The hospital had this sharp bleach stink mixed with something heavy, like grief left out too long.
I'd been sitting here - was it two hours? Maybe three? Time kept acting strange, one second the clock showed 2:47, next thing I knew it was 3:15, no clue where those moments went. Felt like my mind jumped frames, like a scratched DVD.
My dress was wrecked - totally trashed. It felt rigid, caked with dried blood that flaked every time I shifted. Mostly Jordan's, though. A bit of mine from the cut on my head. Maybe even Terrence's got caught up in there somehow. Blended in like a messed-up drink nobody'd ever want.
The little kid-looking nurse wouldn't stop pushing me to switch things up. She's a kind sort - maybe 23 - with way too much patience for this line of work.
"Ma'am, you really should let the doctor examine you properly. You might have a concussion—"
"I'm good."
"But you hit your head pretty hard, and with head injuries you can't always tell—"
"I said I'm good."
She stopped trying once she hit the third try - wise move.
Bishop stayed frozen near the back wall, mimicking a stone creature. He'd been still for nearly sixty minutes. Standing quiet, maybe touching the weapon hidden beneath his coat, eyes tracking everyone coming in. Which is exactly why I hired him. Faithful. The type who obeys without needing reasons.
Maya had phoned thirty-seven times. THIRTY-SEVEN. Alongside endless messages I just couldn't face at the moment. Sent her away since her sobbing, questions about what went down, and staring at me like I might shatter - was too much. I'm not fragile. Not even close. More like iron. Or brick. Stuff that holds up no matter what.
"Ms. Vega?"
Detective Stone showed up, striding this way like it wasn't nearly dawn. Wore a clean suit - swap from earlier. His hair? Neat, brushed even. Feels like he clocked out, hit the shower, downed some drink, did normal stuff - I'm sitting here sweating - while they were slicing into my brother at the hospital.
Made me feel like smashing his face in.
Detective." Stayed seated. Gave no answer at all.
"How's your brother doing?"
"Surgery. That's all they're telling me."
He gave a quick nod, then pulled over the flimsy plastic seat beside me. Plonked himself down right near me - way nearer than comfortable. That sharp cologne hit my nose once more. A heavy, forest-like scent, way too fancy for this grim hospital air.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Waiting's the worst part. The not knowing."
"You practicing your therapy voice on me?"
"Just being human."
"Try being human somewhere else."
He gave a small grin just then - yet it faded fast. His expression shifted once more, turning stern. Like a cop's look when duty calls.
"You were armed tonight. Nine-millimeter. Custom grip—pearl, right? Pretty distinctive."
"I have a permit."
"I know. Checked already." He leaned back, casual. "You also hit one of the shooters. Witnesses confirmed it. Pretty good shooting for someone who sells lipstick."
I kept quiet. My eyes fixed on the wall - there was this poster with a cat hanging from a tree limb, saying "Hang in there!" The person who set up these waiting areas should've been locked up.
"Most civilians freeze," Stone continued. "First time bullets start flying, they panic. Go into shock. Wet themselves. But you?" He tilted his head. "You came up shooting like you'd been doing it your whole life."
"Adrenaline."
"That's one explanation."
"It's the only explanation you're getting."
We sat there a while. The quiet seemed heavy, though. Almost like his unsaid words fought mine - stuff I'd never share - in the air between our chairs.
"The SUV was stolen," he said finally. "Three days ago in the Bronx. Completely wiped—no prints, no DNA, no fast food wrappers, nothing. Very professional."
"Okay."
"Your driver had a record. Terrence Matthews. Assault, weapons charges, suspected connections to—"
"Don't." The word came out sharp. "Terrence was good people. Kept me safe. Now he's dead. So maybe show some respect instead of reading off his rap sheet like it defines him."
Stone put his hands up. "You're right. That was disrespectful. I apologize."
Huh. That was a surprise.
"But you see what I'm saying," he continued. "The company you keep raises questions."
"My friends are my business."
"Until your business becomes my business." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Someone just tried to kill you in the middle of the street. That's not a random mugging gone wrong. That's coordinated. Professional. Multiple shooters, stolen vehicle, specific target. Somebody wants you dead."
Wow. When he said it that way.
"And?" I asked.
"And I think you know who."
"I really don't."
"Selina." First name again. Bold. "You can play dumb if you want. Keep up this shocked victim routine. Or you can be smart and work with me. Tell me who's coming for you so I can actually help before they try again."
"Help?" I chuckled - sort of a sharp noise that stings when it leaves your throat. Nope, I won't take aid from an officer
"You need help from someone who operates in the daylight while you're stuck in the shadows." His eyes were intense. Dark and focused. "Because they didn't get you tonight. Which means they'll try again. And next time—"
"Don't." I cut him off. "Don't finish that sentence."
But he did anyway. "Next time your brother might not survive."
The words hit me like a kick. So heavy they squeezed my ribs, blocking air. Yet sudden, yet sharp - each one stuck deep.
Jordan's shouts kept echoing inside me. His fingers - so tiny, fragile like paper. Then the red blot growing fast across his shirt. How scared he looked once it hit him: this wasn't a dream, none of it fake, someone out there meant to finish us.
"I appreciate your concern, Detective—"
"Marcus."
"—but I handle my own problems."
"Like you handled the Eastside Scorpions?"
It all just froze. Not a sound came through the door anymore, then even the machines fell silent. My pulse? Gone quiet too. Just stillness everywhere.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Mmm." He grabbed his phone, held it up - picture popped into view. Some young dudes loitering on a street corner, acting foolish for the shot. Two of them? I'd seen those mugs before in Bishop's notes. A low-level bunch from the Bronx. Lately, though, they've been getting bolder. Spouting off about taking over new blocks, shifting more product, trying their luck
He flicked over to a different picture.
"Also been running their mouths about some cosmetics CEO who thinks she's untouchable. Saying she's soft. Easy target." He looked at me. "Sound familiar?"
The Eastside Scorpions. Low-tier losers - clueless about the game, clueless how to act, no idea who they were messing with.
Figures they finally caught on.
"Still nothing to say?" Stone asked.
"Still nothing you can prove."
He got to his feet, brushing off his trousers. Then he stared at me - eyes hard to figure out. A bit like a cop, yet kind of different underneath.
"You're smart, Selina. Brilliant even. You built something impressive." He paused. "But you're drowning. Too proud to grab the life preserver. And that pride's gonna get people killed."
Just as I was about to snap at him, the operating room swung wide.
Doc stepped out wearing stained scrubs, face mask hanging low. Looked wiped. Dark circles under his eyes.
"Family of Jordan Vega?"
I shot to my feet, nearly toppling sideways. "What's wrong with him? Is he alright? Just say he's - "
He's okay now. The doctor didn't show much emotion. That calm, blank look they learn in med school. But we fixed the artery issue while holding the bone steady. So he'll pull through
The relief came on fast - made me stumble sideways.
Yet? Well, there's usually a catch.
"Significant soft tissue damage. He'll need physical therapy. Probably a cane for a while. Maybe permanently." He paused. "He's going to have a limp."
A limp.
My little bro. He's twenty-two now. Will always walk a bit crooked from here on out.
It's on me. That's my path. These are the moves I made. The people after me? They're here because of what I did.
"Can I see him?"
"Recovery room. He's sedated but you can sit with him."
I began to move, yet Stone's words froze my steps.
"Selina."
Turned back.
"For someone who sells cosmetics," he said quietly, "you've got the eyes of a killer."
The words hung in the air. Not quite a charge - more like a note. A fact slipped in. Real, but quiet.
I looked at him, quiet for a while. After that, I asked, "So what sort of eyes do you got, Detective?"
He stayed quiet. Instead, he stared my way - those sharp, deep eyes noticing everything they shouldn't.
After that, he spun around - headed off without a word.
Bishop appeared at my elbow. "What you want me to do?"
I kept picturing Jordan yelling. Then Terrence's blood came back - so clear. Meanwhile, that SUV rolled close, matching our speed.
"Find them," I said. Voice cold and flat. "Every single Scorpion. Names, addresses, family members, where they eat breakfast. Everything."
"And then?"
"Then we're gonna teach them about consequences."
Bishop gave a nod while yanking his phone from his pocket.
I trailed behind the doc past those swinging doors. Back here, every wall seemed blinding - harsh light bouncing off everything, as if brightness alone could scrub away what really happened.
Jordan sat in room three, hooked to gadgets that went beep - humming softly while keeping him breathing. His leg? All taped up, hanging on a rack that looked straight outta history class. Still, he seemed calm. Painkillers making sure of that.
I sat down, held his hand - felt the warmth. He was alive, breathing slow. The air stayed still.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. Even though he couldn't hear me. "This is on me, J. All of it. And I'm gonna fix it."
He simply went on breathing - calm, consistent.
My phone vibrated. Meanwhile, Bishop messaged - he'd found where they kept most of their stuff. He said he's set whenever I am.
I stared at Jordan's calm face while he slept. Then pictured him chasing a job at Google instead of just dreaming it. Hanging out with the girl from his lectures rather than pretending it happened. Actually living day by day without making it seem like some big plan.
All of that got tougher these days - thanks to my doing. While I messed things up, it just slipped away.
I replied: Tonight - bring the crew.
One person needed to cover it.
I'd had enough of acting like someone I'm not.
Detective Stone got something correct - just one thing.
I had a cold stare - like someone who wouldn't hesitate.
Let's finally behave accordingly.