Chike's breath burned in his chest as he stumbled into the night, the city lights smearing into angry blurs around him. His arm throbbed where Daniel's bat had struck him, but the pain only sharpened his rage.
How dare he.
How dare Daniel stand between him and Amara.
He leaned against a brick wall, clutching his bruised arm, his teeth grinding until his jaw ached. His mind replayed the look on Amara's face—fear, yes, but also something worse. Distance. Rejection.
She had looked at Daniel with the kind of trust, the kind of devotion, that once belonged to him.
The thought made bile rise in his throat.
"No," he muttered into the dark, his voice raw. "She's mine. She always has been."
He replayed the confrontation in his head, every word Amara spoke cutting deeper than the bat had. It's over. It's been over. Lies. She was only confused, manipulated by Daniel's presence, blinded by his promises.
But Chike would fix it. He would remind her who had been there first, who had known her laughter before Daniel ever showed up, who had loved her with a fire no one else could match.
He pushed off the wall, his breathing slowing as an eerie calm slid over him. He wasn't finished. Not by a long shot.
If he couldn't take her back with words, he'd take her back with fear.
Amara would see—she needed him. And Daniel? Daniel would learn what it meant to stand in the way.
The next morning, Amara tried to force her body through the motions of normal life. The smell of coffee filled the kitchen, the sound of the kettle whistling sharp in the air. But her hands trembled as she poured, spilling droplets across the counter.
Daniel watched her from the table, concern etched into his features. He hadn't slept much; the shadows under his eyes made that clear.
"You don't have to do this," he said softly. "We can order in. Or just rest."
Amara shook her head, brushing her hair from her face. "If I stop doing normal things, he wins. I don't want to live like that."
Daniel admired her resolve, even as he hated that she had to summon it at all. He rose, came up behind her, and wrapped his arms around her waist. She leaned back into him, just a little, and closed her eyes.
For a brief moment, the kitchen felt safe.
But then—
A soft tap against the window.
Amara flinched, the mug in her hand clattering into the sink. Daniel spun, his body immediately tense.
They waited. Silence.
Then another tap.
Daniel strode to the window and yanked the curtains aside. Nothing but the gray stretch of morning street below. A lone crow perched on the railing of the building opposite, pecking at something unseen.
Amara hovered at the counter, her arms folded tight across her chest. "It's nothing," she said quickly. "Just the wind. Or a bird."
But Daniel wasn't convinced. His eyes scanned the rooftops, the alleys, every corner where a shadow might linger. He saw nothing, but the unease settled heavy in his gut.
When he turned back, Amara was trying to smile, though her lips trembled. "See? Nothing there."
He crossed the room and took her face gently in his hands. "Even if it's nothing, I'm not letting my guard down. He's out there, Amara. And he won't stop until we stop him."
Her throat tightened, but she nodded. She didn't want to admit it—not out loud—but she had felt it too. The sense of being watched, the prickling at the back of her neck that hadn't left her since last night.
They moved through the day together, sticking close, trying to carve out moments of quiet. Amara attempted to read; Daniel cleaned the mess Chike had left behind. They spoke in soft tones, clinging to normalcy.
But every shadow outside the window seemed darker than usual. Every sound from the hallway made them pause.
And that evening, when Daniel stepped out briefly to take a call, Amara found another note slipped under the door.
This one was shorter, sharper, written in the same bold scrawl as before:
You can't hide him from me.
Amara's breath caught. The note slipped from her hands and drifted to the floor.
The fragile calm of the day shattered like glass.