I’m not a boy. I’m not a romantic. I’m not a man who loses control because a woman looked at him like he could be good.
And yet, my body moves like it belongs to something smaller than legacy. Something stupidly human.
I stand. I don’t call a driver. I don’t take security.
This isn’t a Mancini matter.
This is mine.
* * *
The city is gray with winter light when I arrive. Traffic flows. People walk. Life continues in a thousand directions that have nothing to do with my hunger.
Her building is smaller than I imagined. Brick. Cheap glass. A security door with a keypad and a buzzing intercom system that looks like it breaks often. A place where nobody expects to be hunted.
My car idles at the curb. I stare at the entrance for a moment too long. My hand goes to the place behind my ear. I stop myself, too late, then drop it like it was burned.
I get out. Cold air hits my lungs. I cross the sidewalk. Each step feels like I’m walking toward the edge of a decision that will change the shape of me. The door is close now. The intercom panel sits at shoulder height, metallic buttons worn down by hundreds of strangers asking for access they don’t deserve.
I can hear my own breathing. Too loud. I lift my hand. Hover it over the buzzer.
One press. That’s all it would take. One press, and someone inside would answer.
And I could say her name. And I could watch the door unlock. And I could step into the hallway like I belong there, because men like me always look like we belong.
My fingers flex. The smallest tremor.
And the memory hits like a blade to the ribs.
My father, at my mother’s sister’s house. His hand on her arm. Not tight enough to bruise where people could see. His voice low, polite, lethal.
You don’t embarrass me like this.
My mother, crying soundlessly as he dragged her toward the car.
The way the neighborhood watched and did nothing, because power is a force field and everyone wants to pretend it’s not their problem.
The slam of the door when we got home. The click of the lock. The muffled sound of her begging through the wall like she was praying for air.
My stomach turns. My hand stays frozen over the buzzer. Because I understand something now with sickening clarity. If I press this button, I don’t become the man whofoundher. I become the man whotookher.
Even if my voice is gentle. Even if my eyes are kind. Even if I tell myself it’s for her safety.
A cage doesn’t stop being a cage just because it’s lined with silk.
She left without giving me her name. She refused my card. She chose distance with her whole body and called it survival. She made that choice clearly. Deliberately. Like a line drawn in steel.
And here I am, about to step over it because my chest aches.
My fingers lower. Slowly. Like I’m forcing them down through water. I exhale. It shakes on the way out.
I step back from the door. The cold hits me again, sharper this time. I turn. Walk away.
I don’t look back.
Because if I look back, I might convince myself that I’m weak.
I sit in my car with both hands on the wheel, staring at nothing. My jaw clenches hard enough to hurt. I take my phone out. Call the investigator.
