6
MATTEO
She’s breathing.
It’s the first thing I check, and the only thing that matters for a split second that stretches too long. I crouch beside her, fingers at her throat, feeling for the pulse that tells me I wasn’t a second too late. It’s there. Fast. Shallow. Alive.
Relief hits hard and sharp, something ugly and unearned that I don’t let myself sit with. I sweep her up before the adrenaline drains enough to make my hands shake, careful to keep her head supported as I carry her back inside.
The door barely closes behind us before something hisses.
Pain flashes at my ankle as claws swipe through fabric and catch skin. I grunt and stop short, instinct screaming at me to react before my brain catches up.
The cat.
One-eyed, long-haired, puffed up to twice his size, planted between me and the rest of the apartment like he thinks he can take me. He hisses again, low and vicious, every inch of him sayingput her down or die trying.
I go still.
"Easy," I murmur. I don’t move toward him. I don’t move away either. I shift my weight just enough that he can see her face, slack and pale against my shoulder.
It clicks then.
He isn’t feral. He isn’t aggressive. He’s guarding.
I take one careful step forward. The cat bristles but doesn’t advance. I take another, slow enough that it feels ridiculous, until I reach the couch. I lower her there, gentle as I know how to be, arranging her so she’s on her side, her airway clear.
Only then do I straighten.
The cat jumps up beside her immediately, pressing himself against her ribs, glaring at me like he’s daring me to try something. I don’t blame him.
I look toward the hallway that leads to the bedroom and think about carrying her there instead. Somewhere warmer. Somewhere softer.
The thought turns sour the moment it forms.
It feels too intimate to be in her bedroom, her haven.
So I stay where I am.
I crouch near the couch, keeping my distance, listening to her breathing even out, watching the rise and fall of her chest like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground.
I take in the rest of the apartment while I wait.
It doesn’t take long.
The place is a dump, even by Brownsville standards, tucked deep into the part of my territory most people pretend doesn’t exist. There are dark patches of mold creeping along the ceiling, the kind that tells me this problem has been ignored for years. The radiators are cold to the touch. I don’t bother checking the thermostat. I can already tell the heat either doesn’t work or hasn’t worked in a long time.
In the bedroom area—separated by a flimsy screen from the rest of the studio—I see what she’s done instead. Blankets,layered thick on the mattress, more piled at the foot of the bed like armor. Not decorative. Functional. Survival choices.
I open a cupboard in the kitchen and find instant ramen. More than one brand, all cheap. No fresh food. No staples. Just enough to get by if you stretch it. Everything else in the apartment looks like it’s lived several lives before landing here—scratched furniture, mismatched dishes, a couch that’s given up on comfort entirely.
She owns very little, and none of it is new.
There are no family photos. No childhood memories on the walls. No framed faces watching over her. Whatever life she came from, she didn’t bring it with her.
The realization settles heavy in my chest.
She’s living in poverty.
