Page 7 of Shadows of Steel

But I still clung to the lie, convincing myself it was him. Because the alternative was far more unsettling.

So who is it, truly?

Who has been watching me from the shadows, unseen yet ever-present?

How long has he been circling, calculating, waiting for the precise moment to strike?

The note crumples slightly in my grip, the paper bending under the force of my fingers. My jaw clenches, rage simmering beneath the surface.

I thought I had escaped.

But no matter how far I go, no matter how meticulously I erase my traces, he remains.

Watching.

Waiting.

Deluded enough to believe I belong to him.

A cold, bitter smile ghosts across my lips.

He’s wrong.

I slip the note into my bag, smooth the fabric of my clothes, and step out of the locker room. His words linger, a whisper at the edges of my mind, but so does my resolve.

Whoever he is, he’s made a grave miscalculation.

Because I am not running.

I never was.

Chapter 3

Harlow

After my day at the gym, I return to my modest two-bedroom apartment in the heart of the city. It’s not extravagant, but it’s enough, comfortable, functional, and devoid of unnecessary clutter. I throw together a quick dinner, but sitting still feels like a punishment. The adrenaline from sparring with Enzo still thrums through my veins, an untamed current that refuses to settle, and the note I found earlier gnaws relentlessly at the frayed edges of my thoughts.

The walls of my sanctuary begin to close in, the air suddenly too thick, suffocating. My skin prickles with unease, and I recognize the telltale stirrings of a panic attack creeping closer, slinking beneath my ribs like a beast biding its time.

I need out. Now.

So, I leave.

A little shopping therapy, a long evening stroll, anything to force the chaos in my mind into submission. It’s my time-tested remedy when the weight of my world becomes unbearable. I have two choices, sweat it out or spend it out. The gym, the boxing ring, a relentless run until my lungs burn and my muscles tremble, they remind me I am stronger than the shadows that lurk behind me. But sometimes, the sharp, commanding click of a new pair of stilettos or the gleam of an expensive handbag can accomplish what a hundred punches cannot.

They say money can’t solve everything. Maybe. But it certainly makes life more bearable, and few things are as reliable as designer indulgence.

The cobblestones of Via della Libertà echo beneath my boots as I stride through the city’s high-end district. The boutique windows glow invitingly, their artful displays promising escape and distraction. The evening dissolves into a haze of glossy bags and perfectly curated storefronts. Each purchase feels like a tinyact of rebellion, a fleeting victory against the darker corners of my mind.

Then, I see them, black Louboutins perched like predators on a pedestal. Razor-thin heels, glossy leather, and soles the colour of fresh-spilled blood. They don’t whisper power, they scream it. My fingers trace the smooth, lethal lines of the shoe, and I don’t hesitate. I take them to the counter. Weakness comes in many forms, mine just happens to look damn good.

By the time I step onto the street, the sky is a deep indigo, the last traces of daylight bleeding into darkness. My legs ache from hours of walking, and the weight of the bags in my hands feels like a small victory, a distraction.

Still, as I make my way home, a familiar unease slithers up my spine.

The city hums around me, but the paranoia is louder. A whisper at the back of my mind. A presence just out of sight. I keep my stride even, my breathing steady, but every shadow feels heavier now. Every flickering streetlight casts shapes that shouldn’t be there. I tell myself it’s nothing, but the weight of the note in my bag says otherwise.

I shake my head, exhaling sharply. All I need is a scalding shower and a few hours of dreamless sleep. The unsettling sensation slithers over me. Stronger with each step. I feel it, cold and unsettling. My grip tightens around the strap of my bag, and I glance over my shoulder. The street looks normal enough, people moving about, headlights in the distance. Nothing stands out, yet my instincts scream that something’s wrong.