Formation tight. No gaps. No blind spots. No opportunity for an ambush.
The convoy merged onto a wider road.
Streetlights began appearing in the distance.
Then buildings. Then movement.
New York.
The city was waking up.
Skyscrapers pierced the horizon like silent sentinels.
Traffic lights blinked. Early commuters walked along sidewalks. Cafés opened. Delivery trucks idled.
The world moved on as if nothing catastrophic had happened to me.
As if my life had not shattered.
I pressed my forehead gently against the cool glass of the window.
The sensation grounded me.
Outside, lights blurred into streaks as we continued driving deeper into the city.
Pain pulsed steadily through my body.
My wrist throbbed where the knife had cut my skin.
My thighs burned. My pelvis ached from injuries that had never fully healed.
My chest felt tight—not from physical injury but from memory pressing against it.
Trauma sat heavy behind my ribs like wet concrete that refused to dry.
Every breath reminded me of what had happened.
Of what had been taken. Of what could never be returned.
But despite everything—
I was alive.
The realization didn’t come with celebration.
It came quietly. Almost cautiously.
Alive. And far from him.
Far from the marble mansion.
Far from the man who vowed to protect me — only to become the one who destroyed me.
Far from the prison.
For the first time in months, that simple fact felt powerful.
And as exhaustion slowly pulled at my consciousness again, I allowed myself one fragile thought before sleep took over:
