My chest tightens anyway. The rose flashes through my mind, white and cold, and my fingers curl around the edge of the door without meaning to.
It would be smarter not to open it. Smarter to go back to bed, to lock myself in and pretend I didn’t hear anything at all.
But what if it’s Nori?
What if he’s hurt, bleeding out on my doormat because he picked the wrong alley to cross tonight?
What if he came here because I’m the only idiot who ever helped him, and now I’m standing on the other side of the door deciding whether fear is more important than that?
Wasabi yowls again, pacing in tight, furious circles.
"I know," I whisper, even though he absolutely does not. "I know this is a bad idea."
I slide the chain on, unlock the door, and open it just enough to look.
Cool air spills in. The hallway smells like concrete and mold. For a second, I see nothing.
"Nori?" I whisper.
The image of him hurt flashes across my mind again, making my chest clench. I step out before I can stop myself, bare feet cold against the concrete.
Then a hand clamps over my mouth.
The world narrows instantly. The smell hits first—chemical, sharp, wrong—and my lungs burn as I jerk back, slamming my elbow into a solid body behind me. I thrash, clawing at the hand,my heart hammering so hard it feels like it’s trying to break free of my ribs.
No.
No, no, no.
I twist and kick, catching something with my heel. The grip tightens. The cloth presses harder. My vision spots at the edges as I suck in air that won’t come, panic roaring so loud it drowns out everything else.
I won’t scream. I can’t.
I fight anyway, nails scraping skin, teeth sinking into flesh through fabric. The man grunts, swears under his breath, and for a split second the pressure eases. I gulp in a breath that tastes wrong and try to wrench free.
It isn’t enough.
My arms start to feel heavy. My head swims. The hallway tilts, stretching too long, too far away. I know I won’t be able to hold my breath much longer, and the thought lands with terrifying clarity.
Then everything explodes.
The weight vanishes as the man is ripped off me so hard I stumble forward, coughing violently as air finally floods my lungs. There’s the sound of fists hitting flesh, a sickening thud, a sharp crack that makes my stomach turn.
Someone is shouting. Not me.
I spin, dizzy, and see him.
Matteo Moretti.
He moves like violence given direction, his face dark and unreadable as he drives the attacker back down the hall. The man scrambles away, bleeding, terrified, and then he’s gone—running, disappearing into the stairwell like he was never there at all.
I sway where I stand, adrenaline crashing hard. Mr. Moretti is suddenly in front of me, close enough that I can see thetension in his jaw, the way his hands flex like he’s still ready to fight.
"You’re safe," he tells me, reassuringly.
I open my mouth to ask him what he’s doing here. No sound makes it out. Not even a murmur.
The hallway blurs instead, and the last thing I register is his hand reaching for me before the floor rushes up and everything goes black.
