The Night the Ocean Took Her
Four years ago, the bridge was dressed in light.
Streetlamps lined the long curve of concrete like a crown of gold, reflecting softly against the dark water below. The night air was cool, salt-heavy, and alive with anticipation.
Camalina sat in the backseat, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap.
"Stop fidgeting," her mother laughed gently, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. "You'll wrinkle the dress before we even arrive."
Camalina smiled despite herself. The fabric shimmered faintly—custom-made, delicate, ceremonial.
Tonight was supposed to change everything. Tonight, she would be crowned. Not just a title, but a promise. A future.
Her father's voice was calm as always, steady hands on the wheel. "She's allowed to be nervous," he said. "Big nights deserve it."
Camalina leaned back, watching the lights slide past the window like falling stars. For once, she allowed herself to believe this was real.
That happiness could last.
She didn't hear the truck at first.
The sound came suddenly—a deep, metallic roar slicing through the night.
Headlights exploded in her peripheral vision, blinding and wrong.
"—What—" her father began.
Impact came like the world breaking in half.
Metal screamed.
The car jolted violently as something massive slammed into them from the side. Glass shattered, spraying like knives.
Camalina's body was thrown sideways, her head snapping back as pain burst white behind her eyes.
"Camalina!" her mother screamed.
The car spun.
The bridge vanished. The sky flipped. The world turned upside down.
Before Camalina could scream, heat swallowed the air.
Fire.
It crawled fast—too fast—licking through the engine, bursting beneath the hood. Smoke flooded the car, thick and choking, burning her lungs with every breath.
"Get out!" her father shouted, voice raw with terror. "Now!"
Camalina fumbled for her seatbelt. Her fingers shook. The clasp was jammed.
The fire grew louder.
Her mother's door wouldn't open.
"Daddy—!" Camalina cried.
Another crash.
The truck hit them again—deliberate this time.
The force shoved the burning car backward, tires screeching uselessly against the bridge.
Camalina's stomach dropped as the edge came too fast, too sudden.
She saw it then.
The men in the truck.
Faces blank. Cold. Watching.
The car tipped.
Weightlessness.
Then the ocean rushed up to meet them.
The impact was brutal.
Water exploded through broken windows, slamming into her chest, ripping the breath from her lungs.
Fire hissed and died in a violent scream as the car sank, dragged down by its own burning weight.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Camalina screamed—but the ocean stole the sound.
Her dress tangled around her legs, heavy, dragging her down. Smoke turned to water. Heat turned to freezing cold.
Her chest burned as she fought the seatbelt, fingers numb, mind fracturing.
Not like this.
Please—not like this.
She kicked. Pulled. Scratched.
The pressure crushed in around her. Her vision blurred.
Shapes faded. Her parents' faces disappeared into the dark.
And then—
Nothing.
Miles away, Llewellyn Azazel stood in his penthouse office, staring at the city like it had personally betrayed him.
His phone rang once.
He answered immediately.
"Yes."
There was no greeting. No softness.
Only silence on the other end.
Then—
"Sir… there's been an incident."
Something inside his chest went cold.
"Continue."
His men's voice was tight. Controlled. Afraid.
"Camalina Alex and her parents were traveling across the Eastern Bridge. A truck hit their vehicle. The car caught fire."
Llewellyn didn't move.
His grip tightened slowly around the phone.
"They couldn't escape," the man continued. "The vehicle was pushed into the ocean. Witnesses confirm the car sank."
The city lights blurred.
"Bodies?" Llewellyn asked.
A pause.
"No survivors have been recovered."
The phone slipped from his hand and hit the marble floor.
The sound echoed.
Once.
Twice.
He stared at the space in front of him, eyes darkening—not with tears, but with something far worse.
"No," he said quietly.
The word was not denial.
It was refusal.
"She doesn't die like that," he continued, voice deadly calm. "Not her."
The men on the other end didn't speak.
Llewellyn turned slowly, the air around him shifting, thickening, suffocating. His reflection in the glass looked unfamiliar—eyes hollow, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.
"Find the truck," he said. "Find the men. Find everyone who breathed near that bridge tonight."
"Yes, sir."
The call ended.
Llewellyn stood alone in the silence.
He didn't scream.
He didn't break anything.
He didn't allow grief a voice.
Because saying it aloud would make it real.
And Llewellyn Azazel had never accepted a reality he could destroy.
Outside, the ocean moved endlessly beneath the bridge—dark, vast, secretive.
And somewhere in its depths, the world believed Camalina Alex was dead.
But Llewellyn did not.
Not for a single, dangerous second.