Los Angeles had seen scandals, crimes, heartbreaks, and endless betrayals, but nothing sent shockwaves through the city quite like the news that Luna Nozzawa had plunged to her death from a cliff overlooking the Pacific. Police reports labeled it an “unconfirmed accident,” but those who truly knew Luna felt a chill the moment the story broke. Something was wrong—deeply, terribly wrong. And the moment Will Spencer collapsed outside the hospital upon hearing the news, the seed of suspicion took root. Luna’s tragic fall wasn’t simply misfortune. It was a message. It was a warning. And possibly, it was murder.

The city buzzed with speculation, each new rumor darker than the last. Some claimed Luna was running from authorities and simply slipped. Others said she jumped, overwhelmed by fear and pressure. But the ones closest to her refused to accept either explanation. Luna wasn’t reckless, and she wasn’t fragile. She had been scared, yes—terrified even—but she was fighting for her life, desperately trying to expose the person she said had been hunting her since the beginning. The same person she told Will about in her final letter. The same person who would benefit from her silence.

Will’s grief was unbearable. He sat in the cold, sterile hallway outside the morgue, shaking uncontrollably as officers whispered and doctors avoided his gaze. He replayed every moment of their explosive reunion, every word she spoke through trembling breaths, every warning she delivered. “The truth is closer than you think,” she had told him. “Don’t trust anyone who claims they’re helping.”

Now Luna was gone—violently, suddenly, far too conveniently.

A detective approached him cautiously. “Mr. Spencer… we’ll need to ask you some questions when you’re ready.”

Will lifted his head slowly. His face was pale, drained of everything except a burning focus. “I’m ready now.”

But before the detective could begin, a chilling presence appeared at the end of the hallway. Sheila Carter. Her boots clicked against the floor with unnatural calm, her eyes fixed on Will with a knowing intensity. “Such a tragedy,” she said softly, though her tone held a disturbing edge. “Poor Luna. She had so much to say… and now she never will.”

Will’s body tensed. “What do you know, Sheila?”

Sheila smirked just slightly. “Enough to know she was in far deeper than you realized.”

Before he could respond, Poppy arrived, sobbing uncontrollably as security escorted her inside. The moment she saw Sheila, she froze, grief twisting into rage. “Get away from him! Get away from anything that has to do with my daughter!”

Sheila lifted her hands calmly. “I’m only offering my condolences.”

But Will wasn’t listening anymore. His mind raced back to Luna’s final moments. He imagined the cliffside—the wind, the darkness, the fear. Did she see her attacker? Did she fight? Was she pushed? Or was she running from someone who finally cornered her? Luna’s shoes were found several feet from the edge, as if she had been dragged. There were footprints—two sets—but authorities refused to confirm their relevance. And there was the chilling fact that Luna’s death happened mere hours after the attack inside Will’s beach house.

Someone had followed her.
Someone finished what they started.

When Will was finally released to go home, his father Bill Spencer was waiting outside. “Get in the car,” Bill ordered, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “We’re going somewhere safe.”

But Will took a step back. “I’m not leaving. I’m finding out who killed her.”

Bill’s jaw tightened. “You’re grieving. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“No,” Will whispered, “I’m thinking clearer than ever.”

Because moments before he left the hospital, Luna’s letter—creased, worn, stained with tears—fell from his jacket pocket. And there, in the corner, Will noticed something he hadn’t seen before: a smudge of black ink shaped like a fingerprint. Not Luna’s. Someone else’s. Someone who held the letter before she delivered it. Someone who feared what she might reveal.

Someone close.

Meanwhile, across town, RJ Forrester was spiraling. He hadn’t slept since hearing the news, pacing his room at the Forrester estate as guilt consumed him. He had loved Luna, trusted her, believed in her innocence even when evidence turned against her. But he failed her when she needed him most. Now he couldn’t stop replaying the last message she left on his phone—never sent—just a voice recording filled with panic and trembling breath: “RJ… I found something. I’m not safe. Don’t trust—”

The recording cut off with a scream.

RJ had brought it to Ridge, who insisted on turning it over to authorities, but the message mysteriously disappeared from RJ’s phone before he could share it. Deleted by an unknown device.

The list of suspects grew by the hour, and the theories tangled into a web of fear. Sheila Carter. A vengeful rival of Poppy. A corrupt officer connected to Luna’s arrest. A powerful executive whose name Luna refused to write. Or someone far closer than anyone imagined—someone who walked freely among them, hiding behind a mask of concern and innocence.

As night fell over Los Angeles, Will returned to the cliff where Luna died. The ocean roared beneath him, swallowing the moonlight. He knelt at the edge, touching the disturbed soil, imagining her final moments.

Then he felt it—eyes on him.

Will turned around slowly.

A figure stood behind him, silhouetted by the moon. Calm. Quiet. Watching him with unnerving stillness.

He stepped closer, heart pounding. “Were you here that night?”

The figure didn’t answer.

“Did you see what happened to her?”

Still silence.

Then, finally—

A soft, chilling whisper:

“You’re asking the wrong questions.”

Will’s breath caught.

Because that voice…
That voice was familiar.

The figure then turned and disappeared into the fog, leaving Will trembling.

Someone knew the truth.
Someone was watching him.
Someone was making sure Luna’s story stayed buried.

But Will made a silent vow right there on the cliff:

He would uncover the truth.
He would expose the killer hiding in plain sight.
And he wouldn’t stop—not even if it cost him his own life.