Shalini Deshmukh
1
The streets of Goa were a riot of color, music, and laughter. It was the height of Carnival, and the city was alive with exuberance. Masked revelers danced through the streets, their faces hidden behind glittering masks, their costumes a kaleidoscope of feathers, beads, and sequins. The scent of street food filled the air, mixing with the faint, salty breeze from the sea. Goa, known for its beaches and laid-back charm, had a different pulse during Carnival—a pulse that beat with frenetic energy and reckless abandon. To most, it was a time of celebration, of letting go of all inhibitions, a time to indulge in the wild, carefree spirit of the season. Yet, amid the merrymaking, something dark simmered beneath the surface.
Kiara Deshmukh, a young and dedicated police officer with the CID, had always found the Carnival a strange contradiction. The joy that enveloped the city felt forced to her, as if everyone was pretending to be something they weren’t, behind masks that hid more than just their identities. This year, however, her role in the celebrations was far from festive. As she stepped out of her car at the heart of Panjim, her phone buzzed with a call. Her superior’s voice was grave. There had been an incident. A body had been found—yet another gruesome murder in a series that had already left a mark on Goa’s peace-loving reputation. But this time, it was different. The victim had been found wearing a bizarrely ornate mask, one that seemed to belong more to a ghost story than to the colorful festivities of the Carnival.
The scene was chaotic when Kiara arrived. The alley where the body had been discovered was tucked away from the main street, lined with old, crumbling colonial buildings. A small crowd had gathered, murmuring among themselves, their voices a mix of fear and curiosity. Kiara pushed past them, her gaze falling on the lifeless form of the woman lying at the foot of a cracked wall. The woman’s body was adorned with an elaborate costume, one that looked out of place among the typical Carnival attire. It was an antique-looking gown, with lace and embroidery that seemed to be from a bygone era. But what caught Kiara’s attention was the mask—an intricately designed, almost unsettling creation. It was delicate, but there was something about it that seemed too calculated, too deliberate. The victim’s eyes, peering out from behind the mask, were wide open in a frozen expression of terror. The scene was surreal, and for a brief moment, Kiara felt as if she were standing in the middle of a nightmare.
As Kiara knelt beside the body, her mind raced through the details. This wasn’t a random act of violence. This had been meticulously planned. The victim’s body had been placed with precision, as though the killer was sending a message, or perhaps playing a game. But what game? Kiara’s instincts told her this wasn’t just about a single victim—it was about something much bigger, something tied to the history of Goa itself. She’d been in the force long enough to know when a case was more than it seemed. The tension in the air was palpable, as if the entire city were holding its breath. The question that gnawed at her was simple: who would commit such a crime in the midst of this supposed celebration? And why? The answers were out there, buried beneath layers of festivity, history, and secrets, but finding them would take more than just routine police work—it would take delving into a past that many in Goa had long since buried.
2
The very next day, just as the remnants of last night’s Carnival celebrations were being swept away, Kiara found herself on another grisly scene. This time, it was near the famous Church of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception in Old Goa, a place that usually radiated tranquility and reverence. But today, the church’s pristine grounds were marred by the body of a man, face covered by an ornate harlequin mask. His body was sprawled at the foot of a large statue, his costume ragged and torn, as though he had struggled before his death. The mask, gleaming gold and black, stood out starkly against the backdrop of white marble and green lawns. It was unmistakably the same eerie design Kiara had seen on the first victim. The city’s festive atmosphere was now thick with fear, and Kiara felt an unsettling shiver run through her as she crouched by the body.
She noted the similarities right away—like the first victim, the man’s identity remained a mystery, and there was something deliberate about the way he was posed. Kiara’s mind raced, her instincts honed by years of experience telling her this was no coincidence. The killer was not only using the masks as symbols, but also as a way of controlling the narrative, turning the city’s joyful celebration into a gruesome stage for his twisted game. The Carnival, once a symbol of freedom and joy, now felt like a trap—a mask for the horrors lurking beneath the surface. With the city on edge, Kiara knew she had to act quickly. The killer was escalating, and he wanted her to know it.
Determined to find answers, Kiara enlisted the help of Devansh Joshi, a historian and archivist with a deep understanding of Goa’s colonial past. She hoped he could offer some insight into the symbolism of the masks. Devansh was an enigmatic figure in his own right—smart, somewhat aloof, and passionate about uncovering the secrets of Goa’s history. He met Kiara at the crime scene, his gaze lingering on the harlequin mask with a look of recognition. “These masks…” he began, his voice slow and measured, “they’re not just part of the Carnival. They are tied to a tradition older than this festival itself. Harlequin was a character in Italian commedia dell’arte, but here, in Goa, during the colonial era, such masks were used to represent the hidden faces of power—those who lived in the shadows, controlling what others saw.” His words struck Kiara like a thunderclap. It was not just the city’s elite that the killer was targeting, but their long-hidden ties to Goa’s painful colonial past.
As Kiara and Devansh pieced together the puzzle, they learned of the complex history of Goa’s liberation movement, and how some of the city’s most powerful figures had been involved in atrocities and betrayals during that time. The victims, it seemed, were all connected to these secrets—people who had played roles in shaping the course of Goa’s history, some of them directly linked to the bloodshed of the independence struggle. The more Kiara uncovered, the more she began to realize that the murders were not just acts of violence—they were an attempt to expose the sins of Goa’s elite, a reckoning that had been long overdue. The question, now, was who would be next, and how far the killer would go to see the past unveiled.
3
The investigation into the Carnival murders began to feel like an endless spiral, each clue revealing something darker, more disturbing. Kiara spent the next few days combing through old police files, trying to find any connection between the victims. But as she dug deeper, she was met with dead ends. The victims didn’t seem to have any immediate ties to one another, except for their affiliation with Goa’s elite class. Frustration mounted, and Kiara began to feel like a puppet in the killer’s game. Each step forward seemed to bring her back to the same question: what was the link between these seemingly random people, and why were they being killed in such a theatrical, symbolic way? She had a gut feeling that the key to solving this lay in Goa’s past, something long hidden and buried, and she had no choice but to uncover it.
Kiara turned to Devansh for help. She needed someone who could offer a historical perspective, someone who understood the deeper, more insidious ties between the past and present. Devansh was more than willing to assist, but even he was reluctant to dive into the shadows of Goa’s history. The legacy of the Goa liberation movement was still a sensitive subject, with many of its darkest chapters never properly acknowledged. The movement had been a time of heroism, yes, but also of betrayal, corruption, and violence—things that many in the city had worked hard to forget. “The truth is, Kiara, history doesn’t always get written the way we’d like it,” he told her, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Some stories are buried so deep, no one wants to dig them up. But maybe… maybe the killer is trying to do just that.”
The two of them visited old archives, speaking to surviving revolutionaries and investigating long-forgotten files. It became clear that the people being targeted were all involved in the political machinations of Goa during its struggle for independence. Some were leaders of the movement, others were collaborators with the colonial powers, and some were simply bystanders whose lives had been irreversibly altered by the violence of that era. But one name kept appearing in every file—a man named Antonio Almeida, a controversial figure who had been involved in both the resistance and in the betrayal of fellow revolutionaries. His actions during the liberation struggle had been shrouded in mystery, and many suspected he had played a key role in both the revolution’s success and its subsequent failures. But Antonio Almeida had vanished from public view years ago. No one knew where he had gone, or if he was even alive.
Kiara’s obsession with the case grew as she discovered more about Almeida’s involvement in the past, and the way his name seemed to be connected to nearly every victim. But the deeper they dug, the more Devansh seemed to withdraw. It was clear that his own family had ties to the liberation movement, and that some of these secrets hit too close to home. One evening, as the weight of the case pressed down on her, Kiara found Devansh in a dark corner of his apartment, staring at old photographs of his father, a prominent figure in Goa’s independence movement. “You don’t know the full story, Kiara,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “There are things in Goa’s history that no one dares to speak of. Things that can’t ever be uncovered.” His cryptic words only fueled Kiara’s resolve. She wasn’t just chasing a killer anymore. She was chasing a truth that might destroy everything she thought she knew about the city—and herself.
4
As Kiara left Devansh’s apartment that night, the weight of his words lingered in the air. Some things are better left buried. She couldn’t shake the thought that the investigation had crossed a line—one that blurred the lines between justice and retribution. The murder of two prominent figures tied to Goa’s elite was more than just a sequence of violent acts—it was an intricate, psychological game. And Kiara was the pawn. The killer wasn’t just targeting the past; they were playing with the city’s very history, using the deaths to force the truth into the light. But what truth? What was the killer trying to expose, and why now, during the festive chaos of Carnival? The city’s most vibrant celebration had become a twisted stage for a darker performance, one that Kiara had to stop before more lives were claimed.
The next morning, Kiara sat in her office, scanning through the police files again, but this time, something caught her eye. A third victim had been found, and the circumstances were eerily similar to the first two. This time, the victim was a well-known businessman with deep ties to Goa’s political circles—Alvaro Carvalho. He had been found near his own luxurious estate, the same harlequin mask adorning his face, and the same symbolic pose as the others. As Kiara stared at the crime scene photos, something felt off. The victim’s pose seemed deliberate, calculated—each murder was staged as if it were a message. But what was the message? Why these specific people? Why was the killer choosing to reveal the darkness of Goa’s past at such a high cost?
Kiara’s thoughts turned to the only person who could help her make sense of the deeper motives—the historian, Devansh. When she called him, his voice was strained, almost hesitant. “We’re not just dealing with a killer, Kiara,” he said, his voice low and uneasy. “We’re dealing with someone who has a personal stake in exposing the corruption that goes all the way back to the liberation movement. This isn’t just a random series of murders. It’s a game, and the killer is in control. Every clue, every murder, is a step toward something much bigger.” He paused before adding, “It’s all tied to Almeida, and it’s personal. The killer’s purpose isn’t to kill for the sake of killing—they want to make sure the truth is heard, no matter the cost.”
The revelation hit Kiara like a punch to the gut. Almeida’s betrayal was not just an act of violence; it was the seed from which all the current chaos had grown. The victims, all key players from the liberation struggle, were being made to pay for the sins of their past, their betrayal of the revolution’s ideals. But Kiara couldn’t help but feel that the killer was far more than just an avenger of the past—there was a personal vendetta involved, and it was one that was drawing Kiara herself into its twisted web. She was no longer just the investigator—she was the target. The killer’s game was far from over, and Kiara was running out of time to stop it.
5
The case was spiraling out of control, and Kiara could feel the noose tightening around her. With each passing day, the murders seemed more like a countdown to something larger, something that she couldn’t yet comprehend. She stood at the edge of the marina in Panjim, staring at the glittering waters, trying to gather her thoughts. It was ironic that in a city so steeped in history, so defined by its colonial past, the truth had been buried under layers of wealth, privilege, and power. The victims were all connected to Goa’s elite, but the deeper Kiara dug, the more she felt like she was uncovering a past that no one wanted to confront. The more she learned, the more she realized that those involved in Goa’s liberation—both the heroes and the traitors—had left behind a legacy of corruption and silence, a legacy that was now being dragged into the light, one murder at a time.
Her thoughts turned to Alvaro Carvalho, the latest victim. A man who was synonymous with the modern face of Goa’s wealth and influence. His name was etched in gold across the luxurious resorts and businesses that dotted the coastline. Yet, behind that facade of affluence, Kiara learned from her sources, lay a man with deep ties to Goa’s colonial past. Carvalho’s family had been part of the elite that held power during the Portuguese regime, and his rise to prominence in the post-liberation era was tainted with whispers of shady dealings. But it wasn’t just his business empire that tied him to the murders—it was his connection to Antonio Almeida, the man who had betrayed so many during the struggle for independence. Kiara’s gut told her that the killer was targeting not only those who were involved in Goa’s bloodied past but also those who had built their fortunes by sweeping the consequences of that past under the rug.
Devansh had been invaluable in helping Kiara piece together the dark underbelly of Goa’s history. But even he was beginning to show signs of strain. “We’re walking on dangerous ground now,” he warned, his voice hoarse as they poured over old records late one night. “Almeida’s betrayal wasn’t just about politics—it was personal. He destroyed families, crushed people’s spirits, and many of the people being killed now are connected to that destruction. They were either complicit in his actions or benefitted from the fallout. Carvalho, for example—he’s one of the men who used the chaos of the liberation movement to cement his position in Goa’s elite.” Kiara listened carefully, but a nagging thought tugged at her mind. Devansh’s own father, once a respected figure in the resistance, had been involved in this very era. How far was he willing to go to uncover the truth? And what did his silence reveal about his own role in Goa’s history?
The realization hit her like a wave. The killer wasn’t just picking victims for their past wrongdoings—he was holding up a mirror to Goa’s entire elite class, forcing them to look at the legacy they had built on the blood and betrayal of their forebears. But Kiara knew she couldn’t wait for the killer to make the next move. She had to take control, to find the final piece of the puzzle before it was too late. With the entire city now on edge, she knew that if she didn’t stop the killer soon, the truth would consume not just the guilty, but everyone who had ever turned a blind eye to the atrocities committed in the name of independence. Time was running out.
6
Kiara had never felt so close to a breaking point. The murders were no longer just a series of isolated incidents—they were a message, a twisted game being played by a killer who reveled in psychological manipulation. Each crime scene was carefully staged, each victim chosen with precision, and the killer seemed to be one step ahead, pulling the strings of a grand design that Kiara was only beginning to understand. The constant pressure weighed heavily on her—on her every decision, every conversation, every step. And with each passing day, the game grew darker, more personal. The city of Goa, once her sanctuary, now felt like a labyrinth of betrayal and deceit, and she was lost in its maze, running out of time to solve it.
Her mind circled back to the cryptic warning Devansh had given her. We’re not just dealing with a killer. We’re dealing with someone who wants to expose everything—the past, the present, and the lies in between. His words haunted her. And then came the shocking realization: the killer wasn’t just exposing the sins of the city’s elite, but her own family’s involvement in the past. Kiara’s father, a once-respected officer, had been part of the efforts to keep certain truths hidden during the aftermath of the liberation struggle. She had always admired him for his strength and dedication, but the more she uncovered, the more she realized that her father’s hands, too, were stained with the blood of Goa’s past. His silence about the atrocities that had occurred, his failure to bring justice, had paved the way for the corruption that still ran through the veins of the city’s elite.
The thought was too much to bear. Kiara had always believed that she was different, that she could be the one to uncover the truth, to fight against the darkness that had tainted her family’s legacy. But now, she wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. Was she just another pawn in a game played by people who had long since abandoned any moral compass? The investigation was no longer about the victims—it was about the people they had left behind, the system they had helped create, and the lies they had told to stay in power. The killer wasn’t just avenging the past; he was holding up a mirror to the city, forcing them to face the truth they had buried for decades.
In a moment of desperation, Kiara called Devansh, but when he answered, his voice was distant. “We’re too close now, Kiara,” he said. “We’ve uncovered things that are better left untouched. The killer… he knows. He knows everything. He’s playing a game that has been in motion for years, and we’re the final pieces. We can’t stop him without tearing down everything—your father’s legacy, my family’s name, the entire history of Goa itself. I don’t know if you’re ready for that.” But Kiara didn’t have a choice. She couldn’t stop now. With the killer’s next move imminent, Kiara knew she had to find a way to stop the unraveling of her city’s deepest secrets before they consumed them all.
7
The moment Kiara stepped into the dimly lit warehouse at the outskirts of Panjim, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. The killer’s taunts had grown more personal, more pointed, and the truth she had been chasing for weeks now seemed within reach, yet just out of her grasp. The warehouse was silent except for the soft creak of the old wooden beams above, and the stench of dust and decay hung in the air. Her heart raced, but her mind was clear—this was it, the place where everything would come together. The clues from the past few days had led her here, to the heart of the killer’s twisted game. There were no more victims, no more puzzles to solve. The killer had decided to show his face, and Kiara was ready to confront him.
But what she found wasn’t a killer in the traditional sense. In the center of the warehouse, standing before a large, ornate mirror, was a man, his back turned to her. His shoulders were broad, and he wore a black suit, his head bowed low. The mask he wore was the same one as the victims, only more refined, more regal—its gilded edges glinting under the dim light. Kiara took a step forward, her hand instinctively reaching for her gun. “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside her. The man slowly turned around, his face hidden behind the mask. His voice, when he spoke, was low and controlled. “I am the one who will finally make you see,” he said, his words laced with disdain. “I am the one who will expose the truth buried in the very fabric of this city.”
As the man stepped closer, Kiara’s mind raced. His words carried a heavy weight, one that she had felt building inside her from the very beginning of this case. He wasn’t just a killer—he was an avenger, someone who believed in justice, but justice for the wrong reasons. He wasn’t killing because of some vendetta against specific individuals; he was killing to tear down the entire system, to expose the ghosts of Goa’s past. His actions were not those of a madman, but of a man who had spent years, maybe decades, planning this moment. A part of Kiara felt sick to her stomach as she realized the truth—this man wasn’t just connected to the past, he was the past, or rather, a product of it. A product of betrayal, of the very people who had lied, deceived, and covered up the sins of Goa’s liberation struggle.
The man, sensing her realization, let out a dark chuckle. “You think you’ve been chasing ghosts, Kiara. But you’ve been chasing me all along.” Kiara’s mind snapped to attention. “You’re Antonio Almeida,” she breathed, the name finally leaving her lips. But the man only shook his head slowly, a smile playing beneath the mask. “No, not me. But someone who is far more dangerous.” With a sudden movement, the man lifted his mask, revealing a face Kiara knew all too well—a face she had never expected to see here. The man staring back at her was none other than Alvaro Carvalho, the very businessman she had been investigating. His eyes were cold, calculating, but there was a flicker of something else—guilt, regret, perhaps. “I am the one who will make them pay for what they did to me, to us,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. The game was over. And Kiara had just realized she was staring at the very man behind the curtain.
8
Kiara stood frozen, staring at Alvaro Carvalho, the man who had been both the victim and the villain in this twisted tale. His once-perfectly polished exterior, the face of a wealthy businessman and pillar of Goa’s elite, now stood in stark contrast to the brutal reality of the murders he had orchestrated. His eyes met hers with a cold intensity that sent a chill down her spine. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, as if time itself was giving her a chance to process the truth that had just been laid bare before her. Alvaro Carvalho, the man she had assumed was merely a pawn in a larger game, was the mastermind behind the murders. He was the one who had been behind the masks all along—pulling the strings, orchestrating each death with precision and purpose. But why?
“You never suspected, did you?” Alvaro’s voice was calm, almost mocking, as he stepped closer to Kiara. “You were so busy looking at the past, at the victims, that you failed to look at the ones who benefitted the most from it all. The ones who hid behind their power, their wealth, their influence. The ones who pretended to be innocent while the blood of Goa’s revolution stained their hands.” Kiara’s breath hitched as the weight of his words sank in. The truth was ugly, raw, and undeniable. The very people she had been investigating—those she had assumed were simply victims of the past—had been the ones manipulating the present all along. They had shaped Goa’s future, not as heroes, but as perpetrators of a legacy that was built on deception, betrayal, and blood.
Alvaro’s smile twisted into something darker as he continued, “You see, Kiara, I didn’t kill them just to take revenge. I didn’t kill them to bring justice for the forgotten. No. I did it to make you, to make all of them, see the truth. I wanted to expose what you have all conveniently erased from your memory. The revolution, the liberation—it was never about freedom. It was about power. And those who rose from the ashes of war were no better than the ones who enslaved us. They betrayed us, just as I was betrayed.” His voice grew more venomous, and Kiara felt a chill grip her heart. She had underestimated him. Alvaro was not a mere puppet; he had been pulling the strings all along, using the past as a weapon to destroy the present.
“Why the masks?” Kiara asked, her voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and anger. “Why this twisted game?” Alvaro’s eyes flashed with a kind of dark satisfaction, and he took a step back, his gaze never leaving hers. “The masks,” he said slowly, “are a symbol. A symbol of how you all hide behind your facades, pretending that the past doesn’t matter. It’s a reminder that everyone wears a mask. Some of you wear it in public, in front of your families and colleagues, while others wear it in secret, behind closed doors. But all of you, Kiara, are hiding something.” The words hung in the air, thick with accusation, as if they were aimed not just at Kiara, but at everyone in Goa. And for the first time, Kiara wasn’t sure if he was wrong.
9
The air felt suffocating as Kiara stood in the heart of Panjim, her body frozen with a mix of dread and disbelief. Alvaro Carvalho’s confession echoed in her mind, each word slicing through her like a cold blade. The truth, once so elusive, now hung heavy in the city’s air—an unbearable weight pressing down on her shoulders. The Carnival, which had once been a symbol of freedom and celebration, now felt like a mockery. The city’s streets, once alive with color and music, seemed tainted, darkened by the legacy of betrayal and bloodshed that had seeped into every corner of Goa. And Kiara? She felt like she was standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down into the abyss, uncertain whether she would be consumed by the truth or saved by it. The game was far from over. In fact, it was only just beginning.
Alvaro had set his trap perfectly. Each murder had been calculated, each victim chosen for their ties to the past—those who had built their fortunes on the betrayal of the revolution. But what Kiara had not anticipated was the psychological toll Alvaro’s game would take on her. She had spent weeks chasing shadows, unraveling layers of history, only to find herself staring at the man who had orchestrated the entire ordeal. And now, as the city prepared for its final night of Carnival revelry, Kiara realized that she was not just hunting a killer—she was being hunted. Alvaro’s words had been a warning: everyone wears a mask. And now, she was trapped in his twisted game, forced to confront the very mask she wore.
The final clue came just hours before the last parade would begin. Kiara received an anonymous message, the words etched in a neat, almost elegant script: The mask falls when the music stops. The cryptic message left her with an unsettling sense of urgency. Alvaro had made it clear that he was not finished yet. He had promised her a final, dramatic twist. The city was already on edge—after the brutal killings, everyone was waiting for the next tragedy to strike. The Carnival, once a celebration of life, was now a countdown to death. Kiara knew that the killer would not leave until his message had been delivered, until the last mask had fallen. And she was certain that she, too, would play a role in that final act. But how? The pieces of the puzzle were still scattered, each one a fragment of a larger story Kiara had yet to understand.
As the parade began, Kiara moved through the crowded streets, the sounds of music and laughter masking the storm building inside her. The streets were packed with revelers, many wearing masks, their identities hidden behind layers of colorful fabric. The irony of it wasn’t lost on her. It was the perfect setting for a final confrontation. She knew that Alvaro would be among the crowd, watching her every move, waiting for her to make the next step. But Kiara had no choice. She had to expose the truth—about Goa’s dark past, about Alvaro, and about herself. With the weight of the city’s history on her shoulders, Kiara stepped into the heart of the Carnival, determined to confront the killer once and for all, even if it meant unmasking the darkest truths buried deep within herself.
10
The Carnival reached its crescendo, the streets of Panjim pulsating with vibrant music and chaotic revelry. Kiara could hardly hear the laughter and the drumbeats as she navigated through the crowd, her mind laser-focused on the mission at hand. The streets were a labyrinth of color, with thousands of masks obscuring the faces of revelers, their identities hidden behind layers of sequins and feathers. It was the perfect cover for Alvaro, who had spent the entire game manipulating the shadows, operating in plain sight. As the final parade approached, Kiara knew the time for cat-and-mouse was over. She had to confront the killer, unmask him, and put an end to this twisted charade before another life was taken.
The message The mask falls when the music stops was clearer now. It wasn’t just a warning—it was a challenge. Alvaro was going to make his final move in the heart of the chaos, at the peak of the celebration. Kiara’s pulse quickened as she caught sight of the grand float moving down the street—a towering spectacle of gold, glitter, and masks. On it stood a lone figure, draped in black, their face obscured by an intricate golden mask. The figure’s posture was straight, commanding, as if they were the puppet master pulling the strings of the whole event. Kiara’s heart sank. It was him. Alvaro was here, in front of everyone, ready to play his final hand. This was the endgame.
She moved swiftly, cutting through the crowd, her mind racing. The float passed in front of her, and for a moment, she thought Alvaro might disappear into the sea of masks. But he didn’t. He stood tall, his eyes locked on her, as if daring her to make a move. Kiara felt the weight of his gaze, as though he was daring her to see the truth he had been trying to expose all along. As the float slowed to a stop, the music reached its peak, and the crowd erupted in cheers, oblivious to the dark drama unfolding just a few feet away. Kiara, however, was beyond the celebration. She was focused only on the man in front of her, the man who had woven this intricate web of lies, death, and revenge.
“Are you ready to see it, Kiara?” Alvaro’s voice was cold, but there was a hint of something else—satisfaction, maybe. “To see what your city has become?” He took a step forward, pulling off his mask slowly, revealing the face she had known all along. The businessman, the elite, the puppet master—Alvaro stood before her, his expression both triumphant and weary. “I’ve shown you the truth. The city you love is built on the suffering of others. Your father, your colleagues, all of them have been complicit. You’re no different.” Kiara’s fists clenched, her body trembling with a mixture of rage and sorrow. “You think this is justice?” she spat. Alvaro didn’t flinch. “No, Kiara. It’s the reckoning. The truth always comes out, even if it’s buried under layers of masks.”
In that moment, Kiara realized that the game wasn’t just about punishing the guilty. It was about exposing everyone—her, her family, her city—to the brutal reality they had ignored for too long. She had come face to face with the truth, but she was no longer sure if it was the kind of truth anyone could live with.
End
