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W ouldn’t it be nice to have a normal life? A real home. Security. Friends I could depend on.

It would be heaven.

I jolted awake, heart hammering against my ribs, unsure for three terrifying seconds where I was. My hand shot out instinctively, searching for Diesel's warm fur in the darkness. The familiar rhythm of his breathing anchored me back to reality—the cramped backseat of my Honda Civic, my home for the past three weeks. Another night of fitful sleep in another random parking lot, this time behind an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Ironridge.

The early morning light filtered weakly through windows clouded with condensation, casting everything in a gray, muted haze. My neck throbbed from the awkward angle I'd slept in. My back screamed in protest as I tried to stretch in the confined space. Diesel stirred at my feet, his large German Shepherd body somehow moulded into the footwell. His amber eyes blinked open, watching me with that steady, loyal gaze that kept me going when everything else seemed hopeless.

"Morning, buddy," I whispered, my voice rough from disuse. Diesel snuffled in reply.

I wiped a small circle in the fogged window with my sleeve and peered out, scanning methodically. The abandoned warehouse loomed gray and silent. No movement. No unfamiliar vehicles. And—thank god—no motorcycles. My shoulders dropped a fraction, releasing a tension I carried constantly.

Only then did I allow myself to begin my morning routine. Routine meant survival. Routine meant control in a life that had spiraled far beyond it.

Despite living like a fugitive, I maintained a certain order. My clothes—three shirts, two pairs of jeans, underwear, and socks—were folded neatly in a plastic bin in the trunk. My toiletries sat arranged by size in a small basket on the passenger seat: toothbrush, travel-sized toothpaste, deodorant, a bar of soap wrapped in a washcloth, a comb missing several teeth. A half-empty bottle of water. A roll of toilet paper. The practical possessions of a woman with nowhere to call home.

Diesel's things occupied their own dedicated corner: his worn leash hanging from the headrest, a tennis ball chewed nearly beyond recognition, his collapsible water bowl. I'd left almost everything behind when I fled, but I'd be damned if Diesel didn’t have the essentials.

I reached for the glove compartment and pulled out a zippered pouch where I kept my money. I counted it again, though I knew exactly what was there: forty-three dollars and seventeen cents. The balance had barely changed in two days; I'd been surviving on the cheapest food I could find, stretching every dollar until it screamed.

My stomach cramped sharply, a painful reminder that I'd given Diesel the larger portion of our dinner last night. The hunger wasn't new. I'd grown used to it, the way I'd grown used to the constant fear, the hypervigilance, the way my head snapped toward every unexpected sound.

"You hungry, boy?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

Diesel lifted his head at the word "hungry," his tail thumping weakly against the seat. I reached into a small paper bag and broke off a piece of a granola bar—the last one. I hesitated, then broke it unevenly, giving him the larger portion. I always did. His needs came first. He was the only one who had stayed by my side, who had never hurt me.

"Here you go." I held it out on my palm, watching as he gently took it from my hand. His manners remained impeccable, even in our reduced circumstances. "Good boy."

I nibbled on my small piece, making it last, savoring the sweetness of the honey and oats. It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough these days.

The dashboard clock read 6:17 AM. Too early for most people to be out, which was exactly how I liked it. Early morning and late night were the safest times to move around—fewer eyes to notice the woman living in her car, fewer chances of being recognized.

Not that anyone in Ironridge knew me. That was why I'd chosen it—small enough to hide in, far enough from Coldwater that the Iron Serpents wouldn't think to look here first.

But they would look. Jesse wouldn't let me go so easily. And his brother Venom . . . I shuddered, pushing the thought away before it could fully form.

I reached for the small makeup bag tucked beneath the driver's seat. Not for cosmetics—I hadn't bothered with makeup since I left—but for the single most precious thing I still possessed. My fingers found the worn edges of the photograph, creased from years of handling. I pulled it out carefully, like a fragile butterfly that might disintegrate in my grip.

My parents smiled up at me from the faded image. Mom with her dark hair like mine, Dad with his arm around her shoulders, me sitting on his knee, gap-toothed and grinning. I was five when this was taken. Six when the car accident took them both, leaving me to bounce through the foster system like a pinball, lighting up briefly in each home before being launched to the next.

I touched their faces gently with my fingertip, a ritual I'd performed thousands of times.

"Morning, Mom. Morning, Dad," I whispered. A childish comfort, maybe, but it centered me when the fear threatened to take over completely. My throat tightened. Even after all these years, the grief still ambushed me sometimes, rising up from nowhere to grab me by the throat.

It was stupid. Jesse had always mocked this habit when he caught me with the photo.

"Mia, they're dead. Talking to a picture won't bring them back," he'd sneered once, snatching it from my hands. I'd lunged for it in panic, which only made him hold it higher, laughing as I jumped to reach it. "Look at little Mia, still a fucking five-year-old orphan inside."

I'd learned to hide the photo after that, to keep this small ritual private. Just like I'd learned to hide so many parts of myself.

I tucked the photo away carefully and glanced at Diesel. "Time to start the day, buddy."

He looked back at me with those intelligent eyes, as if he understood exactly what we were up against. Sometimes I thought he did. He'd been the one to warn me countless times when Jesse came home drunk and angry, standing between us more than once. He'd been the one who stayed silent when we needed to flee in the night.

My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the water bottle. We needed to find a source of fresh water soon. And food. And eventually, a safer place to stay. We couldn't live in the car forever. Plus, a little money would be nice. As if.

I sipped the water cautiously, just enough to wet my mouth, then poured a small amount into Diesel's bowl. He lapped at it, but without his usual enthusiasm. Something about that bothered me, added another layer of worry to the mountain already pressing down on my chest.

"You okay, boy?" I ran my hands over his body, checking for injuries or sensitive spots. Nothing obvious, but he seemed . . . subdued. Tired. I made a mental note to watch him closely.

The warehouse parking lot wouldn't be empty for long. Soon workers or security might show up, and questions would follow. Questions I couldn't afford to answer.

I climbed awkwardly from the backseat to the front, my muscles protesting the movement. The driver's seat felt hard and uncomfortable beneath me, molded to my body after too many hours. I turned the key in the ignition, holding my breath until the engine coughed reluctantly to life. The gas gauge hovered just above empty—another problem for another day.

I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. Dark circles underlined my eyes like bruises. My cheekbones stood out sharply in a face that had grown too thin. My dark hair hung limp and dull around my shoulders.

"You've looked better," I told my reflection, attempting a smile that didn't reach my eyes. “But you’re still a winner.”

Why did I lie to myself like that?

Diesel whined softly from the back seat, sensing my distress.

"It's okay," I assured him, reaching back to scratch behind his ears. "We're okay."

Another lie. We weren't okay. Not really. But we were alive, and for now, that had to be enough. I put the car in drive and pulled away from the warehouse, heading toward the back roads that would keep us invisible for another day.

My hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly, knuckles white with tension. Keep moving. Stay hidden. Survive. The mantra repeated in my head with each turn of the wheels.

Forty-three dollars and seventeen cents. A quarter tank of gas. One loyal dog. And a desperate woman running out of options.

***

When we parked up in a street that felt so private it was almost scary, I felt relief flooding my body. I didn’t want to be seen. It wasn’t like I was sure that the Serps were looking for me, but I wouldn’t put it past them.

The relief, though, was short-lived.

A motorcycle engine, distant but unmistakable. My breath caught in my throat, my body freezing before my brain could even process the threat. Just the sound was enough. Just the sound sent me spiraling back to that night three weeks ago, the night I ran for my life.

The motorcycle grew louder, then faded as it passed on some distant road. It wasn't coming for me. Not this time. But my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, and sweat beaded along my hairline despite the morning chill.

Diesel whined softly, pressing his warm body against my leg. He sensed my fear, as he always did. I forced myself to breathe, to unclench my jaw, to return to the present moment. But the damage was done. The memory had been triggered, and now it would play out in full, vivid color whether I wanted it to or not.

Three weeks ago. Our apartment in Coldwater. The place I'd once foolishly called home.

I'd come back early from my shift at the diner, feet aching, smelling of grease and cheap coffee. I hadn't expected Jesse to be home. He was supposed to be at some Iron Serpents event that would keep him out until the early hours. That was why I'd traded shifts with another waitress—to have the apartment to myself for once, to exist without walking on eggshells.

I remembered how I'd unlocked the door, stepping inside quietly out of habit, even though I thought the place was empty. The smell hit me first—cigarettes, whiskey, and that distinctive leather-and-motor-oil scent that clung to Jesse and his brother Venom. Then voices from the kitchen—angry, urgent. I should have turned around right then. Should have quietly closed the door and walked away. But I'd frozen, caught off guard.

"—can't keep fucking up like this, Jesse." Venom's voice, cold and precise. "This is the second shipment that's come up short."

"I told you, it wasn't me." Jesse's voice had that whining edge it got when he was cornered. "Someone's skimming, but it ain't—"

“It’s Axel. We need him killed.”

My blood ran cold.

“Killed?”

“We torture him first, get a confession, see if anyone else is involved. Then we kill him. It’s the only way. I’ll get—”

I'd accidentally bumped against the side table, sending a set of keys clattering to the floor. The voices stopped instantly. Then footsteps.

Jesse appeared in the kitchen doorway, his face transforming from surprise to rage in the span of a heartbeat. Behind him, I caught a glimpse of his brother Venom—tall, lean, those cold gray eyes sizing me up like I was a problem to be solved.

"What the fuck are you doing home?" Jesse had demanded, moving toward me with that stalking gait that always preceded violence.

"I—I traded shifts with Mandy. I didn't know you'd be—"

His hand shot out, fingers digging into my upper arm hard enough to leave bruises. "How long were you standing there? What did you hear?"

"Nothing! I just walked in, I swear!" The fear had come instantly, a Pavlovian response built over months of conditioning.

Venom had stayed in the doorway, watching with detached interest. Like a scientist observing a lab rat. "Who's there?"

"Mia. My girl." Jesse's fingers dug deeper. "She's too fucking stupid to understand anything anyway."

Venom's eyes had narrowed, studying me more carefully. "You sure about that?"

"I didn't hear anything important," I'd stammered, looking down, making myself smaller. "I just got home, I promise."

But Venom hadn't seemed convinced. He'd exchanged a look with Jesse, something silent passing between them. Then he'd picked up his jacket. "Handle it," he'd said to Jesse, his voice flat. "No loose ends." The apartment door had closed behind him with a soft click that somehow sounded more threatening than a slam.

Jesse had waited until his brother's motorcycle roared away. Then his composure had shattered like glass. His face contorted with rage, he'd slammed me against the wall, my head cracking against the plaster with enough force to make my vision blur.

"You stupid fucking bitch!" His spit hit my face as he screamed. "What did you hear? What were you doing sneaking around?"

"Nothing! I wasn't sneaking!" Tears had sprung to my eyes, partly from pain, partly from fear. "Jesse, please—"

His hand had found my throat, pressing hard enough to make breathing difficult but not impossible. A warning. "If you're lying to me—"

"I'm not! I swear!" I'd clawed at his wrist, panic rising as my airway constricted. "Jesse, you're hurting me!"

He'd laughed then, a sound with no humor in it. "Hurting you? Baby, you have no idea what hurting is. You think Venom would just slap you around a little if he thought you heard something you shouldn't have?"

His grip had loosened enough for me to gasp for air. Diesel had started barking from the bedroom where Jesse had shut him in earlier. Jesse had ignored him, his face inches from mine, eyes bloodshot, pupils dilated. High on something. Drunk on top of it.

"Venom doesn't believe in loose ends, babe," he'd said, his voice suddenly calm, which was always more terrifying than his shouting. "Venom’s gonna need to make sure."

"Make sure of what?" My voice had been barely audible, my throat aching.

Jesse had smiled, showing too many teeth. "That you can't talk to anyone about what you might have heard." He'd traced a finger along my jawline, a parody of tenderness. "He's coming back later to have a little chat with you. Just to be safe."

In that moment, I'd known. Known with bone-deep certainty that if I stayed, I'd never leave that apartment alive. Jesse might have convinced himself he was just scaring me, but I'd seen Venom's eyes. I'd heard stories from the other girls about people who crossed the Iron Serpents, who became "loose ends." They disappeared. Bodies sometimes turned up in the reservoir. Sometimes they didn't turn up at all.

Jesse had finally released me, shoving me toward the bedroom. "Get in there with your mutt. Don't come out until I say." He'd stomped back to the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator, grabbing another beer.

I'd stumbled to the bedroom, my legs wobbly, throat throbbing. Diesel had greeted me with frantic concern, licking my hands, whining softly at my distress. I'd hugged him tight, burying my face in his fur to muffle my sobs.

Through the thin walls, I'd heard Jesse talking on the phone, his words slurred but distinct enough: "Yeah, she's here . . . No, she's not going anywhere . . . Couple hours, sure . . . No problem . . . " A pause. "I said I'll handle it, bro."

No loose ends.

I'd sat on the edge of the bed, shaking, as reality crystallized around me. Jesse was going to let his brother kill me. Maybe Jesse was in denial, but I knew it.

I'd watched, numb with fear, as Jesse drank himself into a stupor over the next few hours. He'd checked on me once, swaying in the doorway, pointing a finger at me. "Don't you fucking move," he'd slurred, before stumbling back to the couch.

By midnight, his snores had echoed through the apartment. I'd waited another hour, hardly daring to breathe, before I'd moved.

I remembered how my hands had trembled as I'd pulled my backpack from under the bed. How I'd selected only what was absolutely necessary—a few changes of clothes, my toiletries, the small amount of cash I'd hidden in an empty tampon box (a hiding place Jesse would never check), and the photograph of my parents. I'd grabbed Diesel's leash, his bowl, a bag of dog food.

I remembered the heart-stopping moment when Diesel, excited by the unusual midnight activity, had accidentally knocked over a lamp. The crash had sounded impossibly loud in the quiet apartment. Jesse had stirred on the couch, muttering something incoherent. I'd frozen, one hand on Diesel's muzzle to keep him quiet, the other pressed against my mouth to stifle my panicked breathing. But Jesse had merely rolled over, his snores resuming.

I'd clipped the leash to Diesel's collar with shaking hands. Grabbed my car keys. Eased the front door open inch by agonizing inch. And then we'd run—down the stairs, across the parking lot, to my old Honda Civic.

I'd driven away from Coldwater in a blind panic, constantly checking the rearview mirror, convinced that every set of headlights belonged to the Iron Serpents. I'd driven until the gas tank was nearly empty, then pulled into a truck stop far from any highway Jesse might think to check. And I'd sat there, shaking uncontrollably, unable to believe I'd actually escaped.

Back in the present, I realized I was trembling again, my fingers clenched around Diesel's water bowl so tightly my knuckles had gone white. The memory of that night was like a physical blow, leaving me breathless and dizzy.

Something had awakened in me that night. Beneath the fear and trauma, I'd found a core of steel I hadn't known I possessed. I'd spent years being Jesse's docile, obedient girlfriend, believing I needed his protection, convincing myself the abuse was a fair trade for security. But when survival required courage, I'd found it.

I stroked Diesel's head, scratching behind his ears the way he liked. "We're going to be okay," I told him, my voice steadier now. "We just need to stay hidden a little longer."

Another motorcycle rumbled in the distance. This time, I didn't freeze completely. Small victories. That's what my life had become—a collection of small victories against the fear that threatened to paralyze me.

***