That’s not normal networking.
A weight settles on my chest. Someone’s slowly stacking bricks on my sternum one at a time.
My breath comes shorter. Shallower. Hands ice cold but face burning—blood pooling wrong, body confused about whether to fight or faint.
This is panic.
Not the dramatic gulping-for-air shit.
The slow burn. The kind that creeps up from the pit in your soul—that same place where the serpent lives—and roots itself there like a parasite. Tendrils weaving outward, wrapping around organs and pulling everything down until your stomach is somewhere near your feet and your lungs have forgotten how to expand properly.
This started the moment Marcus’s hand left my waist. The moment I got in Nikko’s car and couldn’t speak. Building all night—through the silent drive home, through pretending to sleep while Alex checked on me twice, through dawn arriving without me ever closing my eyes.
I set the card on my nightstand with the others. Next to Dahlia’s ring. Next to Maria’s note, still creased from my fist.
You’re safe tonight. Use the numbers. We’re watching. —A
Evidence and escape routes, side by side.
Neither one enough.
My feet hit the floor. Cold hardwood.
I catch my reflection in the mirror as I reach for my robe. Stop.
Five bruises bloom across my left hip. Purple-black ovals, perfectly spaced. Finger marks.
I press one. Pain flares—sharp, undeniable.
Evidence. My body is evidence now.
I pull the robe closed—the soft grey one Alex got me for Christmas. Tie it tight. Don’t look again.
I pad into the kitchen.
Bypass the cozy sectional, heading straight for the coffee pot.
Filter. Grounds. Water. Press the button. Watch it drip.
My brain won’t stop replaying Alaina’s words.
Some of us have been watching for a very long time.
Knowing and proving are different things.
We can save who we can, when we can.
The coffee pot gurgles.
“Hey.”
Alex’s voice—sleep-rough and soft—makes me turn.
She’s shuffling out in a sleep set covered in little witches riding brooms. Black silk kimono over it, moons and stars embroidered on the back. Hair in a messy bun held up with what looks like a chopstick.
“You’re up early.” I grab two mugs.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Alex says.
