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I’m Still Alive

Hypothetical Question: If you could live forever, but it meant you had to consume the lives of others to stay young, how would you choose your victims?

Carina

Nate’s words linger long after my ‘birthday’ celebration.

I’ve spent so long chasing revenge that I never stopped to think about what would come after. Now that it’s done, an empty void stretches before me, swallowing up all the rage and purpose that once kept me moving. The silence is deafening.

But maybe Nate is right—maybe I can help other women like me.

“Can I come with you today?” I ask one morning, watching him button his shirt in the mirror.

His brow arches as he glances over his shoulder. “To work?”

I step closer, gently pushing his hands away to take over the task myself. My fingers brush against the fabric, fastening each button with slow precision. Then I reach for his tie, looping it around his neck.

“Yes,” I state simply, focusing on the knot.

He studies me, his sharp gaze softening. “I’m heading to one of the shelters today. Group therapy session.”

My heart melts a little. Nate is a man of many layers—cold-blooded killer one day, comedian the next, and at his core, someone who cares so deeply that he built an entire organisation dedicated to helping victims find safety and hope.

“I know,” I murmur. “That’s why I want to come.”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to argue, but instead, he nods. “Alright. Get dressed. But don’t make me late, Princess.”

Glancing down at myself, I run a hand over the scars on my legs. The one’s from my father's sick torture.

The action makes me shudder.

Seeing them is a constant reminder of what he did. Every moment he tried to break me. I hate the way they look. But Nate doesn’t look at me any differently. He’s not repulsed by the blemished skin.

I can do this.

I throw on a pink blazer and matching trousers, pairing them with a sleek black blouse. The outfit makes me look powerful—like someone who has their shit together. It’s a lie, but I need the illusion today.

Nate and Enzo are locked in a mock wrestling match downstairs, laughing like idiots.

Despite myself, I smile.

The two have grown close, bonded by my absence in ways I don’t fully understand. But I know Enzo won’t be here much longer.

He has to return to America and pick up the threads of his own life—but I’m deeply grateful he stayed and supported Nate while I was gone.

Not that I expected anything less. Enzo might be a ruthless Mafia man, but when it comes to the people he loves, his loyalty is boundless.

“When are you leaving, again?” I ask, teasing Enzo with a laugh.

The two of them freeze mid-grapple, Nate’s head trapped under Enzo’s arm. His eyes meet mine, silently begging for rescue.

“Today, actually,” Enzo says, releasing Nate and straightening his suit.

My smile falters. “Today? Since when?”

“My father called me home,” Enzo explains, his voice laced with regret. “I’ve been neglecting my duties for too long.”

A pang of sadness hits me, but I manage a tight hug before Nate and I leave. Knowing Enzo has to return to his life doesn’t make saying goodbye any easier.

The sun is warm on my skin as Nate navigates the London streets, its golden rays reminding me that I’m still alive. Still free.

The shelter is a modern building, sleek and secure. Nate designed it that way—so the women inside could see out without being seen.

Inside, he transforms. Easy smiles and bad jokes. I follow a few steps behind, unsure of my place here.

“Want to check out the support group?” he asks, steering me toward a door.

I nod.

We step inside, and the room goes silent. Ten women sit in a circle, their wary eyes darting to us.

That’s when I see it—the fear. Not of me.

Of him.

“Nate,” I whisper, tugging at his arm. “You should wait outside.”

His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. “What? Why?”

I nod toward the women, and realisation dawns. His expression softens, and he leans down to kiss me gently before walking out.

I take an empty seat, murmuring an apology for the disruption. The group leader—a kind-eyed woman in her forties—guides the conversation, but something is missing. She hasn’t lived this.

The stories they share hit me like a tidal wave, each one resonating with the darkest parts of my soul. Stirring something raw inside me. For the first time, I realise I’m not alone in my pain.

My throat tightens when the leader turns to me, asking if I want to share.

My mouth opens, but no words come out.

“It’s okay,” she says gently. “You don’t have to—”

“No.” My voice is sharp, louder than I intended. I swallow hard and try again. “I… I want to.”

And then the words pour out.

I don’t hold back. I speak the truths I’ve only ever uttered to Doctor Morgan. Not even Nate knows the extent of what I endured. The room is silent, but their eyes tell me they understand. They know.

By the time I finish, my chest feels lighter. The memories still exist, but they don’t own me anymore.

I can finally breathe again.

As the session ends, a timid woman approaches me. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“For what?”

“For sharing. I was too scared to speak today, but… I think I’ll try next time.”

Her words strike a chord deep within me. Nate was right. I can help. And in helping others, maybe I can find myself again.

I give her hand a reassuring squeeze before heading to the hallway, where Nate waits, leaning against the wall.

“How was it?” he asks, his dark eyes searching mine.

I step into his arms, letting their warmth and strength ground me.

“I want to do it,” I whisper.

He tilts his head. “Do what?”

I look up at him, steady this time.

“Help people.”