Chapter 33 – And Then We Spoke Their Names
The silence before a storm is never truly silent. It holds breath, tension, and the quiet prayers of those waiting to be heard.
That morning, Bea stood in front of a microphone.
It was a rooftop—abandoned once, now reclaimed. A live stream had been set up. Cameras. Lights. A thousand unseen eyes. Her voice would stretch farther than her body ever could.
She looked into the lens, her hand resting gently over the black journal on the podium.
Nova stood to the side, watching—not as a protector, not as a warrior—but as her witness. As her home.
Bea's voice didn't shake.
"My name is Bea. I was silent for a long time. But not anymore."
The wind caught her words and carried them down to the streets.
She opened the journal.
"This is what they did to us."
Every page she turned bled with truths. Real names. Dirty transactions. Files. Letters. Audio. Pictures.
Lucien's name came first. But it was followed by so many others. The web ran deep—politicians, business tycoons, news executives, crooked officers, fake therapists. Every name was a wound reopened. Every detail a stitch torn out.
But Bea didn't stop.
She named them all.
And in the streets below, people began to gather. Phones buzzed. Screens flickered. Lives paused.
Nova stepped forward beside her.
"This is not revenge," Nova said. "This is reclamation."
Bea's voice followed, firm. "You told us we were too soft. Too emotional. Too loud. Too much. But we are not here to be palatable. We are here to be remembered."
She looked at the camera again.
"If you're watching this, you are not alone. They taught us silence to protect themselves. But we learned something else."
She reached for Nova's hand.
"We learned how to speak. Together."
And then… they began to read the victims' names.
Not the ones in power—but the ones who were erased.
Amara L.
Sophie Deen.
Ellen Cruz.
Grace Onyeka.
Devon Reid.
One by one. Name by name. They did not stop. They would not stop.
Each name was a resurrection. A defiance. A kiss of remembrance to a world that tried to forget them.
Tears streamed down Bea's cheeks—but she did not look away.
Neither did Nova.
And somewhere out there, people began saying the names too. In homes, in schools, in quiet apartments, in cafés, in prison cells, in therapy offices. The names echoed.
They didn't start a riot.
They started a revolution of memory.
---
By sunset, the video had been shared ten million times. Anonymous donations poured in. Lawyers volunteered. Whistleblowers came forward.
Lucien tried to deny everything—but the flood had already drowned him.
He wasn't the story anymore.
Bea and Nova were.
That night, they walked home through the city streets. No more shadows. No more running.
The city looked at them—and this time, the city smiled.
Bea reached for Nova's hand.
"We did it."
Nova kissed her temple. "No, love. We're just getting