My feet ached like they'd been set on fire.
Twelve hours on that beat-up scooter, dodging honking cars with a backpack stuffed full of lukewarm burgers and cold fries, and all I had to show for it was $38 in tips. Again.
I pushed open the door to our crumbling two-bedroom apartment. The smell of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume hit me like a slap.
"Elena! Where's my money?" Victoria's voice cut through the dim hallway before I even shut the door. My stepmother lounged on the couch in her silk robe, legs crossed, eyes glued to her phone. Damien sprawled beside her, Xbox controller in hand, empty beer cans scattered like trophies.
I swallowed the knot in my throat and handed over the crumpled bills. "Here. That's everything."
Victoria snatched them without looking up. "Only thirty-eight? You're getting slower every day, little girl. Your father would be ashamed of the disappointment you've become."
Damien snorted, thumbs still mashing buttons. "Maybe if you stopped being such a stuck-up bitch and smiled at the customers, you'd make real cash."
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. Twenty-two years old, and I still felt like the scared fifteen-year-old who lost her dad and got stuck with these parasites. Every cent I earned vanished into Victoria's "nail appointments" and Damien's gambling debts. They called it family expenses. I called it slow death.
I slipped into my tiny room, locked the door, and leaned against it. The tears I'd held back all day finally fell. My reflection in the cracked mirror looked like a ghost.
Long, wavy chestnut hair in a messy ponytail, hazel eyes swollen and red-rimmed, pale skin that hadn't seen real sunlight in weeks. I used to be pretty. Now I just looked... tired.
The next morning was worse.
I walked into the delivery hub with my fake smile plastered on, only to find my supervisor flanked by two security guards and Sasha "my jealous colleague" standing there with crocodile tears.
"Elena, you're fired," he said flatly. "Sasha caught you stealing tips from the locker room. We have it on camera."
My stomach dropped. "What? I never—"
Sasha stepped forward, eyes glistening. "I didn't want to say anything, but I saw her. I'm so sorry, Elena."
Liar. She'd hated me since I started getting better reviews. The footage? Blurry, but it was my hoodie, the one I'd left in the staff room during the rain.
I didn't fight. No one believed the girl who smelled like cheap delivery oil.
By 3 p.m., I was wandering the industrial side of the city, soaked from sudden rain, clutching soggy résumés no one wanted. My sneakers squelched. My stomach growled. I had $12 left in the world, and two people at home ready to take it.
That's when I heard it.
A muffled shout. A sickening thud. Then silence so thick it pressed against my ears.
It came from the abandoned warehouse at the end of the block "the one everyone said was haunted". Boards over the windows, chains on the doors... except one side door hung slightly ajar, swinging in the wind like an invitation.
I should have run.
But that stupid curiosity "the same one that always got me in trouble" whispered: *What if someone needs help? What if today you finally do something right?*
I pushed the door open.
The air inside was heavy with rust, damp concrete, and coppery blood. A single hanging bulb swung lazily, casting long shadows.
And then I saw him.
He stood under the light like a god carved from midnight.
Six-foot-nine of lethal perfection in a black designer suit that probably cost more than my entire life. Broad shoulders, chest and arms straining the fabric, every muscle sculpted. Shiny black hair styled back flawlessly. Tattoos snaked up his neck and vanished under his crisp white collar. Dark, intricate ink that seemed to pulse with his breath. A silver ring glinted on his trigger finger.
Kneeling before him was a bloodied man, face swollen, whispering broken pleas.
The giant didn't flinch.
He pressed a sleek black gun to the man's forehead.
"No loose ends," he said, "voice low and calm terrifyingly beautiful", like velvet wrapped around a blade.
Bang.
The gunshot exploded. The man's head jerked back. Blood sprayed in a dark arc across the concrete.
I screamed "a raw, shattered sound that ripped from my throat". My knees buckled. Résumés fluttered from my shaking hands like dying butterflies.
The devil in the suit turned slowly.
"Icy gray eyes almost silver locked onto mine"through the shadows. For one endless second, the world stopped.
My chest heaved, every instinct screaming to run, but my feet were glued to the spot.
Then his voice roared, echoing like thunder:
**"Who's there?"**