Normal life had a strange weight to it.

  I spent the day doing nothing special. Sitting on the porch steps. Helping bring groceries inside. Listening to muffled shouting from the other room as someone declared an unseen enemy “broken beyond repair.”

  It was… peaceful.

  I leaned back in a chair as afternoon slid toward evening, eyes half-lidded, letting the ordinary sounds wash over me. Wind through trees. A passing car. The clink of dishes.

  No pressure. No magic. No expectations.

  If I stayed still enough, it almost felt like I could disappear into this world entirely.

  And for a while, I let myself believe that was okay.

  In the other world, belief was collapsing.

  The disappearances hit like a delayed explosion.

  Three elite operatives. Public figures. Faces trusted by millions. Gone without warning, without explanation, without even the courtesy of a body.

  At first, it was treated as coincidence.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Schedules missed. Appearances quietly canceled. Statements released about “health concerns” and “temporary leave.” The public accepted it easily. They always did.

  Then days passed.

  No sightings. No messages. No trace.

  Speculation turned vicious.

  News panels filled with theories. Abductions. Assassinations. Internal power struggles. Every possibility except the right one. Fans mourned. Critics sharpened knives. Corporations hemorrhaged value as uncertainty spread.

  Behind closed doors, the panic was worse.

  Records were sealed. Surveillance rechecked. Orders rewritten. Questions asked that no one wanted to answer out loud.

  Three assets didn’t simply vanish.

  They were removed.

  And removal implied an error.

  The Association hated errors.

  If the girls were found alive, the implications would be catastrophic. Proof of failure. Proof of betrayal. Proof that something existed outside their control.

  If they were found dead, the questions would be worse.

  Either outcome threatened the illusion they depended on.

  And somewhere deep within that tightening web of fear, a different reaction was forming.

  Not panic.

  Not anger.

  Obsession.

  She read the reports twice. Then a third time.

  Every inconsistency. Every gap. Every silence where something should have been.

  The timing hit her like a lightning strike: the three girls disappeared at the exact same moment Miro vanished.

  Her fingers trembled as she folded the documents neatly and set them aside. Alive, she decided.

  They had to be.

  And if they were alive, then he, Miro, was too.

  A slow, deliberate smile curved her lips. So that was how it was going to be.

  Back in the quiet world, the sun dipped low, painting the sky in shades that didn’t mean anything beyond being pretty.

  I stood and stretched, feeling something I hadn’t in a long while.

  Rest.

  The chaos elsewhere didn’t reach this porch. Not yet.

  And for now, that was enough.