The room was too white. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, casting a sterile glow over everything. Callum sat on the cold metal bench outside the morgue chamber, elbows on knees, hands knotted into his hair.
He wasn't crying anymore. He had no tears left.
His white shirt was crumpled, stained with dried blood at the collar and cuffs. Not hers. His. From when he cradled her, screaming, begging her to stay alive. Dirt smudged the sleeves, the knees of his pants were ripped from where he had fallen during the chaos. The memory kept replaying like a broken reel in his mind: Liora's eyes, wide, full of life and then suddenly... empty.
"Sir, we need to take her now," the attendant said quietly.
Callum didn't respond.
"Mr. Callum," the man tried again, gentler this time, "She's in the drawer. There are procedures."
Callum's knuckles whitened. "I said I'm not leaving."
The man hesitated, then nodded and stepped away.
Callum stood, walked over to the drawer marked 118. He had memorized it. His fingertips shook as he reached for the handle.
He pulled it open slowly.
Liora lay still, pale, and beautiful.
He collapsed beside her, resting his head against the cold metal.
"Why..." he whispered. "Why you? Why not me?"
His voice cracked. A billionaire with the world at his feet, now reduced to sobbing like a child.
The double doors opened. A detective walked in, flanked by two officers.
"Mr. Callum, we need a statement."
Callum didn't look at them. "They said it was a robbery."
"Yes, that's the working theory. Random, perhaps targeted because of your status. We're still collecting footage and talking to staff."
"They shot her. Not me. Just her," Callum said, lifting his head slowly. His voice was low. Calm. Too calm. "They didn't take a thing."
The detective shifted. "We understand, but these things can be unpredictable."
"No. They walked in, found her, shot her, and left. That's not a robbery. That's an execution."
Silence. "I want answers," Callum growled.
"We're working on it."
Callum didn't believe them. Two hours passed.
He had called no one from her side. Who was there to call?
She had told him once, in passing, brushing a curl behind her ear as they drank coffee on the terrace, that she had no father. Her mother was far away in a city he couldn't even remember. She has no siblings, no one, just her.
That was Liora. Self-made. Quiet. Alone.
He stared at her still body one last time, hand resting against her arm.
"I'll handle the arrangements," he told the nurse as he finally stood, voice hollow.
"Of course, Mr. Callum. We'll take good care of her."
At his mansion that midnight, Callum sat in the hallway, barefoot, staring at the chandelier without really seeing it. Staff moved carefully, whispering, unsure what to say or do. His phone lay face-down on the table beside him. Every now and then, it buzzed.
He ignored it.
His mother had called. So had investors. Friends. No one mattered. Only her.
He closed his eyes. Her laughter echoed in his head. The way she tilted her head when she was thinking. The way she looked at him that very morning...
He squeezed his eyes tighter, fists clutched.
Then the call came.
From the morgue. He answered on the first ring.
"Mr. Callum. We... we have a situation."
Callum stood up. "What kind of situation?"
"Sir, her body... it's gone."
He didn't understand the words at first.
"Gone? What do you mean gone? Did someone move her?"
"No. No one. There's no record. No security breach. The drawer is open. She's... not there."
"WHAT?!" Callum's voice cracked like thunder. He grabbed his coat and ran.
Back at the morgue.
Detectives were already there. Security staff scratching their heads. Cameras were checked. Nothing. The footage skipped. Like a glitch.
Callum stood before the open drawer, eyes wild.
"Where is she? WHERE IS SHE?!"
"Sir, please, calm down…"
"Don't tell me to calm down! That's my fiancée! She was here! I held her hand! I saw her body! She's not something you misplace like paperwork!"
No one had answers.
"There was no break-in," the detective mumbled. "The cameras looped for two minutes. Then... she was just gone."
"This is not possible," Callum said, voice hoarse. "Bodies don't vanish."
"We're treating it as tampering with evidence for now. But there are no signs of entry."
"What about the blood trail? Her things? Anything?"
The detective shook his head. "Nothing."
Callum's knees buckled. He grabbed the edge of the drawer to steady himself.
"This isn't random," he whispered. "This... this is something else."
3 AM. Back at the mansion.
Callum sat on the floor of Liora's unused dressing room. Her perfume still lingered in the air. He picked up her scarf. Brought it to his face. It smelled like lavender and honey.
He wept. Deep, broken sobs that rattled his chest.
What was happening? First, she was gunned down in front of hundreds. Now, her body vanishes?
He looked around the room. A photo of her on the shelf. Laughing. Eyes dancing.
He stood. Walked to the window.
Stared out at the moonlit garden.
His reflection in the glass showed a man destroyed.
"I don't care what the police say," he said to the silence. "I will find you, Liora. Alive... or dead."
His fingers curled into fists.
And in the silence of the mansion, something shifted.
A soft breeze, though the windows were shut.
A faint whisper like her voice.
"Callum..." He spun around. No one.
The cold hallway answered with silence.
His breath caught in his throat as the scarf slipped from his fingers and floated gently to the floor.
Something was wrong, deeply wrong.
He didn't believe in ghosts, but her scent still lingered.
Her warmth hadn't fully left. She wasn't gone. Not entirely.
They told him it was over, but his gut screamed otherwise.
If he had to search every hospital, every hidden street, every shadowed place on earth, he would.
He'd pour out every last cent of his fortune.
He would find her. Dead or alive. He would find her.