The storm was relent­less, the wind howl­ing through the night and tear­ing across the island like a wild ani­mal. Will, referred to by all as “The Groom,” made his way cau­tious­ly through the pow­er out­age, his frus­tra­tion masked behind a care­ful­ly con­trolled facade. He held up his phone’s torch, its nar­row beam bare­ly cut­ting through the dense dark­ness, and squint­ed as he noticed Aoife stand­ing a few paces away, her sil­hou­ette illu­mi­nat­ed by brief flash­es of light­ning. She motioned for him to fol­low, her expres­sion unread­able, and for a moment, Will hes­i­tat­ed, an unspo­ken ten­sion tight­en­ing in his chest.

Aoife claimed she need­ed help with the gen­er­a­tor, her tone calm and busi­nesslike. Yet there was some­thing unset­tling in the way she moved, in the way her gaze lin­gered on him a sec­ond too long. The wind whipped around them, pulling at Will’s jack­et and ruf­fling his hair—a detail that irked him more than he cared to admit—but he fol­lowed her into the storm, deter­mined to pre­serve the image of him­self as the com­posed and capa­ble fig­ure he had so metic­u­lous­ly craft­ed.

As they walked, the night seemed to press in clos­er, the island shroud­ed in an oppres­sive dark­ness that mir­rored the unease grow­ing with­in him. When they reached the generator’s loca­tion, Aoife turned to face him, her demeanor shift­ing from polite pro­fes­sion­al­ism to some­thing cold­er, more delib­er­ate. Her first words struck him like a sud­den blow—not about the gen­er­a­tor, but about the past, about Darcey, a boy whose name Will had buried deep in his mem­o­ry.

At first, Will tried to dis­miss her accu­sa­tions, his voice steady, his respons­es cal­cu­lat­ed to deflect blame. But Aoife would not relent, her words cut­ting through his defens­es with pre­ci­sion, lay­ing bare a truth he had spent years avoid­ing. She revealed her con­nec­tion to Darcey, her grief sharp­ened into some­thing res­olute, her deter­mi­na­tion to con­front Will fueled by years of unan­swered ques­tions and unac­knowl­edged pain.

The storm inten­si­fied around them, the wind and rain a chaot­ic sym­pho­ny that only height­ened the grav­i­ty of the moment. Aoife’s accu­sa­tions pierced through the noise, her voice unwa­ver­ing as she recount­ed the tor­ment Darcey had endured—the relent­less bul­ly­ing, the betray­al, and the ulti­mate tragedy that had left his fam­i­ly shat­tered. Will tried to inter­ject, to explain, but his words fal­tered under the weight of her resolve and the unde­ni­able truth she had brought to light.

Aoife’s plan­ning had been metic­u­lous. She had used Will’s fame, his arro­gance, and his belief in his untouch­able image to lure him here. The storm, the pow­er out­age, the iso­la­tion of the island—it was all part of her plan, a stage set for this reck­on­ing. The bog beneath them served as a silent wit­ness to their con­fronta­tion, its murky depths hold­ing secrets that refused to be for­got­ten, just as Darcey’s mem­o­ry lin­gered in Aoife’s mind, unyield­ing and unfor­giv­ing.

For Will, the con­fronta­tion was more than a moment of dis­com­fort; it was a crack in the care­ful­ly con­struct­ed image he had pre­sent­ed to the world. The per­sona he had built through his fame, par­tic­u­lar­ly on his sur­vival show Sur­vive the Night, was unrav­el­ing before Aoife’s pierc­ing gaze. She spoke not just of Darcey but of Will’s com­plic­i­ty, of how he and Jonathan Brig­gs had treat­ed Darcey with cru­el­ty and indif­fer­ence, actions that had con­tributed to his trag­ic fate.

As the rain lashed against them, Will felt a rare and unfa­mil­iar sensation—fear. Not just the fear of being exposed, but a deep­er fear that came from real­iz­ing he could no longer con­trol the nar­ra­tive of his past. Aoife was unre­lent­ing, her grief and anger cut­ting through the storm like a blade, leav­ing him with nowhere to hide.

The set­ting could not have been more sym­bol­ic. The bog, dark and unfor­giv­ing, was a reminder of the weight of the choic­es Will had made and the lives that had been altered because of them. It was a place where secrets sank and stayed, yet tonight, Aoife had brought those secrets to the sur­face, refus­ing to let them remain buried.

Will stood frozen, torn between denial and the crush­ing real­iza­tion that his actions had led him to this moment. The storm out­side was noth­ing com­pared to the storm with­in him, as guilt, fear, and the con­se­quences of his past col­lid­ed. Aoife’s words echoed in his mind, leav­ing him with a truth he could no longer ignore—some shad­ows can­not be out­run, and some debts can­not go unpaid.

As Aoife stepped clos­er, her final words were not a demand for vengeance but a call for acknowl­edg­ment, for the truth to final­ly be spo­ken. Will, for the first time, was left with­out a retort, with­out the armor of his charis­ma and care­ful­ly curat­ed image. The storm would even­tu­al­ly pass, the pow­er would return, but the dark­ness of this moment would remain with him, an unshak­able reminder that the past has a way of demand­ing jus­tice, no mat­ter how deeply it is buried.

And as he stood there, drenched and shak­en, star­ing into the unre­lent­ing gaze of a woman dri­ven by grief and truth, he under­stood one thing with star­tling clarity—this con­fronta­tion was not just about Darcey. It was about him, about the per­son he had been, the choic­es he had made, and the reck­on­ing he could no longer avoid.