The cab's brakes squealed like a warning I should've heeded, dumping me curbside under the sodium glow of my apartment building's lone streetlamp.
Eldridge at 9:15 p.m. felt like a held breath—air thick with exhaust and the faint, metallic tang of rain that never quite fell.
Theo's goodbye kiss had been a graze, chaste as a promise, his hand lingering on my elbow like he was anchoring me to solid ground.
"Text when you're inside," he'd said, voice all earnest gravel.
I had—Safe. Night.—but the words sat heavy in my outbox, unread for the ten minutes it took to climb the stairs, key fumbling in the lock like my nerves.
That text from the unknown? I'd screenshot it, heart emoji and all, before deleting the thread.
"Cute date. Be careful with the strings."
Spam bots didn't do poetry; this felt personal, like someone peering through the cafe window, clocking Theo's thumb on my pulse.
Lila? She'd kill for the drama, but her shade was louder, all eye-rolls and whispers.
Marco? Creepier potential, but he'd text dick pics, not riddles.
Or... the Wire? Nah, that was the city's fever dream talking, turning every ping into a phantom wire coiling around my throat.
Inside, the apartment welcomed me with its usual neglect: Sink piled with mugs from yesterday's "writing session" (two lines, drowned in Netflix), fridge humming like a judgmental aunt.
I kicked off my boots, the thud echoing off bare walls I'd meant to "art up" with thrift prints.
Poetry posters, maybe—something to scream I'm more than this grind.
But motivation was a fickle bitch; tonight, it was buried under the weight of Theo's easy smile and the prickle that said easy wasn't free.
My phone buzzed—Theo: Dream sweet. Can't stop thinking about that line: 'Threads pull.'
Wrote one back: 'Yours tangle mine just right.' Followed by a winky emoji that landed somewhere between sweet and sticky.
I typed Aww, poet alert but deleted it, settling on Flatterer. Talk tomorrow? Send.
The read receipt popped instant, three dots dancing like they had secrets.
Absolutely. Pick you up at 7? Real date this time—dinner, no laptops.
Dinner. Strings tightening.
Part of me lit up—Theo was the anti-Marco, the anti-Dad's checklists.
No wandering eyes, no conditional hugs.
But the other part? The one that journaled at 2 a.m. about cages disguised as comfort?
It whispered: Run before he maps your exits.
Mom's voice layered in: Love's wires, tangled.
God, family dinners were therapy bills waiting to happen.
I stripped for the shower, steam fogging the mirror as hot water needled my skin.
Soap suds traced the curve of my hip, the swell of my breast—body I liked in stolen moments, hated in Marco's stares.
Theo hadn't ogled; he'd seen, quoting my words like they mattered.
That was the hook, wasn't it? In a city devouring soft spots, being seen felt like surrender.
Toweled off, I scrolled the group chat while blow-drying my curls into submission.
Lila: Spill on the bookstore boy. He seal the deal or just window-shop?
Theo: El's poetry slayed tonight—y'all gotta hear.
Mom: Home safe? News says curfew talks heating up.
Dad: Link to that app your friend made. Installed it.
The Shadow Spotter pinged on my phone then—Theo must've looped me in—mapping my block in green: Low risk. But avoid alley to east.
Helpful? Or another string, digital this time?
Sleep came fitful, dreams a mashup of wires and warm hands: Theo's thumb on my wrist, morphing into cold metal cuffs, a voice (not his) murmuring Admit it over looped voicemails of my own fuck-ups—Sorry, Mom, stole your pills that night or Lila, yeah, your ex was hotter than mine.
Woke at 3:47 a.m. to sirens, close this time, blue-red lights strobing through the blinds like a migraine.
News alert: Wire Escalation: Victim #6 Snatched from Uptown Park—Friends Say She 'Vanished Mid-Jog.' Task Force Urges No Solo Outings. Curfew Vote Tomorrow?
Morning cracked open gray and gritty, alarm yanking me from a doze that felt like defeat.
Coffee scalded my tongue as I dressed—jeans that hugged without trying, sweater soft against the chill seeping through cracked windows.
The bus stop was a vigil: Patel outside his bodega, arms crossed, eyes scanning the empty street.
"No paper today, beta. Delivery guy spooked—says he saw a van idling last night. Wire's ghost car."
His voice dropped, paternal worry creasing his brow.
"You walk with someone. That boy from the cafe?"
"Theo? Yeah, maybe."
Lie—he was dinner tonight, not bodyguard.
But Patel's nod was approval, the kind Dad rationed out like gold stars.
Inside, the TV blared: Morning show panel, all teeth and hot takes.
Host in a power blazer: "Commissioner, be straight—this curfew's a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. Victim six? She's got a family, a job at the mayor's office. If he's hitting elites now..."
Hale, looking like he'd aged a decade overnight, mopped his brow: "Ma'am, we're not panicking the public. But yes—avoid parks, share locations. The profiler's profile: White male, 25-35, tech-savvy, grudge against 'sinners.' Could be anyone."
Cut to viral TikToks: Women testing "Wire-proof" hoodies with embedded alarms, guys joking about "volunteering as bait."
Real-world rot: Protests brewing outside PD HQ, #HuntTheWire trending with death threats to cops, support groups popping up in church basements.
Mom texted: Staying home today? We're glued to the scanner.
Dad: Cameras up. Your key fob tracks you now—use it.
The Daily Drip was a zoo by 8 a.m., line snaking out the door like refugees from the chill.
"Extra shots—need the edge today!" barked a suit, eyes darting like the Wire was in the foam.
Lila clocked in late, again, makeup heavy to hide the bags.
"Heard about the jogger? My roommate's swearing off men altogether. Says it's all cover for some incel hack."
Her laugh was brittle, but her glance at me? Sharper.
"You and Theo, though—dinner bells? Careful, girl. City's eating rom-coms for breakfast."
Marco hovered, "managing" the chaos with pats on backs that lingered on mine.
"Kane, you're a rock. Cover break for Lila?"
Translation: Owe me one.
I nodded, stomach souring as he "thanked" me with a squeeze on my shoulder, thumb brushing collarbone.
Creep scale: Teetering toward red.
Theo texted mid-rush: Reservation at Luna's—Italian, candlelight, the works. Wear that smile. Winky again.
I pocketed the phone, ignoring the flutter low in my belly.
Flirty Theo was fun; possessive Theo? The app, the poems, the pick-up offer—it itched like wool.
Lull hit around noon, sun mocking through grimy windows.
I slipped to the back for air, notebook out on a milk crate.
Pen scratched: Strings snap quiet, one frayed twist at a time. Who pulls first—the lover or the lie?
Lila found me there, cig dangling unlit.
"Deep thoughts? Or Theo daydreams?"
She leaned against the wall, blue hair catching light like fractured glass.
"Both. City's got me wired tight."
I capped the pen, but she snatched the page, scanning with a smirk that didn't reach her eyes.
"'Who pulls first'? Ominous. Fitting, with your boy playing knight."
Pause, exhale imaginary smoke.
"Just... don't ghost me for dick, El. We've been ride-or-die since that shitty dorm."
Envy? Or warning?
Her ex had been a cheater; mine (brief, brutal) a ghoster.
Bonds like ours frayed easy in Eldridge.
"Never," I lied, pocketing the book.
But as we re-entered the fray, Marco's voice carried: "Lila, you slacking? Kane's carrying."
Her jaw ticked; my tips would dip tomorrow, passive-aggressive style.
Shift blurred to close—a spilled espresso war (yoga mom vs. barista beef, resolved with free muffins), a creep in line muttering "Wire's got my ex—good riddance" loud enough for tips to tank.
Theo arrived at 6:45, early, laptop bag swapped for a leather jacket that smelled like sandalwood.
"Ready to escape?"
His kiss on my cheek was warm, hand sliding to the small of my back—guiding, not groping.
But the touch lingered as we walked to his car, a sensible Civic parked legal for once.
Luna's was tucked in Little Italy knockoff, fairy lights strung like veins over checkered tables.
Candle flicker danced on Chianti bottles; the air hummed with garlic and low moans over tiramisu.
We ordered—pasta for me, steak for him—and it flowed easy at first: His story about a coding glitch that "almost nuked the economy" (exaggerated, eyes sparkling), my ramble on a poem about the East River's "suicidal undertow."
He listened, chin on fist, like I was the main course.
"You're electric, El. In a world full of static."
The wine helped—second glass loosening the knot in my chest.
But then the shift: Phone buzzed, his screen lighting with a group chat—Bros night? Wire hunt beer pong?
He silenced it quick, but not before I glimpsed the replies: Nah, chasing redhead realness tonight.
Heat crept up my neck—flattered? Or exposed?
"You okay?" he asked, fork pausing mid-twirl.
"Yeah. Just... the city. That text last night. Felt watched."
Honesty slipped out, wine-loose.
His face hardened, jaw ticking like a glitch.
"Show me."
I pulled up the screenshot; he scanned, thumb swiping hard.
"Fucking trolls. I'll trace the number—easy hack."
Not a question.
His hand covered mine, grip firm.
"No one touches you. Not on my watch."
Sweet. Suffocating.
"Theo, it's—"
The restaurant door banged open then—chaos spilling in: A woman, mid-twenties, wild-eyed and wrapped in a coat too thin for the draft, screaming into her phone.
"He wired me! The van—it's him!"
Waitstaff froze; diners gawked as she collapsed by the bar, sobbing about "shadows in the park" and a voice on loop: Run, but you can't hide your sins.
Sirens wailed closing in—#6′s friend? Copycat? The Wire live?
Theo's arm shot around me, pulling close.
"We're leaving. Now."
Outside, the street was a frenzy: Cop cars cordoning the block, news vans jockeying like vultures.
Protesters chanted faint from the corner—Hunt him down! No more ghosts!—while a mom hustled her kid past, face pale as curfew flyers.
Theo bundled me into the Civic, engine roaring to life.
"Your place too hot. Mine's closer—gated, safe."
"Theo—"
"Please."
Plea edged with command, eyes on the rearview like hunters.
We peeled out, his hand on my thigh now—protective? Or claim?
The drive blurred: Radio crackling with updates (Lockdown in effect—Uptown parks closed. Tip line exploding.), my phone lighting with panic texts (Lila: WTF just happened? You ok? Mom: Turn on the news. Home NOW.).
His apartment was sterile—tech posters, code books stacked like fortifications, a window overlooking the river's black churn.
He poured wine (third glass?), body close on the couch.
"See? Safe."
His mouth found mine then—slow at first, tasting of Chianti and want, hands mapping my waist, thumbs under my sweater.
Heat pooled low, traitorous; I arched into it, nails grazing his neck.
But his grip tightened, pinning, breath hot: "You're mine tonight, El. Let me keep you."
Strings snapped—audible in my head.
I pulled back, chest heaving.
"Whoa. Slow?"
Hurt flickered, then shuttered.
"Just... the world out there. I need this. Need you."
Vulnerability cracked through, and damn if it didn't tug.
We talked till 1 a.m.—his sister's assault years back ("Made me code locks for doors, not hearts"), my brother's crash ("Guilt's the real wire").
Softened, I stayed—curled against him on the couch, his arm heavy as promise.
But as sleep tugged, his phone buzzed silent: Unknown. "Strings suit you. But mine pull harder."
In the dark, I wondered: Whose watch was this, really?