The Key to the Roots

The resolution to "stand down" had lasted exactly fourteen hours.

All day, the quiet of the apartment had felt like a thick layer of dust in Delaney's lungs. She had tried to breathe, tried to sit in the silence Victor had called "the truth," but the silence was hungry. It demanded to be filled with noise, with data, with a story. She told herself she was just keeping the TV on for background noise. She told herself she wasn't looking for a "rotten leaf" anymore.

Victor didn't talk after their confrontation. He remained the same quiet kid she'd taken in; a shadow moving through the hallway, communicating only through the scratch of a pencil and the occasional bland look. He had said his piece.

But the magnifying glass wasn't something Delaney held; it was how she saw. And when the screen flickered to life with the face of the woman she had been hunting, the old hunger returned, sharper than before. Only this time, she wouldn't need to burn the tree down from the outside. She had the key to the roots sitting right there on her living room floor, headphones on and eyes down, as silent as the grave.

VIKTOR (16) sits on the floor, a worn notebook open beside him. He's sketching absently, headphones on, lost in his own world.

DELANEY is perched on the edge of the sofa, remote in hand, eyes fixed on the screen. She's tense, expectant.

On the TV, a talk show is playing. The host is smiling, leaning toward her guest.

The camera cuts to ELENA, seated neatly on a plush chair. She looks polished but guarded. A small, polite smile doesn't reach her eyes.

Delaney leans forward, volume up.

Viktor hasn't looked up. He's shading in the corner of a building in his notebook—something stark, Eastern European-looking.

Elena's expression tightens, almost imperceptibly.

Delaney scoffs softly.

Viktor's pencil stops. He slowly looks up.

On screen, Elena is now looking directly into the camera: a brief, unguarded moment of tired honesty.

Viktor's breath catches. He pulls off his headphones.

Delaney notices. She watches him, not the TV.

Viktor doesn't respond. His eyes are locked on Elena's face—the curve of her cheek, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear. A gesture he's never seen but feels familiar.

The air in the room freezes.

Elena's mask slips. For a second, she looks like a cornered animal.

The host moves on quickly, but the moment hangs in the air.

Delaney's lips curl into something between a smile and a sneer.

Viktor stands up abruptly, notebook falling to the floor. He walks toward the TV, stops just a few feet away.

He reaches out slowly, as if to touch the screen—then pulls his hand back.

Delaney goes very still.

Viktor doesn't repeat it. He just stares at Elena's face, now smiling again as the segment ends, replaced by a shampoo commercial.

Delaney freezes. She hadn't realized he was watching news about her.

Viktor doesn't look away from the screen. The footage replays in slow motion.

The word hangs in the air. Delaney stands up slowly, as if moving too fast might scare the moment away.

Viktor nods once, a sharp, definitive movement. He finally looks at Delaney, his eyes clearer than she's ever seen them.

Delaney walks over and sits on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. Her heart is pounding, but her voice is soft, carefully neutral.

He points to the screen, where a still image of Elena now sits beside the anchor.

(He taps the paused image of Elena's furious face)

Delaney watches him. A plan—cold, precise—begins to click into place in her mind. This isn't just a coincidence. This is a key. A backdoor into Elena's life, handed to her by blood.

Viktor looks down at his notebook. He's drawn a faint, ghostly figure beside the building—a girl with dark hair, looking away.

(He says the title flatly, like a word he's read but doesn't understand)

Viktor's jaw tightens. He closes his notebook.

Delaney stands, walking to the kitchen as if the conversation is casual, everyday. But she doesn't stay there. She returns, her footsteps soft on the floorboards.

She sits beside him on the floor. It's the first time she's lowered herself to his level. She doesn't touch him, but she leans into his peripheral vision, her shadow overlapping his notebook.

Viktor looks from the blank page to Delaney. He's looking for a lifeline, but all he finds is the reflection of her own intensity. He doesn't see the magnifying glass; he sees a mentor. He sees the only person who 'understands' his pain.

Slowly, he mimics her posture—shoulders tensing, leaning toward the screen. The quiet kid isn't retreating anymore; he's leaning into the fire.

Viktor's hand trembles, then steadies. He isn't drawing a building or a ghostly figure anymore. He presses the pencil down hard—so hard the lead nearly snaps.

He writes: ELENA.

Delaney watches the name take shape. She doesn't look at the paper; she looks at the side of Viktor's face, her eyes glinting with a dark, satisfied pride. The ash isn't bothering her anymore. She's finally found someone else to breathe it in for her.

Delaney smiles. It's a real smile this time—sharp and triumphant.

Viktor nods. He looks back at the page, at the name he's written. He's not staring blankly anymore. He's focused. Intent. He's ready to write whatever she tells him to write next.