My name’s Rachel. I’m 19, and last fall, my world fell apart when my parents died in a car crash.
One minute they were on their way to dinner; the next, I was standing in a cold hallway at 3 a.m., clutching a paper cup of vending machine coffee, wishing I could hit rewind.
At the will reading, I found out they’d left the family home to my father’s sister, Dina — the one who’d always hated me.
There was no money left; it had all gone to Mom’s treatments.
Two days later, Dina showed up and said,
“YOU’VE GOT ONE DAY TO GET OUT OF MY HOUSE.”
I tried to plead. I told her I could find a job, help with the bills, or anything else.
She just rolled her eyes and flopped down on the couch.
“Can you move? You’re blocking the TV.”
She didn’t care. So while she stretched out on the couch watching TV, I folded my life into bags.
The next morning, I walked out with tears in my eyes and saw a black limousine parked outside.
I was about to walk past it when the door suddenly opened and I heard my name.
I turned around and gasped. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
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A tall man in an impeccably tailored suit stepped out. His hair was silver at the temples, his eyes sharp and unreadable.
“Rachel,” he said calmly, “you don’t know me… but I knew your parents very well.”
I froze. “How? Who are you?”
He glanced at Dina, who had come out onto the porch in her robe, squinting at the scene. Without answering my question, he opened the limousine door wider.
“Please. Get in. We have much to discuss — and very little time.”
Every instinct told me not to trust a stranger, but something in his voice… the urgency, the quiet authority… made me hesitate.
When I slid into the backseat, I realized I wasn’t alone.
There was a leather briefcase on the seat across from me — and next to it, a small velvet box.
He followed my gaze and said,
“Your parents left you something. But it’s not what you think. And there are people who will do anything to make sure you never find out what it is.”
My fingers itched to open the velvet box, but the man stopped me with a raised hand.
“Not yet. Once you see it, there’s no going back,” he said, his voice low and steady.
The limousine began moving, and I watched my aunt grow smaller in the rearview mirror, her mouth hanging open like she couldn’t believe I’d just been whisked away.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To a safe place,” he replied. “Somewhere they can’t reach you.”
“Who?” I demanded.
He studied me for a moment. “People your father crossed. People who’ve been waiting for this day since before you were born.”
My stomach twisted. “This is insane. My parents were just… normal people.”
He gave a small, humorless smile. “Rachel… your parents were many things. But ‘normal’ was never one of them.”
The car pulled off the main road and onto a long, winding driveway lined with old oak trees. At the end stood a massive stone house, its windows glowing faintly in the dusk.
Inside, he finally placed the velvet box in my hands. “Your father said you’d know when to use it.”
I opened it slowly. Inside was… a single, antique-looking key, heavy and cold, with strange markings carved into it.
Before I could ask what it unlocked, he leaned closer and whispered,
“Whatever you do, Rachel… never let this key fall into the wrong hands. It’s the only thing standing between you and them.”
At that moment, a loud crash echoed from somewhere deeper in the house.
The man’s face hardened. “Too late. They’ve found us.”
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The man grabbed my arm and pulled me toward a narrow hallway.
“Stay close. Don’t drop the key,” he hissed.
We rushed through the dim corridors as heavy footsteps and muffled voices closed in behind us. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears.
“Who are they?” I gasped.
He didn’t look back. “They call themselves The Crows. They’ve been hunting your family for decades. Your father stole something from them—something only this key can unlock.”
We reached a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. He shoved me inside and slammed it shut. The room was small, lined with shelves of old books and strange maps.
“What does it unlock?” I asked, clutching the key so tightly it dug into my palm.
“A vault,” he said. “One that holds proof—records, names, accounts—that could destroy The Crows forever. Your father kept it hidden so they’d never find it. But now… they know you exist.”
The door rattled violently. Wood splintered.
He pressed something into my hand—an old photograph of my parents, younger, standing in front of a large, ornate gate. “This is where the vault is. Go there. Don’t trust anyone. And whatever happens—don’t let them take you.”
The door burst open. Masked figures surged in.
“Run!” he shouted.
I bolted through a side door he’d pointed to, my feet pounding on the cold stone floor, the shouts of The Crows fading behind me. I didn’t stop until I was outside, gulping in the night air, the photo and the key burning in my hands.
Standing under the shadows of the old oaks, I made a silent promise—to my parents, to myself—that I’d find the vault, finish what they started, and end The Crows once and for all.
Because now I knew the truth:
They hadn’t just taken my family’s home.
They had taken my entire life.
And I was going to take it back.
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