Chapter Two
I slung my bag over my shoulder, careful not to jostle the contents too much. Job hunting had taken longer than expected.
Every "Help Wanted" sign seemed to laugh at me, reminding me that being broke was basically a full-time occupation.
Turns out, professional coffee sampler and amateur locksmith isn't the resume gold I thought it was.
Night had fallen over Saacity. The streets were quieter now, the chaos of the day replaced with the soft hum of streetlights and distant traffic.
The walk back to my apartment felt longer and colder at night, making me hug my coat tighter, part cold, part nerves.
Not from danger—well, maybe a little—but mostly from the thought of sneaking back into my building like some petty thief.
My landlord's paranoia was legendary. One misstep, one creak, and he'd be banging on my door like an angry percussionist, ready to evict me for the hundredth time this month.
I approached my apartment building—and I use the word "apartment" very loosely. It was more of a collection of bricks holding each other up out of pure spite.
Killing my pace a block away, sticking to the shadows. This was the fun part: the nightly stealth mission to avoid Mr. Henderson.
If landlords were paid by the decibel, that man would be a billionaire. I could see the flickering light of the lobby through the cracked front window.
Henderson's shadows moved behind the glass. He was probably sitting in his sagging armchair, waiting to pounce on me.
"Not today, you old vulture," I whispered to the brickwork. I didn't go for the front door. That would be suicide.
Instead, I drifted toward the side alley, where the dumpsters smelled like a mix of wet cardboard and regret.
There was a fire escape with a ladder that didn't quite reach the ground—unless you knew exactly which rusted bolt to kick.
I looked left, then right. The street was empty except for a stray cat that looked at me with judged disappointment.
With a practiced jump, I caught the bottom rung, the metal groaning in a way that made my teeth ache.
Quiet, you piece of junk, I hissed internally, hauling myself up with my muscles screaming in protest.
This was exactly the kind of workout I didn't sign up for when I decided to exist. I climbed, skipping the squeakiest steps, until I reached the third floor.
My window was the one with the cracked frame and the piece of tape holding the world together. I jiggled the lock from the outside—a trick that was much easier when it was your own window—and slid the sash up.
I tumbled onto my floor, landing on a pile of laundry that I really should have folded three days ago.
I stayed there for a second, face-down in a pile of stale-smelling t-shirts, listening.
Silence. No heavy footsteps. No "ARIANA, I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!"
Victory. I was officially a squatter in my own life. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, the adrenaline finally fading and leaving me with nothing but an empty stomach and the memory of those gray eyes from earlier.
"Welcome."
What the fuck.I shot up from my lying position so fast my vision blurred for half a second. My heart slammed against my ribs as I scanned the dark room, every nerve screaming.
I wasn't alone.
The dim light from the street outside slipped through the cracked blinds just enough for me to see them.
Two men.
One stood near the wall, tall and broad, dressed in dark clothes that swallowed the shadows. He was holding a gun loosely at his side, like it was an extension of his arm rather than something meant to kill people.
The other sat in my chair.
My chair. The one with the broken leg I'd been meaning to fix for months.
It looked even more pathetic with a stranger lounging in it, elbows resting on his knees, posture relaxed—too relaxed for someone who had broken into my apartment in the middle of the night.
He lifted his head slightly, eyes catching the faint light. I swallowed.
Shit.
My gaze snapped back to the gun. Then the second one—because of course there were two.
The standing man's weapon was pointed just low enough to make it clear he didn't need to raise it.
"Easy," the man in the chair said calmly. His voice was smooth, almost bored. "If you scream, this gets very messy. And trust me—you don't want messy."
I froze. Every instinct told me to bolt, to do something—but I didn't. I stayed exactly where I was, hands slightly raised, eyes wide.
The perfect reaction.
"I—" My voice came out thin and shaky "I think you've got the wrong apartment."
The man behind him let out a quiet breath that might've been a laugh.
The seated man tilted his head, studying me like I was something mildly interesting he'd picked up off the street.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears. My mind raced through possibilities—landlord? No. Henderson was loud, stupid, and broke.
These men were quiet. Efficient and expensive.
Which was worse.
"No," he said. "This is definitely the right one, Ariana."
My face changed instantly. Not with fear or confusion.
Nothing.
The panic drained from my eyes like someone had flipped a switch, leaving them flat, unreadable.
Empty. Even my breathing slowed, controlled. Because no one—no one—was supposed to know that name.
Ariana wasn't on paper. Ariana wasn't on files. Ariana was a ghost that existed only where she chose to exist.
And these men had just spoken it out loud. That's when I knew.
I was in deep shit.
For half a second, the man in the chair watched me closely, like he was waiting for the scream, the breakdown, the begging.
When it didn't come, something flickered in his eyes. Interest.
"You shouldn't use that name," I said quietly, leaning my back into my wall.
My voice didn't shake this time. The man standing behind him shifted.
Just slightly. The seated man smiled.
"See?" he said, not taking his eyes off me. "I told you she wasn't as stupid as she looks."
My jaw tightened. Stupid as she looks? Ohhh this men wouldn't know what hit them.
"I don't know who you think I am," I said evenly, lowering my hands but not dropping them completely.
"But you've got the wrong girl." He leaned back in the chair, which groaned again under his weight.
"People who have nothing don't lock their windows from the outside," he replied calmly. "They don't avoid cameras. They don't carry three wallets that don't belong to them."
My stomach dropped—but my face didn't move.
"And they definitely don't survive this long," he continued, "without being very good at something."
Silence settled thick and heavy in the room.
The gun didn't move. The man holding it didn't blink.
"So," the man in the chair said at last, folding his hands together, "you have two choices."
I met his gaze head-on.
"Funny," I replied. "People with guns always say that."
His smile widened," Die or die"
For a split...i mean a very split second, I stared at him, flabbergasted because WHAT!
I laughed. Out loud. It burst out of me that the sound surprised even me. I had to press my tongue to the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing harder.
"Well," I said, wiping at the corner of my eye like I'd just heard the best joke of the year, "that's new. I don't think I've heard that one before."
I tilted my head, studying him. "Die or die. Good one. Really creative."
The man's expression darkened. Annoyance flickered across his face, quick and ugly.
"But why?" I asked lightly. "I mean, if you're going to kill someone, at least have a decent reason. It's only polite."
He straightened in the chair, patience thinning.
"Alonzo," he said. "You remember him?"
I blinked once while shrugging nonchalantly. "Should I?" I replied honestly. "I don't keep a list of names. People aren't usually important enough to remember."
That did it. His jaw tightened. The man behind him shifted his grip on the gun, raising it just a little higher.
"We're here to collect a debt," the seated man said flatly. "One he left behind."
The moment the barrel lifted, I was already out of its line, ducking hard to the side as the space where my head had been a second ago became very inconvenient.
I pushed off the wall and sprinted forward.
Fast.
Too fast for someone my size. Too fast for someone who was supposed to be scared, broke, and harmless.
The gunman swore, stumbling back as I closed the distance between us in a blink, my body moving on instinct rather than thought.
The chair scraped loudly against the floor as the seated man shot to his feet.
"Get her—" Too late.
My apartment suddenly felt even smaller, walls rushing in as adrenaline burned hot in my veins as I grabbed the nearest thing I could—cheap ceramic and bad taste—and smashed it into the sitting man's head.