Gabriel’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. The pressure is almost gentle; right before his knee drives into my stomach.
I fold.
The floor rushes up. Air explodes out of my lungs. I gag, gasping for oxygen that won’t come fast enough.
“Get up.”
I stay down half a second too long.
Another mistake.
I force myself upright—knees first, then feet, every movement sharp and wrong. My hands are shaking. I hate that most of all.
The man is dead. I know it the moment I step closer. The way his weight pulls downward. The slackness. The smell.
This isn’t about killing.
It’s about doing what I’m told without needing to be told twice.
I press the blade to his abdomen.
Cold skin.
No resistance.
I drag the knife across.
The sound is wet. Heavy. My stomach flips, but I don’t stop. I don’t look away. I don’t rush.
Gabriel likes control. Sloppy makes him angry.
When I’m finished, he hums softly. Approval.
“Good,” he says. “Now clean it up.”
***
Walking home feels endless.
My body is done.
Three days of apples and faucet water sit heavy and useless in my stomach. My legs shake with every step. Bruises bloom under my clothes, tender and deep, each one announcing itself now that the adrenaline is gone.
Every breath hurts.
I keep my head down. Count cracks in the sidewalk. Don’t draw attention. Don’t look like prey.
By the time my building comes into view, my hands are numb and my jaw aches from holding my teeth together.
Home.
Home is supposed to mean safety. Right now it just means quiet. I fumble with my keys, hands clumsy, vision blurring at the edges.
Almost there. Key in, turn.
It’s already unlocked.
Fuck.
