.
The woman who bankrupted three husbands, buried two.
She was perfume and poison. Always dressed in black, even when laughing.
And now… she was back.
Leonard stood at the edge of the crowd, outside the wrought-iron gates. Just another body in the help—gardeners, caterers, ignored by the elite.
But his eyes never left the front steps.
He saw Mira.
Smiling. Laughing like nothing had ever happened.
Kissing Lorraine's cheeks with a practiced sweetness.
Lorraine didn't kiss back.
She wore a long black cashmere coat like armor, her heels clicking with the certainty of someone who'd survived worse.
Her eyes cut through the crowd—bored, sharp, scanning.
Then they locked on Leonard.
She froze.
The corner of her mouth curled into something that wasn't a smile.
She walked toward him with slow, deliberate grace, each step like the countdown to something violent.
"You've grown tall," she said. Her voice was cool, smooth—like broken glass wrapped in silk.
Leonard stared. No words came. His tongue was dust.
She stepped close. Inches away. No fear.
"The son of Matthias should've died with him," she said, like she was reciting a weather report.
Leonard blinked. "What?"
She leaned in.
"Your father was a sentimental fool who didn't know when to stop digging. And now you think you'll do better? You think you'll survive?"
His voice came out rough, raw. "You knew."
"I was the room," she said. "I voted. We ended him. And we'll end you too."
She turned without waiting for a response. Her heels were gunshots on marble. Her coat swirled like smoke behind her.
Leonard didn't follow. He couldn't.
He just stood there, heart hammering, rage and disbelief curdling in his blood.
That night, he walked along the river alone.
The city buzzed around him—cars, voices, distant music—but it all felt far away. Muted.
His mind spun.
The fire must never reach surface again.
Make sure the lawyer misplaces the will again.
The son of Matthias should've died with him.
He pulled out his phone under a busted streetlamp. Scrolled the email again. Eyes scanning every word like they might change.
Who was SG?
That was the thread.
That was the name that could pull this whole thing down.
Then—
Headlights.
Too fast.
Screeching.
Leonard turned.
A black SUV came barreling at him.
He dove, body slamming against cold pavement. His shoulder cracked, fire lanced up his arm. The SUV swerved, tires screaming, missed him by inches.
It didn't keep going.
It stopped.
Reversed.
His blood turned ice.
The window rolled down.
Trent Dane leaned out, grinning like a hyena in a tuxedo.
"You look good under my car, loser," Trent called. "Keep digging, and I'll make sure next time you stay there."
The SUV roared off.
Music thumping.
Laughing voices.
Leonard didn't move for a long moment. The world spun.
Blood dripped from his lip. His arm throbbed. Everything hurt.
But something deeper than pain stirred inside him.
Something primal.
Something ancient.
Something that refused to die.
He pushed himself up from the pavement, slow but steady.
Eyes burning.
Breath ragged.
And for the first time in years, he smiled.
Because now, he knew.
They were afraid.
And the fire?
The fire never died.