CHAPTER 111: BLOCK B CHAOS

One of the prominent Blocks which was always usually quiet was Block B.

Not because the family wasn’t close, but because the parents were mostly busy and the kids were introverted. Okay, maybe one was introverted while the other didn’t get much chance to explore out.

This was Suzy’s family home.

The dining room was quiet. Too quiet. Only the soft clink of cutlery scraping against fine ceramic plates filled the space, but even that was sporadic, interrupted by the stillness that seemed to emanate from Suzy herself.

She sat stiffly at the edge of her seat, barely touching her breakfast. Her head was bowed, her arms curled around herself as though she were shrinking, trying to disappear into the chair. The untouched eggs on her plate were already cold. Her glass of grape juice also sat un-sipped. Her mother, elegant as always in a silk robe, set her cutlery down sharply.

"If you’re going to make everyone lose their appetite, maybe you shouldn’t come to breakfast at all," her mother said, her voice laced with thinly veiled irritation.

Suzy’s voice was low, brittle. "Didn’t want to come anyway."

Her mother turned sharply. "Excuse me?"

Her father sighed, lowering his newspaper. "Suzy," he said with that thin veil of practiced patience. "What’s going on with you? Since the wellness event, you’ve been odd. You came back with a medal, but then you lock yourself in your room like a ghost. What’s wrong?"

Suzy scoffed, lifting her eyes in disbelief. They were bloodshot. Restless. Angry. "A medal?" she echoed with a dry laugh.

"From the estate. From what... some pity competition thrown by people who think I should be grateful for scraps?" She stabbed at her eggs with her fork. "What exactly am I supposed to do with that? Frame it and hang it next to my self-worth?"

The silence that followed was stunned. Even Wilson stopped chewing.

"Suzy," her father warned gently. "Watch your—"

"No," her mother cut in, her voice rising.

"No, no, no. I’ve had enough of this sulking. Why are you being so stubborn? Picking a fight at the breakfast table now? Is this your new rebellion phase? Throwing a tantrum like a teenager?"

Something in Suzy snapped. All the repressed anger, the humiliation, the fear, finally boiled over.

"Right now?" she said, laughing humorlessly. "I wish I were a teenager. Then maybe I’d be allowed to throw a damn tantrum without everyone breathing down my neck like I owe you all perfection! God... for once, can’t I just feel something without being told it’s too much?!"

"Suzy!" Wilson called. "What’s really going on with you? Why are you acting odd? Take a deep breath—"

"And if I tell you, would you understand?" Suzy snapped. "You don’t get to tell me what to do. You’re living the life you chose! You’re a famous painter hiding behind secret names, but at least you’re doing something you love and people know you!"

He blinked, taken aback.

"But me?" Her voice trembled. "I went to law school. Law school! And now I’m stuck in this estate’s pathetic legal team doing useless things. And every time I try to step out, to do more, to breathe... someone’s there telling me no. Like I’m still some little girl who can’t be trusted with her own life!"

Her mother scoffed, throwing her napkin on the table. "And who, exactly, is suffocating you, Suzy? You’ve been going out on dates, haven’t you? You have freedom."

"Dates?" Suzy’s voice cracked in disbelief, eyes wide. "That’s your idea of a ’nice life’ for me? Going out with people like Derren?"

"What’s wrong with Derren?" her mother snapped back, defensive now. "He comes from a good family—"

"What’s wrong with Derren?" Suzy thundered, slamming her hands on the table as she rose. "He stalks me. Makes my skin crawl. You want to know what else? He held a knife to my throat!"

The words fell like a grenade.

No one moved. No one breathed.

And then, deliberately, with trembling fingers, Suzy yanked down the collar of her turtleneck. There, beneath her jaw, was a tiny square of gauze. A pale band-aid. The proof.

Her mother’s mouth fell open, eyes darting between her daughter’s face and the wound like she couldn’t quite compute them. Her father’s hands slipped from his lap to his sides, pale and useless. His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

And Wilson... Wilson had gone stone-cold.

He knew something had happened, but he hadn’t known what it was.

His jaw tightened, his knuckles white around the edge of the table.

"I told you," Suzy muttered, tears stinging her eyes. "You don’t know half of what I deal with."

She shoved her chair back, the screech loud against the hardwood, and stormed out of the dining room.

Her mother stood, half-panicked called, "Suzy—!"

"Don’t," Wilson’s voice cut like steel. "Don’t follow her."

The room went quiet again. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

"This is Suzy," he said, standing slowly. "When she’s pissed, it’s better to let her be. I know her that much."

Their mother looked at him, speechless.

Then he turned to her, his expression thunderous. "Maybe next time, you’ll be more careful about the kind of people you bring around your daughter."

Without waiting for a response, he left the room, already dialing furiously on his phone.

From the hallway, he could hear their father finally reacting, his voice rising in shock, rage, confusion, like reality had only just set in.

-----

Gavin was getting tired.

He had finished his morning exercise laps earlier, but instead of heading back to Block C, he was jogging towards Block B.

He was supposed to stalk Suzy. Well—not stalk. Monitor. But at this point, he wasn’t even sure what the hell that meant anymore. What exactly was he supposed to be watching for?

She was... boring. Impossibly boring. No secret meetings. No suspicious packages. No private calls. No mysterious visitors.

Just one entitled estate brat living off old money and mineral water. It would’ve made more sense to watch her twin, at least the boy was strange enough to make you suspicious. But even that one never left the house.

How in the hell were they meant to dig into Wildfire’s bones if none of the Wildfires did anything remotely criminal?

Gavin exhaled hard and rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t slept in two days. Every time he reported back, he had nothing but the same tired line: "No movement. Nothing relevant."

Well, that changed today.

He wasn’t Muslim, but if Mohammed won’t go to the mountain...

He cracked his knuckles.

The mountain will come to him.

He had only one reckless plan in mind as he head towards Block B: knock on the door, tell her to go do something. Anything. Stir trouble. Move money. Make a suspicious call. Leave a freaking clue. Just give him something to report.

But as he got closer, Gavin slowed. His brows furrowed. That... looked strange.

There she was. Suzy Wildfire.

Not dressed in her signature effortless glam or those overly simple wears like the type she wore the other day. No makeup. Just a ugly high-neck shirt and faded lounge pants. House slippers on. Her hair was a tangled mess like she hadn’t combed it in days. And— wait.

Tears?

She was walking... no, drifting towards his direction but not at him. Her eyes didn’t even register him. She looked like a ghost of herself. Aimless. Shaky. Her jaw trembling as she rubbed her arms like she was cold. Her chest rose and fell too fast.

Something had clearly happened. Something that shook her.

Gavin stepped back behind the trees by the side instinctively, hiding.

Then, he frowned.

Why the hell was he hiding?

He was about to step out when she tripped and fell on the ground.

Right there in the middle of the stone path, her foot catching on nothing, like even gravity was done being kind to her.

Gavin expected her to scramble up fast, embarrassed. But she didn’t. She just... stayed there. Knees on the ground. Palms flat. Hair falling over her face. No movement. No attempt to stand.

The breeze picked up, tossing a few dry leaves across the path. Suzy didn’t care.

Didn’t even blink. Her shoulders started to shake, barely at first... then harder. A sharp breath escaped her lips. Gragile, tremulous.

Then another. And then she was crying.

Not the elegant kind. Not the kind people do quietly into their pillows. This was messy. Ugly. Chest-wracking sobs from a girl who looked like she had finally hit whatever rock bottom she’d been circling.

Gavin stayed frozen behind the tree, jaw tight.

This wasn’t the plan.

He didn’t do this.

He did surveillance. Strategy. Not weeping girls on stone floors.

He hesitated.

Then hesitated again.

Then, before his brain could talk him out of it, his feet moved. Quiet steps. Careful steps. He approached her slowly, cautiously, like she might combust at his shadow.

She didn’t see him at first. But when he, like an idiot, was at a loss for how to get her attention and decided to just gently nudge her with his feet like a cat testing the waters, she finally looked up and saw him standing there, her tear-filled eyes widened.

And Gavin, for once in his goddamn life, didn’t have anything clever to say. He looked innocently awkward as he asks...

"Do you... want to use the toilet again?"

Her face contorted. And this time, the cry was louder like something inside her broke all the way open, she let out a sob so raw it punched the breath out of Gavin’s chest.

Gavin cursed under his breath.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

Should he just... go away?