They look at each other, something passing between them.
“Word of advice. Just avoid him.”
Then, they’re gone, carrying their friend with them.
The way they said it sounded like it’s not the first time one of the girls has had a run-in with Chris, and it makes me want to get the gun I left in London and shoot him in the fucking face. If I could hit the man who took Dante, I could easily take him. And he deserves to pay.
Rage simmers low in my belly. Then, I shake myself.
This is behind me. It must be the alcohol talking. That’s not how you take care of people who hurt others in the real world. I’m not in the mafia anymore, I can’t keep dealing with problems like this.
I promise myself I’ll contact the girl tomorrow and decide to finally walk home. The stairs stick under my shoes as I climb them up to street level.
When I turn the corner, I freeze. Two people are close together against the wall of the university. The lamp post is far enough that they’re half in shadows. Yet, the blood is unmistakable.
One man is crumpled to the ground, whining, face beat up and bleeding, already swelling. He clutches his two hands to his chest, his fingers bent at unnatural angles. The other is massive, standing over him in dark jeans that cling to his muscular thighs and a white tee-shirt taunt against his broad chest. His fist is raised, knuckles broken and dripping to the pavement underneath.
My throat dries. I shouldn’t be here.
“Lucie! Call the cops, Lucie. He’s a psycho,” the man wheezes and I realise it’s Chris.
When the stranger turns his focus to me from the man he just pummelled to a pulp, my breath hitches. He’s wearing a dark, slick helmet, his face completely covered, yet I canfeelhis eyes on me, intent and relentless. The same, familiar feeling of being watched settles over me. My shoulders drop. I want to take a step towards the stranger, something I can’t name pulling me forward but my feet don’t obey. My brain must recognise the danger before I do.
“Lu—”
“Don’t fucking say her name,” the mysterious stranger barks, his voice muffled under the helmet. Then, he raises Chris against the wall with a single hand around his throat.
My eyes widen at the sight of Chris’s attempt at dislodging his attacker. He flails. Soon, his strength diminishes. The muscles on the arms of the masked man bulge with the effort and I wet my lips. This is no small feat. Strangling a man to death with only one hand takes strength but also dedication and precision.
And why I am admiring the stranger’s strength and murder abilities? Manslaughter is happening in front of my eyes.
I blame my upbringing for the sense of righteousness coursing through me at seeing a man punished for his crimes. I wasn’t the only one he touched without permission. This piece of shit is known on campus for molesting women, so much so that they warn each other about him. What the man with the helmet is doing is a favour to all women on campus.
The stranger turns his attention back to me. I’m pinned under his stare. Slowly, he releases Chris from his hold. With his attention on me, both his massive hands take hold of Chris’s jaw and twist with a sickening crunch of bones.
I gasp.
His victim crumples at his feet. I’m frozen, too taken by the aura of the man. Something must be wrong with me.
The stranger straightens up again, moving with a grace the bulk of his body hides. A true predator if I ever saw one.
When he reaches me, my breaths are coming out in small pants, condensation escaping my mouth with how cold the night has become. Blood rushes in my ears.
Slowly, his hands move towards me. He takes the two sides of my jacket into his fingers, careful not to touch any part of my body. And zips it all the way up. Warmth engulfs me. And calm sets in.
I can’t see his eyes, my distorted refection the only thing looking back at me in the visor of his helmet. Yet, I know he won’t hurt me.
A burst of laughter disturbs our strange connection and I glance back. When my head turns straight again, the stranger has taken a step back and I almost miss his presence.
Fuck.
A corpse lays at our feet.
And what do you do with a random corpse?
My training kicks in. Not the one where I run. No, the one where I find a solution to a very annoying problem, like my dad taught me. Not that he had a lesson about finding murderers on the streets and helping them cover up, but we did cover the topic of clean up.
I should call an ambulance, the cops, report a crime. I really should. But I don’t.
