His Private Hell - Chapter 132: Chapter 132

The sky over the city had turned the color of bruised steel.
And somewhere in its underbelly, Garrison Wolfe lay bleeding on the cold floor of the Nest, whispering her name like a prayer too broken to reach heaven.
“Eella…”
But she was already gone.
Not just from the room.
From the man he used to know.
⸻
Above ground, Eella walked through the chaos like a revenant with a singular pulse—the only steady drumbeat in a world unraveling. Her skin hummed. The last of Lazarus’s DNA still clung to her like ash, but she didn’t flinch.
She had killed the puppeteer.
Now it was time to cut every last string.
She had no allies.
No lover.
No home.
Only a list. A list written in blood and sealed with betrayal.
Names of those who helped build this hell.
Names of the Choir’s final ghosts.
Names that needed to die.
She started with the easiest.
Councilman Warwick.
He was found in his penthouse, surrounded by three armed guards and a body double wired to explode.
Didn’t matter.
Eella walked in at 2:06 a.m.
By 2:09, the guards were dead.
By 2:11, the body double was gasping on the floor, trying to scream with a missing tongue.
By 2:12, Warwick was nailed to his marble wall with twelve of his own collectible daggers.
She stared at him while he wept.
“You made Garrison this way,” she said.
He sobbed. “I—I was just the—just the vote. I didn’t—”
She drove a blade through his eye.
Next.
⸻
By the time the sun rose, four more names had been crossed off.
Eella didn’t sleep.
Didn’t need to.
Her body was a fusion of vengeance and Lazarus’s final sin.
The more she used it, the less human she became.
But she didn’t care.
Humanity had never saved her.
And no one came looking for her.
Except one.
⸻
She felt him before he appeared.
A coldness in her bones that didn’t belong to Lazarus.
A silence in her head that made the storm pause.
Garrison.
She turned slowly at the rooftop edge.
He stood behind her, wrapped in shadows.
A cane in one hand.
A gun in the other.
He was shaking.
“Four down,” he rasped. “Seven left.”
She said nothing.
He walked closer, slow, each step a thunderclap inside his broken ribs.
“You left me,” he whispered.
“You let me rot,” she replied.
“I saved you.”
“No, Garrison. You ruined me.”
The wind screamed between them. It should have pushed them apart. But it didn’t.
“I can’t lose you,” he said.
“You already did.”
He laughed then.
Hollow.
Dead.
“No, Eella. You’re the one who lost.”
She blinked.
And that’s when he pulled the trigger.
The bullet hit her shoulder.
She didn’t move.
Another.
Her side.
She still didn’t move.
He dropped the gun.
Fell to his knees.
And screamed.
“Why won’t you fight me?!”
Her voice was a whisper made of razors.
“Because I still love you.”
The words nearly broke her in half.
And him.
Because he did too.
But love wasn’t enough anymore.
She turned away.
And walked off the rooftop.
⸻
She didn’t fall.
She soared.
Through smoke and streetlights and half-burned dreams.
Landing in the alley below, silent as ash.
Every name on her list sang now.
Whispers that echoed in her skull.
Lazarus was dead, but his echo still lived in the last Choir.
And Astrid had disappeared.
Again.
Coward.
Or survivor.
Eella didn’t know anymore.
Didn’t care.
She was fire now.
She moved through the city like an inferno.
Until the sixth name rose: Sister Mercy.
A woman wrapped in velvet and lies, who ran the orphanage where Choir recruits were broken into killers.
Where girls like Eella were stripped of their names.
Where Garrison’s mother bled out in the dark after daring to speak truth.
Eella broke into the orphanage at midnight.
Mercy was waiting.
In a throne of stolen innocence.
Smiling like a goddess of rot.
“You survived,” she said sweetly.
“No thanks to you,” Eella replied.
“My dear, I made you.”
Eella didn’t argue.
She just walked closer.
Mercy didn’t flinch.
Not until Eella whispered the truth into her ear.
“I remember what you did to me when I was ten.”
Then she screamed.
Eella didn’t touch her.
She just whispered every sin back into Mercy’s mind until the woman tore at her own skin, shrieking to drown out her own guilt.
And when the silence finally returned, Eella walked away.
No body.
No blood.
Just madness.
⸻
Three days passed.
Three more names.
Three bodies in three cities, each carved with the same phrase:
“You made me this.”
By now, the world knew.
Eella Hart wasn’t a myth anymore.
She was every revenge story given flesh.
Journalists called her the Choirkiller.
Mercenaries put a billion-dollar bounty on her head.
Garrison watched the headlines from his penthouse cage, too broken to stop her.
Too in love to try.
Astrid sent a letter.
One name left.
A name you’re not ready for.
Eella burned the note without reading the rest.
She already knew.
It wasn’t a councilman.
Not a killer.
Not even a traitor.
It was a name that lived under her skin.
One she’d whispered in dreams and carved into nightmares.
The first lie.
The first betrayal.
The mother who left her.
She tracked her through firewalls and graveyards, old Choir files and forgotten whispers.
And found her.
Not dead.
Not lost.
Living under a new name.
In Paris.
A glass tower.
Wearing pearls.
Smiling on magazine covers as a “reformed philanthropist.”
The same woman who’d sold her daughter to the Choir in exchange for political immunity.
Her real name?
Vivienne Saint-Hart.
Mother. Founder. First liar.
Eella didn’t book a flight.
She didn’t need planes anymore.
She ran.
Across borders.
Across oceans.
Across blood.
And as she stood outside Vivienne’s tower, glowing with light and lies—
She didn’t feel rage.
She didn’t feel grief.
She felt silence.
And that silence was worse than anything.
She walked in.
Security didn’t stop her.
Time slowed.
She rode the elevator to the penthouse.
Doors opened.
Vivienne stood there, drink in hand, eyes wide.
Eella stepped forward.
The final name.
The final reckoning.
And whispered—
“Every bullet has a name. Yours is mine.”