Arora's past hit her harder than any bullet could.
Her reasons. Her revenge. Her family.
They all came crashing back at once — fast, loud, and unrelenting.
She sat on a lonely bench outside the hospital, rain pouring around her, soaking through her coat.
It felt like the sky wanted to drown her memories, but they just wouldn't sink.
Every drop carried a ghost she could never wash away.
And as the storm whispered in her ears, she closed her eyes.
It all started when Arora was five years old...
---
The world was smaller then. Softer.
A quiet village tucked far away from the noise and cruelty of the cities.
No horns. No traffic. Just cows mooing in the fields and birds calling to each other across the morning sky.
The air smelled of rain and wildflowers, the kind of scent that made you believe the world was still kind.
Arora lived there with her father, Theo, her mother, Claire, and her older brother, Kelvin.
They had been there for ten years — ever since her parents left everything behind to build a new life.
"I'm going fishing today," Theo's deep voice filled the small wooden house one morning. "Want to come with me, baby?"
Arora stood on her toes, frowning.
"Don't call me baby, Daddy! I'm five now!"
Theo laughed — that deep, warm laugh that always made the walls feel alive.
He was a big man, all strength and scars, a little too rough for the peaceful village he now called home.
But when he looked at his daughter, he turned gentle. Always.
"What's that in your hand?" he asked, watching her wave around a stick with messy carvings.
"It's a knife! I made it myself!" Arora said proudly.
Theo blinked, then crouched down, taking the stick from her hands with exaggerated care.
"Why would you have a knife?"
She tilted her head. "Because it's cool! I wanna protect Mommy too!"
Theo's breath caught for a second. Then he pulled her into a hug so tight she squeaked.
"You should never hold a knife or a gun, baby. Promise me. Never."
Arora blinked up at him, confused. "But why?"
He smiled faintly, brushing her hair back. "Because the world already has enough people who use them."
From the kitchen, laughter floated out — light and gentle.
"It's just a toy, Theo. Don't scare her," said Claire, wiping her hands on her apron.
Claire Winland was grace wrapped in warmth — the calm that soothed the fire in him.
Together they looked mismatched, like sunlight and thunder.
The villagers used to whisper that they were a match made in hell.
Arora didn't care. To her, they were everything.
Her parents' love was quiet, but strong.
And Kelvin, her big brother, was her hero.
He was ten — clever, mischievous, and always protecting her from the tiniest things: a barking dog, a scraped knee, even from their dad's pretend scolding.
Kelvin would often tell her stories before bed — about pirates, knights, and dragons — and he'd always end them with,
> "See, Ro? The brave ones never give up. They fight for the people they love."
Arora had believed him. She always did.
---
But not every peaceful story stays that way.
Behind all the laughter and warmth, her parents carried a secret — one that would one day burn everything they'd built.
Claire Winland had once been the daughter of a man feared by all — Vincent Winland, the ruthless leader of the Black Rose Gang.
He was a king among criminals, ruling with quiet cruelty.
And Claire — his only daughter — had been his weakness.
She wasn't like him. Her kindness had no place in that empire of blood.
And when she fell in love with Theo, her father's most trusted bodyguard, she crossed a line she could never return from.
Theo had been loyal once — until he fell for the very person he was supposed to protect.
When the gang turned against them, they ran.
Together they vanished into the countryside under the cover of rain.
Left behind fortune, power, and a name that made men tremble.
To Claire, Theo was salvation — the peace she had always dreamed of.
To Theo, Claire was the reason he could finally stop fighting.
And for ten years, they built a quiet life together.
They worked the fields, raised their children, and pretended the past was dead.
They didn't speak of the Black Rose.
They didn't speak of Vincent Winland.
They didn't speak of the blood that still had their scent.
They were happy — until the day came when the past finally remembered them.
---
Back in the present, the rain had grown heavier.
Arora's cigarette had burned out between her fingers, forgotten.
"That was the peace I was born into," she whispered. "And the peace they died for."
She looked up at the stormy sky — endless, gray, unforgiving.
The Black Rose wasn't just a name I took, she thought bitterly. It was the curse I inherited.
To be continued...