Chapter 7 – Chasing Waterfalls

When Tatiana burst out of the villa, Chathurika’s face shifted — fear still trembling in her eyes, but softened by a flicker of relief.

“I knew you would come, Tatiana. Please — help my brother. We have to rescue him.”

Tatiana strode toward the bike, jaw set. “Of course. Do you think I’d let you do this alone?”

Chathurika’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t do it, Tatiana.”

Tatiana froze mid-step, eyes narrowing. “You couldn’t? Wait — you tried to rescue him alone? Are you crazy?” Her tone was sharp, angry not at Chathu, but at the thought of her walking into danger without backup. She turned on her heel, boots striking the tiles, and yanked the bike upright.

“Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you text? Look—” she jabbed a hand toward her pocket, where her phone still buzzed with unread messages, “—look how many times I wrote to you!”

Tatiana swung her leg over the Ducati, slid the key in, and twisted. The machine roared to life, echoing through the villa courtyard. Her head snapped sideways, searching. “Get on.”

“Let’s go.”

Tatiana blinked — Chathurika was already on the back, as if she had slipped there like a shadow.

“Jesus—” Tatiana muttered, twisting the throttle once, amused despite herself. “You’re the best sneaker I’ve ever seen. You’d make a decent spec ops soldier.”

But Chathurika’s voice was flat, deadly serious. “I will show you the way, Tatiana.”

Tatiana glanced back once, eyes narrowing. This wasn’t the same shy innkeeper who had laughed with her at the pool. This was someone stripped to desperation, every breath tied to her brother’s safety.

“You holding on?” Tatiana asked, giving her one last chance.

“Yes.”

The word came clipped, and instead of leaning into Tatiana like she had before — arms wrapped around her waist, cheek pressed against her back — Chathurika gripped the cold metal bar under the seat. Distance, determination.

Tatiana gunned the throttle. The bike snarled, spitting fire into the predawn dark.

They shot off the villa drive, cutting into the countryside as the horizon glowed faintly with the coming sun. Palm trees blurred past, the road stretched narrow and winding, and Chathurika’s voice cut through the rushing wind.

“Left. Then straight. Faster, Tatiana. Please.”

The Amazon soldier leaned lower over the bars, her long frame steady against the roar of the machine. Her mind sharpened. Mission mode. But a single thought stayed heavy at the back of her head — wherever this road led, there would be danger waiting.

The bike tore through the countryside, its engine snarling against the stillness of dawn. The wind whipped Tatiana’s hair back, strands lashing across her cheeks as she leaned low over the bars. Behind her, Chathurika’s voice was steady, guiding with short, precise directions.

Tatiana raised her voice over the roar. “Talk to me. Do you know how they operate? Will there be men on the road, passing information on movements?”

“No,” Chathurika called back. “Even if there were, they won’t recognize you. You’re just a tourist on a bike.”

Tatiana’s dark eyes flicked sideways for a second. “Yeah, but what about you? Won’t they recognize you?”

“I don’t think so,” Chathu said, her tone flat, unconvincing.

“Where’s your brother being kept?” Tatiana pressed.

“In their secret house, in the middle of Ella Kanda. A small mountain jungle with a waterfall.”

Tatiana smirked faintly, despite herself. “Yeah — Ella means waterfall. See? I know some Sinhala now.”

Silence. No reply. Chathurika wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

Tatiana tightened her grip on the throttle, leaning into the next curve. “Do they have men around the house?”

“There were. About five hundred meters out.”

Tatiana’s mouth twitched into a grim half-smile. “Good. Nicely recced, girl.”

Only after the words left her mouth did she realize Chathurika wouldn’t know what recce meant. The soldier’s shorthand didn’t belong in this world.

She shook her head, voice hardening. “Listen. I want you to tell me before we hit the one-kilometer mark from the house. Understood?”

“Yes,” came the firm reply.

The road began to climb, the first rays of sunrise spilling over the mountains, painting the mist in gold and crimson. Tatiana’s pulse quickened, her body sharpening with every meter. This was no longer a ride — it was approach.

“Stop here,” Chathurika said suddenly.

Tatiana slowed, scanning. Ahead, a thick jungle patch spread at the bottom of a rising mountain slope. Between the trees, she spotted a narrow gap — barely wide enough for the bike.

Tatiana guided the Ducati off the road and into the green shade, the engine growling softer before she killed it. The air changed immediately, thicker, damp with earth and leaves.

She swung her leg over, boots sinking into the soil. This was the start point

Tatiana crouched low at the jungle edge, scooping a handful of mud and smearing it across her pale cheeks and bare midriff. The damp streaks cooled her skin instantly. Too pale for this terrain, she thought. No point giving the enemy easy targets.

She turned to Chathurika. “Alright, listen. You know the directions, right? That makes you the navigator. But in the military, scout goes first. That’s me. You’ll direct me from behind — whisper only. Keep five meters back. If I get checked, you withdraw. I can handle myself. Clear?”

Chathurika gave a quick, nervous nod.

Tatiana’s dark eyes softened a fraction. “Good. Stay sharp.”

She adjusted the grip of her knife, lowered herself to the ground, and began moving — silent, fluid, a predator slipping into the green. Chathurika followed, five meters behind, her smaller steps barely audible over the rustle of dawn wind in the leaves.

They advanced for what felt like half an hour, until Tatiana raised a clenched fist and stopped. She listened — the waterfall was faint but audible now. By her estimate, they were about 700 meters from the target.

She crawled back just enough to bring Chathurika within whispering range. “Talk. What do you know about the perimeter?”

Chathurika’s voice was low, strained but steady. “There are men about five hundred meters out. Three hundred meters between each. Another circle inside, one hundred meters out, fifty-meter gaps. But they don’t patrol. They just… stay.”

 

Tatiana’s brows drew together. Even in whispers, her tone carried surprise. “That’s solid recon. How the hell did you know to check spacing? You’re giving me information like someone trained for recce missions.”

Chathurika’s eyes glistened in the shadows, but her answer was sharp, immediate. “I had to. My brother is in there.”

Tatiana gave the smallest of nods, impressed despite herself. She leaned her back against the rough bark of a tree, scanning the terrain with a soldier’s instinct. Good. No patrols. If they were military-trained, they’d be reading soil for prints. Foreign boots on their turf stand out like fire in the dark. But these thugs? They don’t even bother to patrol. Amateurs. Still dangerous, but sloppy.

She exhaled, her whisper firm. “Alright. Listen to me. You don’t move closer. I’ll get him out. Stay here.”

Chathurika shook her head furiously, her breath hitching. “No. I can’t just wait—”

Tatiana’s eyes snapped to hers, sharp enough to cut through the dark. “You will. You showed me his face yesterday, I remember him. “His name is Malli right, That’s enough. I’ll find him. Don’t argue.”

“Ruwan”

“What?”

“His name is Ruwan. Malli is Brother in Sinhala”

“I am gonna bring back Ruwan. I promise”. Tatiana gave her one last look, calm but commanding, before melting forward into the jungle, every muscle tuned for the hunt.

Tatiana sank into the rhythm of the jungle like it was second nature. Her instructors had drilled this into her bones back in training — sneaking into mock camps where every guard post was a trap, instructors waiting to catch the smallest mistake. Fail once, and you started from the beginning.

Compared to that? This was almost easy.

She moved inch by inch, each step placed with deliberate care. Her eyes scanned not just ahead but down, making sure her boots never touched a dry twig. Her weight shifted evenly, so not a leaf crackled beneath her. Even when she brushed past low branches, she let them sway no more than the wind already would. If a guard’s eyes swept this way, they’d see nothing unnatural.

The outer ring of thugs was sloppy. She counted their spacing in her head, the 500-meter line Chathurika had described, and slipped right between two men without either stirring. Their posture told her everything — weapons slung lazily, attention drifting, no discipline. They weren’t soldiers.

Still, Tatiana treated them as if they were.

She registered the direction of the target house in her mind like a compass bearing. Even when she detoured wide around a tangle of thorn bush or circled to avoid open ground, she always re-aligned herself silently, the mental bearing pulling her back on course.

Minutes stretched like hours until finally, the jungle thinned.

At about 150 meters, she crouched low, eyes narrowing. The house came into view through the trees — a squat, concrete structure with a corrugated roof, built more for function than comfort. A pale line of smoke rose from a side window.

Tatiana froze in place, lowering herself into the undergrowth until her body seemed to merge with it. Her breathing slowed. Now wasn’t the time to move forward — now was the time to watch.

She counted. One man leaning against the doorway, scratching his chin. Another emerging from the side, stretching before disappearing back inside. A third passed the window carrying a jug of water.

Three, minimum. Possibly more inside.

Her eyes scanned the perimeter. The main entrance was obvious, but sloppy — no barricade, just a wooden door hanging loose. A side path led around the back, where scrub brush and banana plants grew thick — possible cover, possible entry.

She squinted higher. A small loft window near the roofline, unguarded, open just enough to suggest poor ventilation. Not an entry point for most, but for someone with her training, it was a potential opportunity.

She marked each exit mentally: the front door, the side path, and possibly the loft.

Then she slid her gaze across the terrain. Ten meters to the right, a small depression in the ground offered natural concealment, with vines spilling low from the trees above. It was perfect — a hide point where she could stay and observe without being spotted.

At 150 meters, Tatiana knew she was inside the outer sloppiness and moving into real danger. Her body sank lower, movements more deliberate, every sense tuned razor-sharp.

She crept left, counting paces in her head. Through the thick brush she spotted one of the inner guards — leaning on a rifle, posture bored but placement precise. Fifty meters gap, just as Chathurika had said. She shifted right, circling carefully until she found the second man. Same distance. Same carelessness. But no safe passage between them.

Tatiana ground her teeth softly. Too exposed. Not worth the gamble.

She ghosted further right, inch by inch, until the pattern revealed itself — a concealed gap between two guards who weren’t facing the same angle. A blind spot.

Perfect.

She flattened against the earth, belly sliding forward, using roots and undergrowth to break her outline. One slow push, then another, until she passed through the invisible fence of the 100-meter ring. Not a single twig snapped under her weight.

Now she was close enough to smell the damp smoke leaking from the house.

She scanned the terrain again and spotted it — a dense bush at ground level, roots twisted like natural cover, branches sagging heavy with leaves. A perfect hide. She slid into it like she was part of the forest, knife pressed to her thigh, every breath shallow.

From here she could see the walls clearly. And now, she could hear. Voices.

She pulled out her phone carefully, screen already dimmed, sound locked on silent. Her thumb hovered, then tapped open the specialized translation app. Not just Google — this was military-grade software, built for reconnaissance. It caught faint threads of speech from distance, canceling background noise, sharpening human voices into clarity. The AI scrolled text across her screen in Russian.

“…watch him. Don’t let the boy out of your sight.”
“…if Mahaiyya doesn’t show up with deeds by noon, we send word.”

Tatiana’s jaw tightened. Boy. That has to be him.

She let her eyes track the movements of the men, mapping the pattern. Two came out through the front door often, one circling to smoke, another heading back inside. The side path carried less movement — a better entry.

Then her eyes moved to the layout. The voices mentioning “the boy” hadn’t come from the front rooms. Too much noise there. No — it had been fainter, muffled, as if behind a closed door. Her trained ear made an educated guess: a back corner, near the left side of the house. Likely a storage room or a locked chamber.

She traced the path in her mind: slip through the side brush, use the shadows by the water barrels stacked at the back, enter through the side entrance, then cut left. If her guess was right, the boy would be held there.

From her cover, Tatiana’s eyes swept the ground behind the house as carefully as she had studied its walls. Just beyond the last line of banana plants, she spotted it — a patch of thick brush collapsed over a shallow dip in the earth. Dense, dark, invisible from the house unless someone walked right up to it.

Perfect.

In her mind, it wasn’t just another bush. It was the fallback. If the situation inside went loud, she couldn’t risk dragging a boy through a fight. Better to shove him into cover, tell him to stay put, and neutralize the men herself.

If it comes apart, she thought grimly, I’ll point him there. Hide him. End this fast. Then pull him out once the smoke clears.

Only when both entry and exit were mapped in her head did Tatiana shift her grip on the knife and lower herself into a crawl. The plan was ready.She let the plan settle in her head, every angle mapped, every movement rehearsed before she made it.

Now, it is time to move.

Tatiana waited until the guard at the doorway leaned back in his chair, yawning, eyes half-lidded. That was her window. She slid out of the bush, body low, each movement a crawl stitched perfectly into the shadows. Ten meters, then five — she pressed herself against the wall where the brush thickened, blending into the plaster’s edge. A breath, a pause, then she was at the side entrance Chathurika had described. The wooden frame sagged, curtain drawn across instead of a door. No hinges, no creak. Perfect.

She slipped inside with the ease of smoke, her body brushing past the fabric without a sound. Now she was in the dim corridor, crouched low, ears straining. The air was heavy with spice and oil. Voices drifted close — men talking lazily, broken by the hiss of something frying, the scrape of a pan. Kitchen.

Tatiana flattened against the wall, her steps feather-light as she moved deeper. The corridor bent left, then opened into two doors draped with hanging cloth. One spilled warmth, light, and the clang of utensils. The kitchen, no doubt. Her eyes shifted to the other curtain, darker, quieter. She exhaled slowly. That’s where he’ll be.

Her eyes shifted to the second. She eased closer, moving one step at a time, her knife hand steady, her other palm brushing lightly along the wall to guide her.

At the curtain’s edge, she leaned in just enough to peer through a tiny gap between the frame and fabric.

There he was.

The boy sat tied to a chair, facing her direction. His eyes were wide, but the rope kept his small body stiff. Across from him, a man slouched in a chair, phone tilted in his hands. The screen flickered blue-white on his face — a TikTok video. The idiot chuckled softly, earphones in, back turned partially, but still angled toward the boy.

Tatiana’s pulse slowed. One target. Distracted. Perfect.

She slid into the room like a shadow, the curtain barely stirring. The boy’s eyes darted up, recognition flaring, but Tatiana lifted one finger to her lips — silent. He froze, then nodded minutely, hope sparking behind his fear.

In three steps she was behind the man. He never looked up from his screen.

Tatiana’s arm shot around his neck, the other clamping over his mouth. She locked her forearm under his chin, her bicep crushing his windpipe, her hand sealing off any sound. The chair rattled as he jerked, legs kicking weakly, phone tumbling from his fingers.

Her grip didn’t falter. Pressure increased, her body weight anchoring him until the thrashing slowed, then stilled.

She eased him down silently, lowering his limp body to the floor.

For the boy, it was like something out of a dream. At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks — the curtain stirred, and a tall, pale figure slipped through the shadows. A woman. Not just any woman, but someone who looked carved out of strength and grace.

The Amazon moved with impossible silence, her arm snapping around the thug’s throat, lowering him to the ground without a sound. Seconds. That was all it took. She turned, her golden-and-black hair catching what little light there was, her blue eyes sharp, her lips set in focus

Her voice came in a whisper, soft but commanding. “I’m your sister’s friend.”

His mind flashed back to Chathurika’s bragging. She had spoken about her new tenant, the foreign woman who’d been in the military. He hadn’t cared then, thinking it was just talk, another story big sisters tell. But now… seeing her up close, it wasn’t bragging. It was real.

Her midriff was bare, the lean muscle of her hips shifting under tight camo pants as she crouched to cut his ropes.

The boy stared, wide-eyed, breathless. He almost forgot to move until she touched his arm.

“Listen,” she whispered, her words precise. “We’re heading out. Stay behind me at all times. We’ll use the back exit. When I deal with the guard there, you run across the garden and hide in the bush behind the banana plants. Understand?”

He nodded quickly, though his eyes lingered more on her than the danger. At sixteen, how could he not? It was easier to focus on her than the fear that knotted his stomach.

Tatiana didn’t waste another second. She pressed herself against the wall, her body flowing from one corner to the next, glancing through each doorway before signaling him forward. The boy followed, watching the way she moved — her back against plaster, her frame sliding tight into the shadows, every curve of her body pressed into the surface as if she were part of the wall.

He should have been terrified. Instead, he was transfixed. She doesn’t even look human, he thought. She looks like something out of legend.

At the corridor’s end, Tatiana froze. She motioned the boy closer and tilted the curtain just enough to show him the garden beyond.

There was the guard.

The man sat on a chair near the back exit, phone in hand, head tilted slightly, facing sideways — not out toward the jungle, not inward to the house, but at an angle that gave him sight of both. If they tried to slip out now, he’d spot them instantly.

Tatiana’s jaw tightened. Can’t wait. He won’t turn on his own. I have to end this fast.

She bent low, whispering directly into the boy’s ear. “When I engage him, you don’t stop. Run to that bush behind the banana plants. Hide there until I come for you. Understand?”

The boy swallowed hard, nodded again. His heart thundered — but not from the guard. From the Amazon at his side.

Tatiana shifted her weight forward, every muscle coiled like a spring. It was time.

Tatiana slipped through the curtain into the open passage. For a few strides she kept low, but she knew she couldn’t ghost her way to the guard — not with open ground between them. Ten steps, maybe less. Her pace quickened, steps sharper, then she broke into a run.

The guard glanced up from his phone, confused at first, then alarm flashing across his face as he reached for the rifle slung at his side.

Too late.

Tatiana launched forward, her body a streak of speed, and drove a front kick square into his face. The impact cracked loud, his head snapping back as the gun spun out of his hands. He tumbled off the chair and rolled across the garden dirt.

Tatiana didn’t even glance at the weapon. She trusted her own hands more than steel.

She snapped her eyes to the boy, trying to sign him toward the bush. But he was already moving — sprinting past her, disappearing into the greenery exactly as she had told him. Good boy.

She dropped to one knee over the fallen guard, seized his collar, and smashed her fist across his jaw. Bone crunched. He went limp.

But before she could rise, pain lanced through her scalp — someone had grabbed her hair, yanking her backward across the dirt.

Tatiana gritted her teeth, planted her boots against the ground, and used the drag to coil her body. With a sharp grunt, she threw her leg up high, arching past her own shoulder. Her heel cracked against the attacker’s face with a whip-crack sound. Only a trained fighter could fold her body like that.

The man staggered back, dazed. Tatiana spun, momentum carrying her into a brutal roundhouse kick that sent him sprawling in the opposite direction. He didn’t rise.

Breathing hard, Tatiana turned — just in time to see another man stepping into the passage she had come from. A gun dangled in his hand, lazy, pointed downward. Unprofessional. But still lethal.

Her brain fired calculations in a blink: too far to close the gap before he raised it, too exposed to charge head-on.

She dove sideways, rolling across the dirt. The narrow passage boxed the gunman in; his shots would funnel straight down the corridor. By the time he snapped the weapon up, Tatiana was gone from his line.

Gunfire ripped after her as she bolted into the garden. She dove into the bushes, rolling over damp soil, heart hammering. She whipped her head toward the banana plants — empty.

“Fuck—where is he?”

Bullets chewed into the jungle, branches cracking overhead, the hiss of rounds passing close — too close. She ducked lower, instincts guiding her fast and silent through the undergrowth.

She spotted a massive fallen tree trunk and darted for it, crouching low as dirt spat up around her. She pressed against the wood, solid cover at last, waiting out the wild spray.

The gunfire slowed, then stopped. Silence reclaimed the garden, broken only by the ringing in her ears and the heavy thud of her pulse.

But the boy was gone

Shouts cut through the garden, sharp and urgent, men barking in Sinhala. Tatiana didn’t need a translation app to understand the meaning — the alarm was raised. They were telling each other to lock down the perimeter, to search. The boy and the suddi — the foreigner — had been spotted.

She pressed tighter against the fallen trunk, forcing her breath to slow. Then she heard it: footsteps. Light but cautious, crunching leaves, pausing, starting again. Someone sweeping the garden.

Tatiana angled her head, pressing her cheek to the soil to peer through the small gap beneath the massive log. It was the gunman — the one who had fired at her from the passage. His weapon hung loose at his side, finger twitching on the trigger as his eyes scanned the greenery.

Coming straight for me.

She shifted her body, sinking into a low crouch with elbows bent and knees tucked — the same crawl they’d drilled under barbed wire in training. Painful, but silent. She edged sideways, sliding twenty meters to her right, dirt and leaves clinging to her forearms.

The gunman moved past the tree trunk, unaware she was no longer there. He stopped, scanning forward, his focus still fixed in the wrong direction.

Tatiana ghosted towards the house, her movements masked by the shouts still carrying from the other side of the garden. Her plan sharpened in her mind — let him pass her radius, let him believe he was clear. Then circle back, silent, from behind.

The man was heavier than the others, thick with brute weight if not skill. He wasn’t taller than Tatiana, but his bulk pressed hard when he lunged. Another punch came down, and she caught it — but her stance was broken, her balance off. The block sent her sideways, crashing to the dirt.

He dove on her. Tatiana twisted, throwing her long legs up in guard, trying to scissor him down or snag an arm for a lock. For a moment she thought she had him, but he caught her ankles and wrenched her, rolling her chest-down against the earth.

Pinned.

She tensed, expecting the choke — chin ready to drop, arms braced. But instead, the thug laughed harshly, saying something in Sinhala she didn’t need to understand. he grabs her breasts from one arm and use other arm to rip her top.

But Tatiana was trained for this. They had drilled women for exactly this nightmare — to not panic, to not freeze, to fight even when humiliated, even when the enemy tried to strip away more than just dignity.

Her eyes darted, scanning. Fingers brushed stone. A jagged rock lay half-buried in the dirt. he was pressing his face against her cheeks.  She snatched it, swung blindly backward, aiming by instinct.

The rock cracked against his head. Not enough to break him, but enough to make him grunt, shift, loosen.

That was all she needed.

She twisted, driving her shoulder hard into the turn, elbow smashing into his cheek. His grip faltered. She rolled, dragging herself free as he toppled sideways into the dirt.

Tatiana came up on one knee, chest heaving, fury burning through her. Her training had saved her

Tatiana came up light on her feet, circling, watching. He was heavier, stronger through the core, but not faster. She feinted left, swung right — and he ducked under it, snapping a counter into her ribs.

“Ahhh—” Tatiana gasped, folding slightly, her eyes flashing with shock.

She reset, more cautious. Stepped in with another jab-cross. He dipped again, his fist hammering her side. “Uhhhn—” she moaned, staggering back a half-step.

Her lips parted, breath ragged. Focus, Tatiana. This one wasn’t like the others.

She began to slip his rhythm — letting his big swings cut empty air, punishing him with sharp returns to the jaw, the chest, the side of the head. Every dodge made him grunt, every miss dragged his breath heavier. He was strong, but sloppy stamina would betray him.

Now it was her turn. She surged in, unleashing a flurry — hooks, elbows, a knee snapping upward. The sequence was brutal, overwhelming, forcing him back. But in the middle of it, his fist sank into her stomach, knocking a loud moan from her lips: Another caught her chest, flattening her against a tree. “Uhhhnn—”

She pressed harder, each strike sharper, her blue eyes blazing through sweat. His swings grew wider, slower. The counters that had stung her before now glanced harmlessly off. His strength was leaking away.

Finally, she cracked him with a heavy cross that dropped him to one knee. He wheezed, arms sagging.

Tatiana spun, her hips snapping like a whip. Her boot connected with the side of his skull in a perfect roundhouse.

He hit the ground face-first and didn’t move again.

Tatiana staggered back a step, one hand brushing her aching midsection, her breath breaking into soft moans as the adrenaline coursed through her. She was hurt — but unbroken. And more dangerous now than ever.

Tatiana pressed one palm against her aching ribs, her other brushing dirt from her cheek as she stumbled through the undergrowth. Her breath came sharp, ragged — each inhale a moan she couldn’t quite hold back. From deeper in the jungle, shouts carried. The men were regrouping, organizing. A sweep was coming.

Find the boy. Fast.

She turned around a thick tree, eyes darting—

“Tatiana.”

She nearly jumped. Chathurika stood there.

“Jesus—!” Tatiana hissed, hand flying to her chest. “Why do you keep appearing like that?”

But Chathurika’s face was calm. Her voice was soft, steady. “You need to go. Come on. I’ll show you the way.”

Tatiana shook her head, wincing at the ache in her side. “Wait—listen, Chathu. I got your brother out of the house, but I lost him in the chaos. I don’t know where he is.” The concern in her voice cracked through her usual soldier’s calm.

Chathurika lifted a hand gently. “Don’t worry. I met him. He knows the way. I told him to run ahead. He’s already out of danger.”

Tatiana blinked, relief flooding through her. Her chest eased, breath catching in a softer gasp.

But then, Tatiana narrowed her eyes, still breathing hard. “Wait—how did you even get here? I told you to stay down the mountain. How did you get past the security?”

Chathurika’s gaze flicked away for a heartbeat before returning, calm but evasive. “Don’t worry about me. I had to come for my brother.”

Tatiana held her stare for a moment, jaw tense, a shadow of suspicion in her blue eyes. Then her expression softened into a small exhale, shaking her head a little.

“Ok whatever. You said you know the way out?”

“Yes,” Chathurika nodded, turning toward the slope. “Follow me.”

Without hesitation, she started climbing, her steps purposeful, her figure vanishing into the jungle brush above.

Tatiana adjusted her half-jacket, checked her knife at her thigh, and forced her battered body forward. Her muscles screamed, but she followed — up and away from the burning nest of danger, toward whatever exit Chathurika promised.

Tatiana followed close behind as Chathurika climbed, the path steep and tangled with roots. The incline bit at her legs, every step pulling against the ache already building in her muscles. For all her years in special forces, jungle terrain like this — uphill, humid, relentless — demanded a different kind of stamina.

She found herself panting harder than she wanted to admit, sweat tracing lines down her temple. Ahead of her, Chathurika moved with surprising ease — light-footed, steady, barely slowing even when the ground turned slippery with moss.

Tatiana frowned between breaths. How does she keep that pace? For a moment, she almost smiled to herself. Maybe this is just what village life does to you — climbing hills since childhood.

Still, pride wouldn’t let her call out or ask for a pause. The idea of a soldier asking a local girl to slow down was unthinkable. She adjusted her breathing, grit her teeth, and pushed harder.

The higher they climbed, the louder another sound grew — a soft rush at first, then clearer, rhythmic, alive. The unmistakable murmur of water.

A stream.

Tatiana’s ears sharpened, catching the sound of it trickling over rock, then splashing — stronger now, closer with every step. The air grew cooler, fresher, carrying the scent of wet stone and moss.

She glanced upward at Chathurika’s back, wondering if the woman was leading her there on purpose — toward water, or toward something else entirely.

The rush of water was close now — no longer a distant hum but a living sound that filled the air. Tatiana pushed aside a hanging branch, leaves brushing across her face, and the view opened suddenly before her.

A narrow stream glittered through the green, its current alive with silver light. Chathurika stood at the edge, waiting quietly, her figure framed against the shimmer of the water. From the right came the deeper roar of a fall — Tatiana looked and realized they were standing above it, on the crest of a waterfall.

The stream ran over flat, smooth rock, splitting into shallow pools before gathering speed again and vanishing in white spray from a ridge below. Mist drifted upward, cool and clean, carrying the scent of fresh water and stone.

Tatiana stepped to the shore beside Chathurika, eyes tracing the line of the flow toward the edge. The sight was oddly peaceful after the chaos below — wild, yet pure.

Chathurika moved slowly along the stream, stepping onto the broad rock that sloped gently toward the ponds. “You can get fresh and rest for a while now,” she said, glancing back. “They don’t come near the waterfall. It’s a public spot. You’re safe here. I can see you really need a break.”

Tatiana’s pale face flushed at the words. She opened her mouth to protest, but the ache in her body betrayed her. Every muscle screamed, her lungs still burned from the climb. She let out a breath, shaking her head with a small, embarrassed laugh.

“Maybe… you’re right,” she admitted quietly. “A short rest won’t hurt.”

Tatiana unzipped her half-jacket, the fabric heavy with sweat and dust. She peeled it away from her shoulders and laid it on a nearby rock. Her hands lingered for a moment at her waist, tugging free the edge of her tank top before pulling it over her head. The humid air wrapped around her bare skin, warm and sticky.

She exhaled slowly, letting the fatigue roll off her as she stepped out of her boots and loosened the ties of her camo pants. They came away with effort, the fabric stiff from mud and effort, leaving her in the dark boyshorts she wore underneath.

The water glimmered only a few feet away — clear, cold, alive. She step towards the water as her wide hips in cling boyshorts sway and dipped a foot in first; the chill bit sharply up her leg. Then she waded forward, glide in to water and floats. The contrast hit her all at once — the sting of cold meeting the heat of muscle and bruised skin.

For a moment she closed her eyes, head tilting back feeling the cold against her bare skin, the sound of the waterfall drowning everything else. Her breath steadied, the tension leaving her shoulders one heartbeat at a time.

Behind her, Chathurika sat on a boulder near the edge, silent, her face unreadable.

Tatiana turned slightly, voice softer now. “Aren’t you coming in?”

Chathurika’s eyes stayed on the water rushing toward the ridge. “No. I’m fine here.”

Tatiana studied her for a beat, then nodded, turning back to the current. The coolness worked its way into her skin, and for the first time since the fight, she felt human again.

“Tatiana…” Chathurika’s voice came softly over the sound of the stream. “I’m so sorry I ruined your vacation.”

Tatiana, floating near the middle of the water, immediately pushed herself upright, droplets rolling down her arms. “Hey, hey—don’t even start thinking like that.” She looked at her seriously. “I’m glad I could help someone who needed it. You’re more than just my Inn Keeper and you know it.”

Chathurika’s lips trembled into a faint, sad smile. “I’m the one who’s glad,” she said quietly. “Meeting you changed everything. You didn’t have to step in when those men attacked me… but you did. You were brave. You taught me to be brave too. You showed me how to fight, how to stand up.”

 “Yeah I taught you how to fight, but at the end of the session you were the one pinning me to the ground, remember?”. Tatiana gave a small, embarrassed laugh.

But Chathurika didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile. Her face stayed distant, emotion flickering somewhere deep behind her eyes. Tatiana noticed how she’d been like that since morning. At first, she’d thought it was the stress of her brother being kidnapped — but even now, with him safe, the stillness in her face hadn’t gone away.

Tatiana also noted natural movement of her feet as she speaks making her moving backward, inch by inch, toward the edge of the waterfall. Not dangerously close, but enough to make Tatiana uneasy.

Chathurika’s voice quivered, full of feeling now. “You inspired me, Tatiana… to rise against the bad, against unfairness, against norms, against everything that made me small and everything held me back. That night we spent together—” her voice caught “— was the best night of my life. No one has ever made me feel loved the way you did. No one has ever made me feel seen.”

Her eyes glistened with tears. but her expression stayed calm — heartbreakingly calm.

Tatiana’s chest tightened. “That night was special for me too,” she said softly. “It was the first time I felt something good again… after losing Oksana.”

Chathurika nodded slowly, “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But I need to ask you one last favor.”

Tatiana gave a tired, fond smile. “Honey, You can ask me anything, as many times as you want. But can you please step away from that edge? You’re making me nervous.”

Chathurika didn’t move. “Can you help my parents find me?” she said suddenly, voice strange and hollow. “They’ve been looking for me for days. They are worrying about me. Tell them where I am. Tell them how proud I am of them. Tell them that their daughter did everything she can to protect what ours”,

“If you go down the stream, you’ll find a small bridge—cross it and go up the hill. Our house is there. A small house. My parents built it with great difficulty. I was hoping to improve it with earnings from the hotel. I don’t think I can do it anymore”

Tatiana frowned, confused, stepping out of the water. “What are you talking about? We can go together. Why are you telling me this? I think I’ve had enough of a rest. Let’s go now, come on.”

She was going to get her clothes only to interrupt by noticing how close Chathurika was to the cliff edge. The rushing water foamed just behind her heels. The mist makes a white back ground making the scene mystic.

“Honey, the edge. Come here,” Tatiana called, this time in her command voice — the soldier’s tone.

Chathurika stopped backing away. Relief washed over Tatiana for a second — until Chathurika lifted her gaze again. Her eyes were bright, wet with tears, but steady. She looked at Tatiana with sadness and love for a couple of seconds.

“Please remember me, Tatiana,” she said softly. “And promise me you’ll take care of my brother.”

A chill ran through Tatiana so suddenly she almost gasped. The hair on her arms stood upright; the air itself seemed to change. The roar of the waterfall vanished. The jungle, the water, everything goes silent.

Only the whisper of a cold breeze moved across her skin, seeping through to her bones.

And then even that was gone.

Chathurika’s lips parted one last time. “Find me.”

Tatiana’s eyes widened — and in that instant, she saw Chathurika tilt backward, her body folding into the mist as she going off from the cliff.