The words hung between us, sharp and heavy.
"Victor?" I asked softly.
She nodded, her gaze fixed on the damp floor. "He was smiling. He always smiles when he wins. In the dream, I tried to run, but my legs wouldn't move. And then—"
She cut herself off, biting her lip hard enough to pale it.
I reached across the narrow space and touched her hand gently. "Dreams don't control you, Aria. He doesn't control you. Not here. Not now."
Her breath hitched, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she let my hand rest over hers, a silent tether holding her in place.
For a long time, we sat like that, the dawn unfolding slowly around us. The city was waking, fragile and tentative, just as we were.
Finally, she spoke again, her voice softer. "Where do we go from here?"
I thought about the question longer than I should have. Not because I didn't know my answer, but because her trust in asking it meant more than I could put into words.
"Somewhere he can't reach you," I said at last. "Somewhere we can breathe without looking over our shoulders every second."
Her lips curved faintly, though it wasn't quite a smile. "You make it sound so simple."
"Maybe it is," I replied, squeezing her hand lightly. "Maybe it's not. Either way, I'm not letting go."
Her gaze flicked toward me, eyes searching, fragile but fierce. For the briefest moment, I saw the fight in her—the spark beneath the fear.
And it struck me then: she wasn't just surviving. She was learning to choose.
The bus stop smelled faintly of wet concrete and rust, but at least it was still, a cocoon where the night hadn't managed to claim us.
Aria shifted against the wall, dragging her knees closer to her chest. Her eyes tracked the water dripping through the cracked roof, though I knew she wasn't really watching it. She was already retreating into herself, into memories that gnawed at her edges like rust at iron.
I couldn't let her disappear like that. Not after everything that had cracked open between us last night.
"We can't stay here," I said, my voice cutting through the silence.
She startled slightly, blinking as though I'd pulled her back from someplace far away. "I know."
But she didn't move. Her body remained curled in on itself, protective. Her hand had slipped from mine during the night, but I still felt the echo of her touch, the warmth she'd allowed me. That fragile thread wasn't gone—not yet.
I crouched in front of her, careful not to invade her space. "Hey. Look at me."
Her eyes lifted reluctantly, guarded but meeting mine.
"Last night," I said, slow, deliberate, "you chose not to be alone. You let me in. And I meant it when I said I'm not letting go."
Her throat worked, her lips parting as though to argue, but no words came. Instead, her gaze softened, flickering briefly with something dangerously close to hope.
stood and extended a hand. "Come with me. We'll figure this out together."
For a heartbeat, she hesitated. Her eyes darted to the empty street beyond the shelter, to the shadows of alleys still slick with rain. Fear pressed against her ribs, a constant reminder of the man who stalked her dreams and, soon, her steps.
But then—slowly, hesitantly—her fingers slid into mine.
I tightened my grip, steady and sure. "That's it," I whispered. "One step at a time."
The city at dawn was a strange thing. Streets that hours before had roared with engines and shouts now stretched quiet, save for the occasional hiss of tires through puddles. Shop shutters rattled open, the metallic clatter echoing down narrow lanes. Stray dogs nosed through trash bags, their ribs stark against wet fur.
We walked in silence, our hands brushing more than holding, as though Aria wasn't quite ready to make the contact permanent. Every so often she'd glance over her shoulder, her gaze sweeping the street, the rooftops, the corners.
"You're safe," I murmured once, when I caught the flicker of fear in her eyes.
But she only shook her head faintly. "No one's safe if he decides otherwise."
The words struck heavy, not because I doubted her, but because I believed her. Victor wasn't just a man. He was a shadow that stretched farther than the alleys we walked, deeper than the fear etched into her.
Still, I couldn't let his ghost dictate our steps.
We moved through the skeleton of the city—past shuttered cafés, laundromats humming faintly behind fogged glass, old brick buildings that seemed to lean on each other to stay upright. The rain had washed the streets, but it hadn't cleansed the feeling that something lingered, watching.
Aria tugged her hood higher, her posture tightening. "We shouldn't be on the open streets."
"Do you have somewhere else in mind?" I asked.
She bit her lip, hesitating. "There's… a place I used before. Not safe exactly, but better than this."
Her eyes flicked toward a narrow alley branching off to the left.
I didn't question. "Lead the way."
The alley swallowed us whole, narrowing until the dripping brick walls seemed to press in. Water trickled down rust-stained gutters, pooling in uneven cobblestones. Somewhere above, laundry lines sagged beneath damp sheets that fluttered faintly in the morning breeze.
Aria moved with purpose now, her steps quick, her gaze sharp. I followed closely, my senses heightened, scanning every doorway, every shadow that seemed too still.
We turned corner after corner, the maze of backstreets disorienting. But then she stopped before a crumbling warehouse, its iron door padlocked but rusted.
"Here," she whispered.
I eyed the building warily. "You've stayed here before?"
She nodded, though unease flickered across her face. "Once. Long ago. He never found me here then."
That word—then—clung between us like a warning.
Still, I stepped forward and tugged at the lock. Rust crumbled beneath my hand, and with enough force, it snapped free. The door groaned open, revealing darkness that smelled faintly of mildew and dust.
We slipped inside, the sound of the city muffling instantly.
The warehouse was hollow, its high ceilings stretching into shadow. Sunlight pierced through cracks in the boarded windows, striping the dusty floor in faint gold. A few old crates sat stacked in corners, and the skeletal remains of machinery rusted in silence.
Aria exhaled slowly, her shoulders lowering a fraction. "Better."
I closed the door behind us and slid the broken lock back in place. "Not perfect, but hidden."
We moved toward the far wall, settling behind a stack of crates. I pulled my jacket free and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest. She blinked at me, lips parting, but didn't take it off.
For a long while, we sat in silence, listening to the distant hum of the waking city.
Finally, she spoke, her voice low. "You should know something."
I turned, waiting.
She swallowed hard. "I'm not the only one he's hurt. There are others—people who trusted me, who got too close. When I ran, some of them… disappeared. Because of me."
Her eyes glistened, though she refused to let the tears fall.
My chest tightened. "That's not on you, Aria. That's on him."
You don't understand," she whispered fiercely. "He doesn't just punish the person who leaves. He punishes anyone they care about. Anyone who might matter."
Her gaze flicked to me then, sharp and pained. "That means you."
I reached for her hand, threading my fingers through hers before she could pull away. "Then he'll learn what it feels like to hunt someone who won't break."
Her lips parted, trembling. "You can't fight him."
"Maybe not alone," I admitted. "But I'm not leaving you to face him, either."
The silence after was heavy, filled with everything she wanted to say but couldn't. But her grip tightened on my hand, fierce this time—not hesitant, not fragile.
For the first time, it felt like she wasn't just holding on for comfort. She was holding on for strength.
The hours dragged slowly, the light shifting as the day took hold. From cracks in the boards, we could see the city coming alive—footsteps echoing, vendors calling, the distant wail of sirens threading through the streets.
But here, in the quiet hollow of the warehouse, it felt like a different world.
Aria leaned against the wall, her hood falling back, her hair spilling damp and tangled across her shoulders. Exhaustion tugged at her eyes, but she fought it, her gaze flicking to every sound, every movement.
"You don't have to stay awake every second," I murmured.
"Yes, I do," she replied instantly.
shook my head. "No. Not with me here. Sleep, Aria. I'll keep watch."
She studied me, as though trying to measure whether my words were more than just comfort.
Finally, she exhaled softly. "You'll wake me if anything happens?"
"Before you even need to open your eyes," I promised.
Slowly, reluctantly, she let herself lean toward me.