Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO WOKE IN DARKNESSThe hospital smelled of antiseptic, cold metal, and fear.
Ethan sat beside his father's bed long after midnight.
Machines beeped steadily.
His father slept beneath heavy sedation.
But Ethan couldn't sleep.
He kept looking at the bruises around his father's wrists.
Then the marks on his neck.
They weren't consistent with a simple illness.
They looked like pressure.
Like someone had restrained him.
A nurse entered quietly.
“He asked for you,” she whispered.
Ethan stood immediately.
“When?”
“When he wakes.”
His father opened his eyes two hours later.
They were weak but alert.
“Dad?”
The man's gaze moved slowly toward the door.
“Maria…”
Ethan's stomach tightened.
“What about her?”
His father's fingers curled around the blanket.
“She knew.”
“Knew what?”
“She planned it.”
The room seemed to shrink.
His father swallowed painfully.
“She changed my medication.”
Ethan went still.
“Made me weak. Confused. Then I collapsed.”
His father's eyes filled with tears.
“When I woke up…”
He stopped.
Ethan leaned closer.
“What happened?”
“It was dark.”
The words barely escaped.
“I couldn't move.”
Ethan felt cold spread through his body.
“I heard people praying.”
His father closed his eyes.
“I tried to scream.”
His voice broke.
“No one heard me.”
Ethan looked away.
His jaw clenched.
He imagined his father lying helpless inside a coffin while mourners prayed above him.
A living man listening to people say goodbye.
“I thought I was going to die alone.”
“You're not going to die,” Ethan whispered.
His father opened his eyes.
“She wanted the company.”
A pause.
“The will.”
“Everything.”
Ethan stood.
His hands were trembling.
“I swear to you, Dad.”
His voice hardened.
“She will never get away with this.”
His father grabbed his wrist.
“Be careful.”
“Why?”
“She is more dangerous than you know.”
Across the city, Maria sat alone in her mansion.
A revised will lay on the desk.
Unsigned.
She stared at it for several seconds.
Then smiled.
“Not yet.”
Thunder rolled outside.
May you like
Maria slowly closed the folder.
“This isn't over.”
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