HELENA
2.5 Years Ago
The neon sign of The Abyss Den flickered overhead, casting the rain-slicked pavement in bruised shades of purple and red. It was a dive bar on the edge of the neutral zone, a place where names were optional and regret was the local currency.
I pushed the door open, the bass from the music inside thumping against my chest like a physical assault. Good. I needed a distraction loud enough to drown out the screaming guilt in my head.
I'd spent the last twenty-four hours in a fog of self-loathing. I looked at the glass of whiskey the bartender slid toward me, the amber liquid reflecting the hazy lights.
I shouldn't be here. I should be anywhere else. Instead, I was running. Running from the memory of a touch I should never have allowed, a boundary I had completely obliterated.
