THIRD PERSON’S POV
The night pressed down on the abandoned warehouse like a held breath.
Its broken windows stared blindly into the dark, rusted metal groaning softly as the wind slipped through its hollow ribs. Weeds clawed through cracked concrete, and the smell of oil, damp wood, and rot lingered in the air. To anyone else, it was just another forgotten place. To her, it was a doorway to truth.
She adjusted the strap of the camera around her neck, one hand unconsciously resting on her still-flat belly. A faint smile tugged at her lips despite the tension tightening her chest. Tonight mattered. Not just for the story, not just for her people—but for her life too.
She was an undercover journalist, known in whispered circles for chasing truths others were too afraid to touch. Corruption, gangs, illegal trades—she had exposed them all. She believed words could change the world, that images could shake the powerful. She believed the truth belonged to the people, and tonight she was here to uncover something really dark that might get her into trouble but it will also save a lot of lives.
And tonight, if the tip was right, she would expose one of the biggest gangs operating in the city.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
She froze for a second, then answered quietly.
“Hello?”
Her husband’s voice came through, warm and familiar, a stark contrast to the cold warehouse air. He was a cop—steady, disciplined, protective to a fault.
“I’m wrapping up early,” he said. “Thought I’d surprise you. Be home soon.”
Her heart skipped. She glanced down at herself, imagining his face when she told him. The way his brows would lift in disbelief, the slow smile, the way he would pull her into his arms.
“That’s… nice,” she said softly, hiding the tremor in her voice. “I’ll be home soon too.”
She ended the call and inhaled deeply. Quick job, she told herself. Get the evidence and leave.
Fate, however, was already sharpening its blade.
Inside, the warehouse opened into a cavernous space littered with crates and torn tarps. Her footsteps were careful, silent. Then she saw it.
A woman—hands tied to a chair, mouth gagged, eyes wild with terror. Around her stood men with guns, their laughter low and cruel. The journalist raised her camera, hands steady despite the horror curling in her stomach.
Click.
Click.
Click.
She captured everything—the woman’s bruises, the weapons, the faces. Proof. Irrefutable proof. The gang leader wasn’t there yet, but this was enough to start the fire.
Then the first gunshot rang out.
The sound exploded through the warehouse, followed by shouting, chaos, and thick smoke billowing from somewhere deeper inside. Panic surged. She turned and ran, her breath coming in sharp bursts, heart hammering against her ribs.
She didn’t make it far.
The blast was deafening.
Fire, pressure, light—then nothing.
The camera flew from her hands as the world collapsed inward. Concrete shattered, metal screamed, and flames swallowed the air. In that instant, she never thought of awards or headlines.
She thought of her husband.
She thought of the child he would never know existed.
And then she was gone.
________________________________________
At the police station, her husband was smiling for the first time that day.
He signed off his final report, already imagining the night ahead. Home. Her arms around him. Lazy laughter. Love. He thought of the way she always smelled faintly of jasmine, the way she teased him for working too much.
The radio crackled.
“Explosion reported at the old dockside warehouse.”
His smile vanished.
He grabbed his jacket before the sentence even finished. Instinct took over. Sirens wailed as he sped through the city, dread coiling tighter with every second.
By the time he arrived, the warehouse was unrecognizable.
Charred remains. Twisted metal. Smoke rising like a funeral shroud.
His team spread out, but he couldn’t move. His eyes caught something lying half-buried under ash and debris.
A camera.
His breath hitched. He knew that camera. He had saved for months to buy it, had wrapped it carefully, watched her eyes light up when she opened it.
“No,” he whispered.
His legs carried him forward even as his mind screamed for him to stop. Then he saw her.
What was left of her.
The world fractured.
He fell to his knees beside her ruined body, a sound tearing from his chest that wasn’t quite a sob, wasn’t quite a scream. His hands trembled as he reached out, as if touching her would somehow undo reality.
Memories crashed over him—her laughter, her stubborn courage, the way she kissed him goodbye that morning.
“I was coming home,” he whispered brokenly. “I was coming home.”
Later—he never remembered how much later—he picked up the camera. His fingers were numb as he scrolled through the images.
Faces. Weapons. The tied woman. And finally, one clear shot of the gang leader, caught in a reflection—sharp, unmistakable.
He knew that face.
Rage bloomed where grief had hollowed him out.
His jaw clenched, eyes burning with a promise darker than the night itself.
He didn’t care about badges anymore. Or rules. Or consequences.
“They took everything,” he said quietly, voice stripped of emotion. “So I’ll take them.”
Standing amid the ashes of truth and love, he made his vow—to hunt them down, to destroy the man and woman responsible, even if it cost him his career, his freedom, his soul.
The truth she died for would not be buried.
Not while he still breathed.
