Page 5

I squeeze my eyes shut, every nerve bracing for the impact. But it never comes. Slowly, I blink. No pain, no blood—nothing.

I’m alive. He shot the wall behind me.

Remo steps back, lowering the gun with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. For a fleeting moment, something flickers there. Amusement? Contempt? It’s gone before I can name it, replaced by the same impenetrable cold. He tilts his head like he’s weighing my worth and coming up short.

Relief floods through me, and I slump forward.

Then, he draws nearer, making his presence felt. His scent wraps itself around me. It’s dark and woodsy in nature, almost suffocating. I like it.

“Don’t ever come back here,” he says, his voice flat. “You won’t be so lucky next time.”

“I won’t,” I whisper, my voice trembling and barely audible.

His eyes linger on me for a beat too long, like he’s memorizing my face. Then he turns, his coat sweeping behind him like a shadow. “Take her outside till we are done here. Don’t hurt her.”

The man gripping my arm drags me out of the warehouse without a word. The cold night air slaps my face, sharp and bitter. It feels too clean, too real after the suffocating weight of the inside. I’m alive…for now.

They toss me against the side of a rusted garbage can. My knees slam into the gravel, the sting pulling a grunt from my throat. I don’t look back at the warehouse. I don’t even lift myhead. My teeth chatter as I crouch, trying to keep my breathing steady.

“Stay down like that,” one of them mutters, lighting a cigarette. “Don’t move till we’re gone.”

His figure is sharp in the dim light, smoke curling lazily around his head like some unholy crown. I press my palms against the ground, the gravel biting into my skin as I force myself to stay still. This isn’t a place for pride. It’s a place for survival.

The crunch of boots on gravel snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts.

How the hell did I end up here? So much for being the fearless, vandalizing vigilante of the night.

If I’d just kept my ass at home, I’d be asleep right now, wrapped in blankets instead of fear. But no, I had to chase whatever twisted part of me needed this. And now I’m stuck in this nightmare I didn’t sign up for.

From the ground, I can’t make out what they’re doing. It looked like they were just getting started when I spotted them earlier, so I wasn’t expecting them to be finished anytime soon.

I try to keep still and think happy thoughts. You know, the kinds of memories that might make me feel better about the mess I’m in. But nothing comes. Who was I kidding? Happy memories are for people who don’t have shit lives. People who have friends, family, neighbors, and loved ones. Not people like me.

Estranged from everyone, I was raised by an alcoholic aunt who took out her anger on life by punishing me whenever it suited her. Like I was the problem, not the fact that she couldn’t close her legs for any Tom, Dick, and Harry who’d steal from her once their “relationship” ran dry.

People like me? We survive alone. My aunt died in her own vomit the night I came home from my high school graduationparty. I didn’t even get to go to her funeral. Yeah, lucky me, my parents set aside my college fund before they died. I was ten when my aunt came home one day, cold as hell, and told me they were gone. Car accident. Ran into the ocean. And that’s it.

I never got to mourn them. I never even saw their bodies. Until today, I haven’t even shed a tear.

The whole thing still feels like a bad joke. I still hope every damn day that I’ll wake up from this nightmare and find them again, alive. Like everything was just a bad dream. But, as I’ve learned the hard way, I don’t get those kinds of wishes.

We don’t get happy memories or nice anniversaries. Even our fucking relationships end in nothing but despair because we weren’t made for happiness.

People like me? We work shitty jobs with shitty bosses because life just can’t give us a break. We don’t get hope. And that’s how it is.

I’m still fighting to stay steady against the rough gravel that’s digging into my palms and knees when the sound of boots on gravel knocks me out of the spiral of my thoughts.

I glance up, barely catching the silhouette before he steps into view. There he is. Remo. Wrapped in black like the king of darkness with his hands tucked in his coat pockets and a cigar hanging from his lips. The ember at the end is the only thing that shows me his face.

The wind blows through his hair, but his expression stays as cold as ice. The men around me straighten up as soon as they see him. The cigarette guy drops his cigarette and grinds it under his boot.

Remo stops in front of me, his shadow swallowing me whole. I’m a tiny speck compared to him. Hunched over in the dirt, I feel small beneath him. Helpless.

“You have two choices when I leave here,” he says, his voice calm, too calm. “You walk away and pretend this neverhappened. Or you make me believe you’re worth the trouble of keeping alive.”

“What does that mean?” My voice wavers, and I try to steady it.

He crouches down, his gaze locking onto mine. The cold intensity in his eyes makes me shiver. “It means,” he says softly, “if you talk, I will find out you did. There won’t be a next time. I’ll hunt you down, no matter where you hide. If you run to the police, I’ll make sure you never use your mouth again. Even if you try to stay anonymous. I’ll make sure that’s how you stay, permanently. Do you understand?”