The rain didn't care that my world was ending.
It kept falling on the windshield in heavy, cold sheets, turning the road into a black mirror. Mom was humming off-key from the passenger seat. Dad's hand stayed on my knee the whole drive. That was his thing. "You're safe when I'm touching you, kid," he'd say.
I was 12. I believed him.
"Detective Eric Soracha, you're off duty," Mom teased, nudging Dad. "Stop gripping the wheel like the city's about to explode."
"It already did," Dad said quietly. Not to her. To himself.
He'd been pretending for months. Playing loyal driver for Mr. Armstrong while digging through his files at night. "One more week," he'd told Mom last night, voice low. "Then we disappear. New names. New city. Armstrong can't touch us after this."
I didn't understand then. I do now.
The truck came from nowhere. No headlights. No warning. Just metal screaming and glass exploding and Dad's hand tightening on my knee one last time before—
Silence.
I woke up to sirens and the smell of gasoline. Upside down. Strapped in. Blood in my mouth.
"Mom? Dad?" My voice cracked. No answer. Only rain.
A man in a black suit pulled me out. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Dad's body through the shattered window. Phone to his ear.
"It's done," he said. "Eric Soracha won't be a problem anymore. Armstrong's orders."
Armstrong.
That name got burned into my ribs before the ambulance ever arrived.
---
*10 Years Later. Military Base, Bangkok.*
I don't dream about the crash anymore. I dream about his face. Mr. Armstrong, smiling at Dad's funeral like he was grieving. Like he wasn't the reason the casket was closed.
"Lieutenant Soracha. Report."
"Yes, sir." I snapped to attention. 22 now. Hair cut short. Scars hidden under my uniform. Elite Recon unit. Top marks in hand-to-hand, marksmanship, infiltration. They called me "cold." "Too focused." "Doesn't blink."
Good. Blinking gets you killed.
My CO slid a folder across the desk. Photos. A girl with messy waves and sharp eyes, flipping off the camera at some gala. Spoilt. Expensive. Annoying just from the picture.
"Becky Armstrong," he said. "22. Only daughter of Richard Armstrong."
My blood went cold. Armstrong.
"Rival syndicate grabbed her 6 hours ago," CO continued. "Your unit's extracting her. Clean, fast, no casualties."
I stared at her picture. Those eyes. Nothing like her father's. She looked bored. Daring the world to bore her more.
"Sir," I said, voice flat. "Requesting point position."
"You're the best we've got, Soracha. Don't make me regret it."
I didn't plan to.
That night, before the mission, I opened the old shoebox I kept under my bunk. Inside: Dad's detective badge, Mom's broken watch stopped at 11:47, and a folded piece of paper. Dad's last note, written the morning of the crash.
_Freen, if anything happens—don't trust Armstrong. End him._
My thumb brushed over his handwriting. I promised him revenge the night of his funeral, kneeling in the rain on fresh dirt. Even if it costs my life.
I didn't know then that saving his killer's daughter would be the price.
The chopper blades started turning at 0200. Wind bit my face. Below us, the rival compound lit up with gunfire.
"Go, go, go!"
I dropped first. Landed in a roll. Gun up. Move like you hate the world. Because I did.
Then I heard her. Behind a steel door, kicking it with heels that cost more than my monthly pay.
"Are you kidding me?! If I die in these shoes I'm haunting whoever left me here!"
Becky Armstrong.
I blew the lock. Door swung open. Gas and smoke. She stood there, furious, mascara smudged, but chin up like she owned the chaos.
Her eyes locked on mine. "Took you long enough, soldier."
I grabbed her arm. "Shut up and move."
She yanked away. "Don't touch me—"
Gunfire ripped past us. I shoved her down, covered her body with mine. Her breath hitched against my neck. For 3 seconds, she wasn't the spoilt Armstrong heiress. She was just a scared girl.
"See?" I whispered against her ear, pulling her up. "Move when I say move."
She didn't answer. But when we ran, she didn't pull her hand from mine.
Outside, bullets chased us. Chopper dust whipped her hair into my face. She tasted like smoke and expensive perfume and defiance.
As we lifted off, she turned to me, chest heaving. "You fight like you want to die."
"No," I said, loading a fresh mag without looking at her. "I fight like I already did. Ten years ago."
She went quiet after that. Watched me like I was a puzzle she couldn't solve.
I didn't tell her the truth. Not yet. That her last name was the reason I had no family. That my father died to expose hers. That I was two steps away from becoming the monster I was sent to stop.
I just kept my promise.
I'd save Becky Armstrong.
Then I'd destroy her father.
Even if it killed me. Even if it killed her heart.
End Chapter 1
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ASHES FOR A KISS (FreenBecky)
FanfictionShe was trained to kill the man who destroyed her world. She didn't expect to fall for his daughter. Freen Sarocha lost everything at 12-her parents murdered by Richard Armstrong, a crime lord who thought he buried the evidence. Ten years later, s...
