Naomi waited until the house was asleep—if you could call the crew's uneasy silence sleep. Hollow upstairs, scribbling in that damned notebook. Ezra half-passed out in a chair, shotgun across his lap. Silas rocking in the basement shadows, whispering to ghosts.
She moved barefoot across the floor, every board creaking like it wanted to expose her. She crouched in the kitchen, slid the loose plank free, and lit her lighter.
The flame flickered over the duffels. Green stacked high. The pistol, still dark with dried blood. A watch glinting in the shadows.
Naomi's hand hovered. She could grab a bag—just one—and vanish before dawn. Bus station. New name. New city. Let Hollow rot with his paranoia, let Ezra burn out with his fists, let Silas talk himself into the grave.
But her fingers didn't touch the money. Not yet. Instead, she zipped the bag back open wider, just enough to pull the pistol free. Cold steel against her palm, heavier than she remembered.
She slid the board back into place, tucked the gun into her waistband, and stood in the silence.
Because Naomi realized something: the money wasn't her escape. The gun was.
She could end this tonight. End Hollow's grip. End the whole rotten spiral before it dragged her down too.
Her reflection in the window looked different—sharper, harder.
The house groaned low, like it knew.
Naomi whispered to herself, the words barely audible. "Not much longer."
Upstairs, Hollow's cigarette ember glowed in the dark. He'd heard the creak of the floor.
And he smiled.