I can still hear her crying inside the flat — soft, hurting, trying to be quiet.
It cuts through me sharper than any blade I've ever taken.
I thought it was done.
I thought I'd finally surfaced for air after years.
And now she's in danger because of me .
Gunfire cracks outside, sharp and close.
I push through the door.
"Jake," I bark, already loading my second mag. "Status."
"Captain, three hostiles. All armed "
"Okay," I mutter, stepping down the stairs, muscles steady, heartbeat dead quiet.
"I'm going in "
A muzzle flashes from behind a car.
The first one doesn't see me.
He leans out from behind a car, firing wild, sloppy.
I raise my gun once — the shot takes him right through the cheek.
He drops twitching, mouth working on a scream that never forms .
The second rushes from the alley, shouting something to the others.
I hear nothing.
Just the thud of my boots closing the distance.
I grab him by the jacket and slam him into the dumpster.
Metal rings out like a bell.
I grip the back of his head and drive it into the steel again.
The crack is loud.
Wet.
Something sprays across my cheek — warm.
His hands claw at my arm, useless, shaking.
I pull his head back, look at him.
There's blood running from his nose, his mouth, his temple.
He's trembling like a rat caught in a trap.
I lean in,"If something happens to her—"
I slam his skull into the dumpster again.
This time it leaves a smear.
Thick.
Dark.
Sliding.
I pull his head back again.
His left eye is unfocused, rolling.
He's barely conscious.
"If I see as much as a scratch on her—"
CRACK
This one doesn't sound like metal.
It sounds like bone giving up.
Blood splatters across my shirt, my neck, even my lips.
He's still twitching.
I don't stop.
I slam his head again — harder, all my weight behind it.
But I don't stop.
My hand fists in what's left of his hair and I yank him forward—his neck limp, useless—before thrusting his face into the dumpster a final time. So hard the entire structure shudders. So hard I feel the vibration in my teeth.
His body hangs there, twisted and slack, but I keep him propped up like he's still alive. Like he's still listening.
"If you come for her again…"
A droplet runs down my jaw.
"…or anyone comes for her again…"
I pull his head back just a little, forcing what remains of his face to meet mine. His eyes don't track. They can't. But I stare into them anyway like I expect him to blink.
"…I'll find you. Wherever you are."
My thumb drags across his cheekbone. Bone. No cheek left.
"You'll wish you were dead."
I lean closer, lips barely moving.
"But I won't stop there."
His body sways. I tighten my grip like I'm keeping him in the conversation.
"Everything you ever touched… I'll ruin
And I'll do it so quietly," I breathe against his ear,
"you'll feel it even in the grave."
He can't hear me.
He hasn't heard me since the second slam.
I hear the last one before I see him — the scuff of a boot, the sharp inhale of someone realizing they're alone with me.
He tries to run.
I like when they run.
It makes the ending cleaner.
I catch him by the back of his collar and yank him hard enough that he slams onto the concrete.
The air leaves his lungs in one pathetic wheeze.
He scrambles backward, palms slipping on dirt and oil.
His eyes land on the knife in my hand and go wide, glassy with terror.
He opens his mouth to scream—
I get there first.
My hand clamps his jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks until he's forced to look at me.
I shove the blade into his mouth.
His eyes explode wide, a strangled gurgle caught in his throat.
He claws at my wrist, body twisting, trying to break free.
Useless.
I drive the knife upward.
The force carries him back—
back—
until the blade hits the wall behind him with a crack, pinning him there.
The impact reverberates up my arm.
His body jerks, suspended, breath hiccuping in broken stutters.
For a second, he just… hangs.
Like a grotesque marionette someone forgot to cut loose.
Blood dries on my jaw as I walk, tightening on my skin, cracking when I move.
I barely notice it.
"Jake, I'm done. Handle the rest."
My boots leave faint red shadows behind me, fading as quickly as they form.
The night air feels cold on my face, but my mind is already elsewhere.
They shouldn't have come this close to her.
To the house.
To us.
Had they found me alone, it would've been different.
Cleaner. Controlled. The kind of work I can do half-asleep.
But this—this was reckless. Loud.
It means someone has information they shouldn't.
I run through possibilities, contacts to call, questions to ask… but the thoughts drift, sliding into something quieter.
Rain.
She hadn't eaten anything today.
Her hands were trembling a little, even though she tried to hide it.
She does that when she's overwhelmed—goes still, quiet, forgets to take care of herself.
I should get her something warm.
Comforting.
She used to like pasta. Maybe she still does.
The creamy one. The herbs, the way she'd close her eyes for a second after the first bite.
I could make it—
No.
Not like this.
She won't like the site of blood in the kitchen.
Fine. I'll order it.
She'll eat it. She needs to.
It'll help.
My mind keeps arranging it all: the food, the timing, the way she relaxes when she finally eats.
The house is compromised.
I need to shift her to another one.
Secure the perimeter.
Sweep every entry point.
Then pasta. Or something warm. Maybe both. She'll eat better if she has options.
Maybe dessert ?
I push open the door to the safe house, already forming the question in my head,
Do you still like the pasta from—
And then—
she screams.