3RD PERSON'S POV
Ali's days blurred together in the sterile confines of her cell, each moment weighed down by the oppressive monotony of captivity. The flickering fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across the walls, amplifying the emptiness that gnawed at her soul. She lay on her bed, a fragile shell of her former self, staring blankly at the ceiling as time slipped by unnoticed.
The soft click of the door roused her from her daze, and a chill ran down her spine as Camela entered, her presence as unwelcome as ever. Ali's gaze hardened with resignation as she met Camela's cold, calculating eyes.
"Well, well, Ali," Camela purred, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "How are we feeling today?"
Ali said nothing, her silence a defiant shield against Camela's taunts. She knew better than to engage with her captor, to give her the satisfaction of seeing her break.
Camela circled her like a predator, her smile cruel and knowing. "You know," she mused, amusement lacing her tone, "there's something fascinating about you."
Ali's brow furrowed, a flicker of curiosity cutting through her weariness. She remained silent, unwilling to give Camela the satisfaction of a response.
Camela leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming with malicious intent. "Your DNA," she whispered, the words dripping with sinister amusement, "it's rather... unique."
Ali's heart skipped a beat, a cold dread settling in the pit of her stomach. She knew where this was heading, dreaded the revelation Camela was about to unveil.
"You see, Ali," Camela continued, her voice taunting, "we found a match. A fascinating coincidence, don't you think?"
Ali's breath caught in her throat, her mind racing with a sickening realization. Camela was referring to Serban—the creature whose DNA had been interwoven with hers through cruel experimentation, through a connection she had tried so desperately to deny.
Camela chuckled softly, reveling in Ali's discomfort. "Yes, Serban," she confirmed, her voice a mocking whisper. "It seems your fates are intertwined in more ways than one."
Ali's hands trembled with suppressed rage and fear. Serban, the enigmatic being who had saved her once, now tied to her through a dark, twisted fate orchestrated by Camela's insatiable thirst for power.
"Tell me, Ali," Camela drawled, circling back to face her captive with predatory intent, "do you remember anything about your mother? About how she sought out a certain... deity?"
Ali's breath caught in her throat, memories stirring beneath the surface like ripples on a dark lake. She remained silent, unwilling to give Camela the satisfaction of acknowledging her words.
Camela's smile widened, a predator reveling in the hunt. "Oh, but I think you do," she pressed on, her voice low and menacing. "Your mother, desperate to save you before you were even born. She knew, didn't she? Knew that you were... dying."
Ali's jaw clenched, her nails digging into her palms. The memory of her mother's desperation, her relentless search for salvation, burned in Ali's mind like a brand.
"Tell me," Camela whispered, her breath cold against Ali's ear, "what did your mother find at Pulang Rosas lake?"
Ali closed her eyes, the memory flooding her senses with overwhelming clarity. She saw her mother, heavy with child, standing at the edge of the lake wreathed in red roses—Pulang Rosas, where a deity dwelled, where salvation mingled with sacrifice.
FLASHBACK:
Ali's mother stood at the edge of Pulang Rosas lake, her heart heavy with despair. She had heard the whispers of the locals, tales of a deity that could cure sickness, a deity that demanded a terrible price in return.
The lake shimmered like blood under the midday sun, its surface dotted with crimson roses that drifted like spilled blood upon the water. A chill wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the echoes of ancient prayers and forbidden promises.
Trembling, Ali's mother stepped closer to the water, her swollen belly a testament to the life within her, a life that hung in fragile balance. She could feel it—the faint heartbeat that struggled against the darkness threatening to consume it.
"Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustling leaves, "please save my child."
The air grew thick with anticipation, with the weight of unspoken bargains and whispered secrets. And then, he appeared—a figure cloaked in shadows, his presence both fearsome and mesmerizing.
Serban emerged from the depths of Pulang Rosas, his eyes glowing blue beneath the surface of the lake. His form shimmered with otherworldly grace, his every movement a dance of ancient power.
Ali's mother fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face as she pleaded for mercy, for salvation. She knew the stories—the price that Pulang Rosas demanded, the toll it exacted from those who dared to seek its favor.
But Serban was different. He approached Ali's mother with a solemnity that belied his fearsome reputation. His hand reached out, hovering just above her swollen belly, a silent question in his gaze.
And then it happened—a flood of memories, not her own, but of a woman she did not recognize. A woman swimming in the depths of Pulang Rosas lake, her laughter a melody that echoed through the ages.
In that fleeting moment, Ali's mother understood. The woman in the memory was Ali, not yet born, yet already bound to Serban through the threads of fate and blood.
Serban's touch was gentle, a caress that held both promise and peril. He withdrew slowly, his gaze never leaving Ali's mother's face, a silent understanding passing between them.
Ali's mother bowed her head, her heart heavy with gratitude and sorrow. She knew then that her daughter's destiny was entwined with Pulang Rosas, with Serban—the deity who both saved and demanded sacrifice.
As Ali's mother returned home that evening, she carried with her the weight of Serban's touch and the certainty that her child, Ali, would be marked by Pulang Rosas forever. The village whispered of miracles and mysteries, of the lake's ever-changing hues that mirrored the moods of Serban himself.
Days turned into weeks, and Ali's mother watched with bated breath as her daughter grew within her, a living testament to the pact forged at the water's edge. She often found herself standing by the window, gazing out at the distant silhouette of Pulang Rosas, wondering what future awaited her child.
When Ali was born, she bore no physical mark of Serban's blessing, but her presence seemed to carry an aura of quiet strength. The villagers whispered that she had her mother's eyes—eyes that held a depth of understanding far beyond her years.
As Ali grew, she would often wander to the edge of Pulang Rosas, drawn by an inexplicable pull that seemed to echo within her soul. She would sit by the water's edge, listening to the whispers of the wind and the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore.
In those moments, Ali felt a connection to something greater than herself—a connection woven from the echoes of ancient prayers and the secrets buried within Pulang Rosas' depths. She knew, without fully understanding, that her life was bound to the lake, to Serban, in ways that transcended mere mortal comprehension.
And as the years passed, Ali's bond with Pulang Rosas only deepened. She became known as the keeper of stories, the one who could unravel the mysteries that lingered within the lake's crimson waters. Her heart carried the weight of countless tales—tales of love and loss, of sacrifice and salvation—that whispered through the ages, echoing the timeless dance between mortal desires and divine interventions.
But somehow, when she left the village and lived in the Metro, she forgot about it all. She forgot the river. She forgot the roses. She forgot everything.
Present:
Ali's eyes snapped open, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The memory of her mother's sacrifice, of Serban's silent promise, burned in her veins like liquid fire.
Camela watched her with cold satisfaction, her amusement palpable. "Yes," she hissed, reveling in Ali's turmoil. "You and Serban, bound by blood and destiny. A tragic tale, wouldn't you agree?"
Ali's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms until they drew blood. She felt Serban's presence like a phantom ache, a reminder of everything she had lost and everything she had yet to endure.
"You're mine, Ali," Camela declared triumphantly, her voice echoing in the confines of the cell. "Just as your mother knew, just as Serban promised. And there's nothing you can do to change that."
Ali met Camela's gaze with steely resolve, her heart heavy with grief and determination. She may be trapped, bound by fate and circumstance, but she refused to surrender to Camela's cruelty. She would find a way to defy her captor, to reclaim the shattered remnants of her life.
As Camela turned to leave, Ali's voice cut through the silence, a whisper filled with defiance and quiet strength.
"I am not yours," she vowed, her words a solemn promise to herself and to the memory of her mother. "I will never be yours."
Alone once more, Ali closed her eyes, Serban's presence lingering like a phantom in the darkness. She was hopeless, defenseless, and weak, but somewhere within her, a spark of defiance burned bright—a spark that refused to be extinguished, no matter the cost.
*****