The next morningis gray and clean, the sky hung with thick clouds that promise nothing, not even rain.
Lena waits by the car in the side courtyard, dressed in her usual black, her hair tied back so tightly it makes her features look sharper than usual.
I nod to her, and she opens the door.
We slide inside without speaking.
The drive begins in silence, the hum of the engine and the distant ache of the world passing by.
The city peels away slowly, fields widening at the edges, fences giving way to hedgerows, the roads narrowing and curling like ribbon.
"You sure about this place?" Lena asks, her voice low.
"Not really," I say.
"But it's far enough."
We are twenty minutes into the countryside when it begins.
The van behind us has been keeping pace for too long, too steady.
Lena's eyes flick to the rearview mirror, then again.
I feel the shift in her posture before I see anything—her hand tightening on the wheel, her foot easing off the accelerator.
"They're close," she says. "Too close."
I twist in my seat just as the van surges forward, clips our rear bumper, and swerves to block the road ahead.
Anothervehicle appears from the hedges—sleek, black, windows tinted—cutting off any retreat.
"Out," Lena barks, already reaching for the handle.
"Now."
I stumble out behind her as the doors of the van slide open.
Two men emerge.
One is wide, built like a slab of granite, the other wiry and fast, already moving.
Lena shoves me backward toward the ditch.
"Run," she says and turns to face them.
I freeze for a heartbeat, then do what I'm told. Behind me, the sounds begin.
The crack of bone against flesh.
The grunt of impact.
The brief, sharp rip of clothing.
I hear Lena snarl—an animal sound—then a body hit the gravel.
I look back once.
She is holding her own.
