The Burner

I sat in the terminal, watching the flight status board flicker.

*Casablanca: On Time.*

Kieran was beside me, slumped in a plastic chair, his head resting against the window. He was asleep, or pretending to be. His face was grey in the fluorescent light, the dark circles under his eyes like bruises.

I opened the sketchbook.

The page was blank. White. Clean.

I picked up the charcoal. It felt heavy in my hand, like a stone.

I started to draw.

Not a house. Not a pillar. Not a cage.

A map.

Tangier. The Kasbah. The winding streets.

I drew lines. Alleys. Dead ends.

I drew the villa. *Dar al-Hajar.*

High walls. Iron gates. Guards.

It wasn't a home. It was a fortress.

And inside...

I drew a boy.

Lucas.

He was sitting in a garden. Playing with a wooden train. He looked small. fragile.

And next to him...

A girl.

Beatriz. Or whatever her name really was. The girl with my eyes.

She was watching him. Protecting him.

I pressed harder on the paper. The charcoal crumbled, leaving a black smear on the page.

I drew a door.

An open door.

"Flight 404 to Casablanca, now boarding."

I looked up.

People were standing, gathering their bags. Tourists. Businessmen. Families.

They looked so normal. So oblivious.

They didn't know about the bodies in the pillar. They didn't know about the girl in the video. They didn't know about the monster who had built a monument to his own madness.

I stood up.

My legs felt steady. Strong.

I touched Kieran's shoulder.

"Kieran."

He opened his eyes. They were clear. Alert.

"Time to go?"

"Time to go," I said.

He stood up. He winced, clutching his shoulder, but he didn't complain.

We walked to the gate.

I handed my boarding pass to the agent. She scanned it.

*Beep.*

Green light.

I walked down the jet bridge.

I thought about Julian. About the way he had looked at me when he fell. The fear. The disbelief.

He thought he was the architect. He thought he was the one pulling the strings.

But he was wrong.

He was just a man.

And men break.

I stepped onto the plane.

The air was cool. Sterile.

I found my seat. 14A. Window.

I sat down. I looked out at the tarmac. The runway lights were blurring in the mist.

I closed my eyes.

I could still hear the sound of the glass shattering. The sound of the pillar crumbling.

The sound of my old life ending.

But under that...

A new sound.

The hum of the engines. The thrum of the wheels.

The sound of moving forward.

I thought about Inês. About the villa. About the guards.

She was waiting for me. She knew I was coming.

Good.

Let her wait. Let her worry. Let her look over her shoulder every time a door opened.

Because I wasn't the scared girl she remembered. I wasn't the victim Julian had molded.

I was the one who survived.

The plane taxied. The engines roared.

We lifted off.

I looked down at the city. At the lights.

I was leaving the island. Leaving the ghosts.

But I wasn't leaving the fight.

I opened my sketchbook again.

To the last page.

A blank sheet.

I picked up the charcoal.

I started to draw.

Not a map. Not a face.

A weapon.

Sharp. Precise. Deadly.

I smiled.

It wasn't a nice smile.

It was the smile of someone who had learned that the only way to break a cage is to become the thing that the cage is afraid of.

I closed the book.

"Get some sleep," I whispered to the reflection in the window.

"We have work to do."