CHAPTER 160: HYPERVENTILATE

Ephyra slid into the back seat, her expression unreadable. Miles glanced at her through the rearview mirror, waiting.

"Where to, Miss Ephyra?"

She turned her gaze to the window, watching the world blur by. "Central Park," she said after a beat, her voice soft, almost absent.

Miles gave a brief nod and started the car. The restaurant was far, buried in a quieter part of the city, and the drive to Central Park took nearly two hours with traffic weaving in and out. Ephyra didn’t speak the entire time. She leaned against the window, eyes half-lidded, thoughts buried deep.

When they finally pulled up along the park’s edge, Miles eased the car to a stop. "We’re here, Miss Ephyra."

She opened her eyes slowly, her gaze distant as she looked at the familiar stretch of green and concrete paths that cut through the city’s heart. Then, without a word, she opened the door and stepped out.

"Go park somewhere," she said quietly, still not turning to face him. "I’ll be there for a while."

Miles inclined his head from the driver’s seat. "Understood."

Ephyra walked away, her heels tapping softly on the pavement before vanishing into the ambient hush of the trees. She headed east, toward the less crowded end of the park, where tourists thinned out and city dwellers turned into shadows scattered across benches and grassy fields.

It took her nearly thirty minutes of quiet wandering before she stopped. Central Park was vast—part wilderness, part stage—and today, it was teeming with life. Children squealed as they chased each other across the grass. Joggers passed with earbuds in and sweat on their brows. A street performer’s violin sang out under the arches of a bridge.

Ephyra barely noticed any of it.

Her face remained expressionless, porcelain in the wind. Her red hair danced in the breeze, catching the light like strands of ink in motion. She walked until she found a clearing—unfamiliar but quiet.

She stood there, unmoving, surrounded by people who didn’t know her, and the thoughts running through her mind. Her chest rose and fell slowly. Her hands curled into her coat pockets.

She was remembering.

All of Ephyra’s memories, or was it Eira?

Ephyra smiled bitterly.

She didn’t even know what she called the girl whose body she had lived in for years. Or should she say... whose soul had been swapped with hers?

She continued to walk forward until she spotted a bench. With a quiet sigh, she took a seat and dropped her bag beside her.

Leaning back, she rested against the bench and closed her eyes.

She let the memories come.

Most of them weren’t hers. They belonged to the girl who had lived in this body first. Eira. And none of them were good.

No one had ever truly loved her. No one comforted her. No one stood by her. And in the end, even her identity was taken from her. Even that was a lie.

Eira Kingston. That was who she was. That was her real name.

Not Ephyra Allen. Not the unwanted daughter of the Allen family.

Ephyra opened her eyes, unzipped her bag, and took out her phone—but before she could do anything, it buzzed in her hand. The screen showed a string of numbers—no name.

She stared at it for a moment before answering.

The other end was silent. Just as she was about to hang up, a voice spoke.

"E-phyra?"

It was Elliot. His voice was uncertain, almost afraid.

"What do you want?"

"N–nothing, I just... wanted to check on you."

Ephyra was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "The one you were supposed to check on... why didn’t you?"

"Ephyra..."

"When she needed you when she needed someone to care, to listen, you weren’t there."

He choked, "I’m sorry... I’m so–"

"Did it ever occur to you that when she came to you crying when she complained, maybe she wasn’t being dramatic? Maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe she was hurting. That the pain she spoke about was real?"

Her voice was low, but sharp with anger—earned anger.

She thought of Eira’s death—lonely, overlooked, like her life. No one had been there, not even at the end.

And then she remembered her death, and she couldn’t help but laugh. Bitterly. At least she had never expected anything from the people around her. Eira, poor girl, had still hoped.

"Ephyra... I know I failed you." Elliot said voice barely a whisper. "I know there’s nothing I can do to make it right. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I just... I just want—"

"She didn’t deserve someone like you as a father," she cut in. "And I don’t care what you want, Elliot. This is the last time I’m saying it—it’s too late."

She ended the call and chuckled to herself, tossing her head back. For a moment, she just stared at the bare branches above, then closed her eyes again.

Rylie’s words echoed in her head.

Then I’d like to know if your husband has any idea you’re meeting with me.

Did Lyle know? Of course, he did. He always knew where she was.

And she didn’t know how to feel about that anymore.

Was it like before, when her safety mattered because she was the key to the antidote? Or was it something else now? Something more?

Once, Ephyra would’ve said Lyle’s caring was impossible. But she’d seen it. Not just once.

And if she said it hadn’t shaken her, hadn’t affected her, she’d be lying.

Because in both of her lives, this was the first time someone had shown that kind of concern.

Still, she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Or maybe she didn’t want to.

Her fingers tightened around the phone.

They had signed a contract. An agreement. A promise. And she didn’t break promises.

So things had to go exactly the way the contract outlined.

Exactly.

Ephyra opened her eyes and sat up, scanning the park before glancing down at her hand still gripping her phone.

There was still a lot to do.

She had to find whatever it was her real mother had left behind—something that might explain who she really was.

She had to figure out who had sent people to assassinate her when she was Eira Kingston.

And in a few weeks, college would begin.

Her focus needed to be on those things.

The rest... the rest could come later.

____

Ephyra stepped out of the car, one hand tucked into her coat pocket. She paused, eyes lifting to the darkening sky before heading toward the mansion.

"Welcome home," the guards at the double doors greeted.

She gave them a polite smile and continued inside. The sharp click of her heels echoed through the grand foyer and then the hallways as she crossed it, heading for the staircase.

"Ephyra."

Lyle’s voice stopped her in her tracks. She looked up slowly to find him standing at the top of the stairs.

She didn’t reply—just met his gaze in silence.

"You had a meeting with Rylie," he said. Not a question but a statement.

Ephyra paused, then nodded. "I did."

"Did you get what you wanted?"

This time, she smiled. "I did. And I got a call from Doctor Liam—he said the antidote will be ready in a month."

Lyle hummed, unreadable. "Are you planning to leave after it’s done?"

"That was the agreement," she said simply.

A heavy silence hung in the air before Lyle began descending the stairs.

"What if I said that agreement is no longer valid?"

"Then I’d remind you that you weren’t the only one who signed it. I did too. And my word still stands." Her voice was calm, but firm. "So... when the antidote is completed, I’ll be leaving, Lyle."

She walked up the stairs and just as she moved past him, she paused and offered a faint smile.

"I just remembered—I haven’t gotten your gift yet. Let’s go out this weekend, hmm?"

Lyle paused, his fingers flexing.

"Alright," he said without looking at her, continuing down the stairs.

Ephyra watched him until he disappeared, then closed her eyes, hand pressing lightly to her chest.

"It’s better this way... right, Donna?"

[I believe that whatever decision you make, Miss Ephyra, you’ve thought it through. So I’ll support you—always.]

A quiet laugh slipped from her lips. "Thank you, I guess."

...

Ephyra stepped into her room and walked straight to the dresser. With a practiced motion, she dropped her bag on the table and slid off her coat, her eyes locking onto her reflection in the mirror.

For a moment, she just stood there, watching herself—expression unreadable, jaw set, as if trying to decide whether she still recognized the person staring back.

Her phone rang.

"Donna," she murmured, not looking away from the mirror.

[Yes, Miss Ephyra. The call has been answered.]

Jania’s voice filtered through the room.

"Have you arrived home?"

"I have," Ephyra replied, twisting her hair up into a high ponytail and securing it with a tie. "Are you there?"

"Ages ago," Jania said, her tone teasing. "You know this is something I wouldn’t mind doing."

Ephyra didn’t answer. But Jania carried on, unfazed.

"Everything’s ready. Come down when you’re done."

The call ended as Ephyra was already pulling on a black oversized T-shirt, stripping out of her blouse.

She stepped out of her room, shut the door, and strode through the mansion’s hushed corridors. Her footsteps echoed down the grand staircase and past the double doors, out into the cool evening air.

She turned left, heading for the side of the estate where the dungeon entrance was hidden—an ordinary stretch of wall that, with a subtle motion, gave way to a dark passage and an iron door.

She opened it, walked through, and descended the narrow stairwell that tunneled deep into the earth.

At the bottom, fluorescent lights buzzed to life, casting sterile light over the vast underground facility. Guards stationed along the perimeter gave her brief nods. She returned them without slowing.

She moved past the first level of standard cells—steel bars and silence—before reaching the stairs to the lower floor.

Here, the cells were different.

They were glass encasements, each lit with harsh white lights. The kind of light that stripped you raw.

Ephyra moved toward the third glass cell, where Jania was already waiting. When their eyes met, Jania gave her a small smile and pressed her hand to the identification scanner beside the glass.

With a quiet hiss, the thick glass slid open. Jania tilted her head toward the interior.

Ephyra stepped inside.

The room was empty... at least at first glance.

Then Jania moved to the back and opened a concealed door, revealing the true heart of the chamber. Inside, a sterile room greeted them—white, cold, clinical. More medical lab than prison.

At the center, a cylindrical glass chamber stood upright, gleaming and oppressive. Inside it, Myra lay strapped to a bed—gagged, bound, clad only in a thin patient’s gown.

As soon as the door creaked open, she began to thrash violently.

Then she saw Ephyra.

Recognition hit like a lightning bolt, and panic bloomed behind her eyes. She bucked against the restraints, making guttural, furious sounds behind the tape over her mouth.

Jania didn’t so much as glance her way. She went straight to the console, pressed a sequence of buttons, and the chamber began to shift.

The glass slowly tilted into a horizontal position and slid the bed outward with a hydraulic hiss.

Ephyra stepped closer, her expression mild—almost pleasant.

"Hey," she said softly, like greeting an old friend. "It’s been a while, hasn’t it?"

Myra writhed harder, her muffled voice rising in pitch and fury.

Ephyra tilted her head. "Hmm? You have something to say?"

"Mgh! Mghhh!!"

She laughed, the sound low and dry. "I can’t hear you. Maybe say it louder? Oh wait..." Her tone turned mocking, "Let me guess what it is. You’re saying: ’You fucking bitch. Let me go. I’ll kill you when I get out of here.’ Sound about right?"

She leaned in, her eyes locked onto Myra’s. "Well, here’s the thing. You’re not getting out. Not until I’m done. And by the time we’re finished here sweetheart... you’ll wish you’d been polite."

She straightened, turning to Jania. "Is the video rolling?"

"Yeah," Jania said without looking up. "Started recording the moment we walked in."

Ephyra walked over to a metal table.

Two sections.

One lined with surgical tools—scalpels, clamps, needles. Gleaming instruments of precision.

The other with implements meant only for pain.

She ran her fingers across the cold metal, eyes never leaving Myra.

"You know," she said, "I thought for a while about what we should do about you. Then I realized... it’s only fitting."

She picked up a slender scalpel, light-catching its blade.

"Today, we’re going to make a little documentary. A reenactment. About what happened to those kids your mother handed over to those human traffickers. For experiments. For money."

Myra’s body jerked so hard it shook the table. Her eyes went wide with horror.

She started screaming—or trying to—but the tape made it pitiful. Muffled. Helpless.

Ephyra smiled faintly, voice like silk over a dagger’s edge.

"Do you understand now, Myra? This isn’t about revenge. This is about making you and your mother understand your actions. You will feel the pain and when Marianna sees the video, she will see her daughter going through the same pain she made other kids go through before. That is called Consequences. And after today..." Her eyes glinted. "You’ll know what it means."

She turned to Jania.

"Let’s begin."

"You know," she began, voice even, almost gentle, "the human body is remarkable. It has over seven hundred pain receptors just in the hands. Did you know that, Myra?"

Myra whimpered against the gag, her eyes wide, rolling in panic. The scalpel gleamed in Ephyra’s grip, but her expression didn’t change—no smugness, no anger. Just calm.

"I used to train with a man who specialized in nerve torture. He taught me which tendons to slice if I wanted to keep someone conscious, compliant... and in agony."

She moved behind Myra, the blade tracing lightly across the skin just above her elbow—the paper-thin area that covered clustered nerves. Myra jerked, but the restraints held.

"You won’t bleed out. Not yet. That’s the trick," Ephyra said conversationally. "Pain without death. Suffering without the mercy of blacking out."

The first cut was clean but deep.

Myra’s body tensed violently, a muffled scream breaking from her gagged mouth.

Ephyra pulled a cold compress soaked in antiseptic from the metal tray beside her. Without warning, she pressed it hard against the wound.

Myra bucked in agony, the scent of the antiseptic mixing with the sharp tang of blood in the air.

Ephyra exhaled, her tone still casual. "You know what hurts more than a wound? Cleaning it."

Another incision. This time along the side of the foot, slicing even more deeply into the arch.

"Once," Ephyra continued, ignoring the wet sounds of Myra’s struggle, "I was caught during a mission. They tied me to a pole and burned the skin between my toes. It took four minutes for me to pass out."

She looked down at Myra.

"You’ll get through more than four."

She moved methodically—cut, press, clean. Every cut bypassed arteries but hit the pain centers. Ephyra’s breathing never changed.

"Now, what was it your mother liked to say?" she mused as she pressed another cloth to Myra’s gaping wrist wound. "’Power belongs to those who dare take it,’ right?"

Tears and sweat had mixed on Myra’s face.

"She’s been in prison for what—three weeks now? You should hear the stories coming out of there."

Ephyra set down the scalpel and picked up a hooked instrument, glancing briefly at the reflection in the glass.

"She’s cracking, Myra. Losing her grip. The big, bad Marianna Allen is starting to babble. Paranoia. Hallucinations. She attacked a female guard last week. Tried to gouge her eyes out because she thought she was me."

Myra’s chest heaved violently. Her eyes were red now—not just from pain, but from fear.

"Funny how quickly the empire crumbles when the queen goes mad, huh? Anyways, Eliot also called me."

She took a knife and cut several lines on Myra’s mid-thigh. "He said he was sorry, that he knew he’d failed as a father and he wasn’t asking for forgiveness... he just wanted– I don’t know what he wanted because I didn’t let him finish his words."

Ephyra paused, her fingers slick with blood, as if suddenly remembering the call in real-time.

"His voice cracked," she said softly, almost to herself. "You know how pathetic that sounds? A grown man choking on his guilt after years of silence."

She dipped a strip of gauze into a basin of alcohol and pressed it against the latest cuts on Myra’s thigh. The contact sent Myra into another frenzied spasm, her scream muffled to a pitiful, gargling wail behind the gag.

"I told him," Ephyra went on, unbothered, "that the girl he abandoned—the one who came to him crying, begging for someone to believe her—that girl died a long time ago."

She tilted her head, her tone sharpening like a blade being drawn across a whetstone.

"And when she needed someone to care, someone to listen—he looked away."

She looked down at Myra again, who was trembling uncontrollably now, nearly hyperventilating.

"’Maybe she wasn’t being dramatic,’ I told him. ’Maybe the pain she spoke about was real.’"

A beat passed. Then another.

"I think that’s when he started crying."

Ephyra chuckled under her breath—a humorless sound that had no real amusement behind it. She reached for a finer blade, thin as a wire.

"I hung up before he could beg. Before he could start with the ’I just want—’ line."

She leaned closer to Myra, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper.

"Because that’s the thing, Myra. The ones who let us rot always want something after. After the bruises. After the pain."

She drew the blade across the soft skin just below Myra’s collarbone.

"You, your mother, your father—you all thought I was your weapon. Your shadow. Your mistake to hide. But I’m not your shame, Myra."

Another cut. This one was longer. Deeper.

She stood up, breathing in the metallic scent that clung to the air like smoke. Her gloves were soaked. The floor sticky with red.

For a moment, the room was quiet save for Myra’s sobs, hiccupping and garbled behind the gag.

Ephyra turned off the surgical lamp overhead, casting the room in dim yellow light.

"Sleep tight," she said, voice hollow, the ghost of something once tender curled around the words. "You’ll need your strength. We’re only getting started."

She left the room without looking back, followed by Jania who shut the door with a soft click.