⚠️ Author's Note – Proceed with Caution (and Snacks)
Welcome to this chapter, also known as:"Reagan Tries Her Best, Fails Spectacularly, and the Universe Laughs."
Inside you'll find:• Trauma• A glass-breaking world record attempt• Mafia men with enough tension to power a small city• And a shadow that needs to mind its damn business
If you're sensitive to stalking, flashbacks, or general emotional devastation... maybe grab a blanket. Or skip. Or scream into the void for a bit. Whatever works.
You've been warned. Let's get miserable. 💋
The smell of bleach, stale beer, and cheap hand soap clung to the air like a ghost that refused to leave. Reagan wiped the same section of the bar for the third time in ten minutes, her rag moving in sharp, frantic motions. Her fingers trembled, just slightly. She told herself it was from the cold.
It wasn't.
Her eyes kept darting toward the door, then flicking away like she couldn't bear to admit she was waiting for something. Or someone. She wore ripped jeans and an oversized dark grey sweater that hung off one shoulder. She yanked the sleeve up for the fifth time in as many minutes, frustration in every movement. Her ponytail had come undone—again—and loose strands of damp hair stuck to her face from the sheer effort of pretending to be fine.
Skylar sat on a barstool, twisting a bottle cap between her fingers, watching Reagan closely. Quiet concern flickered in her eyes. She said nothing. She knew better. But she noticed.
The way Reagan kept brushing her left hand over her right wrist like she was trying to erase something. Invisible. Repetitive. Compulsive.
The fourth time, Rocco looked up from his seat at the far end of the bar. His eyes narrowed.
He stood slowly. The chair creaked beneath him. He moved with a calm, silent control that always made people uneasy—even when he wasn't angry. That coiled stillness. Like a storm waiting for permission to break. He didn't say anything as he walked toward her.
Reagan didn't notice him until he was beside her. The glass slipped from her hand.
Crash.
"Shit!" she gasped, scrambling to crouch down. "Shit, shit—"
She nearly reached for a shard of glass, but Rocco dropped to a knee and gently caught her wrist before she could touch it. His grip wasn't harsh. But it was firm.
"Don't," he said, voice low and level.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, too quickly. Her voice cracked. She tried to pull her hand back, but he didn't let go.
"You're favoring it," he said, eyes locked on hers. "You've been touching it all night."
"I'm just clumsy," she muttered, glancing away, cheeks flushing.
"No," he said. "Something happened. You used your left hand earlier, even when your right was closer. And just now, you crouched without putting weight on it. You're protecting it. And flinching when I touch it."
Her lips parted. No sound came out. Her eyes welled, but she blinked fast, like she could force it all back inside.
"Is that why your hands are shaking?" Rocco asked quietly. "Why you keep dropping glasses? Why your heart's racing?"
"Back off, Rocco," she snapped, louder than intended. Her voice cracked and bounced off the walls. A few customers looked up. Her movements turned jerky as she yanked her hand away and stood up—too fast—knocking her hip against the bar.
"Just drop it."
Rocco stared at her a beat longer. Then he gave a slow nod and walked back to where Taz sat, silent. Taz had seen everything. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
Reagan let out a shaky breath and turned her back to them. Her stomach twisted. Her hands were slick with sweat. She reached for another glass.
It slipped. Again.
This time it didn't break, but clattered loudly as it bounced off the floor. She stared at it, frozen.
Her knees wobbled.
"Hey," Skylar said gently, standing up. "Rae. Breathe."
"I'm fine," Reagan said again, but it came out barely above a whisper. Her voice was tissue-thin, her shoulders trembling.
THEN IT HAPPENED
Skylar looked up.
Something changed in the air. Not the temperature—but the feeling. Like the bar inhaled and refused to let go. The lighting seemed dimmer. Closer. Like the walls themselves had pulled inward.
Skylar's face darkened.
"Reagan," she said slowly. "Don't turn around."
Reagan froze. But her body didn't listen.
Her eyes lifted—just in time to catch the silhouette at the back of the bar. A black hoodie. Tall. Relaxed posture. That tilt of the head. The way he stood—too confident, too still. Like he belonged there.
The glass in her hand fell again.
Clink.
It rolled across the floor. Her breath caught.
"Rae," Skylar whispered. "Look at me. Not at him. Look at me." Reagan tried. She really did.
But her body was no longer hers. Her heart galloped. Her lungs forgot how to expand. She took a shaky step back and bumped hard into the counter.
A choked sound slipped from her throat. Her knees gave slightly.
Rocco observed it all. "There," he said, voice cutting through the air. "Back corner. Black hoodie."
Taz didn't blink. "Yeah. I see him… and he sees us."
One of the men there with Taz and Rocco asked: "you want us to tail him, boss?"
Rocco hummed: "Not yet"
The man didn't move. He just stood there, half in shadow. Like he wanted to be seen. Like he was testing the perimeter, measuring the response.
His face wasn't visible.
But Reagan knew.
Her chest heaved.
"It's him," she choked. "It's him." And then—he turned.
And walked out. Calm. Deliberate. No panic. No hurry. Like he got what he came for.
A reaction.
Reagan's legs gave out completely. She dropped behind the bar, hand clamped over her mouth to keep the scream trapped in her throat. Skylar was with her in an instant, arms wrapping around her, steady and strong.
LATER — REAGAN'S APARTMENT
The knock wasn't loud. Three taps. Measured. Polite. Like whoever stood outside wanted her to want to open it. Reagan didn't move. She sat curled in the corner between the fridge and the counter, a blanket over her shoulders, phone clenched in one hand like a weapon she was too afraid to use. She didn't know how long she'd been there. Hours? Days?
Then—
Skylar's voice. Through the door.
"Rae? It's me. Open up."
It took Reagan three tries to stand.
Her legs barely cooperated. Her hand slipped on the doorknob. The chain rattled as she slid it back.
When the door creaked open, Skylar's face changed instantly.
"Oh my god," she breathed, stepping inside. "Rae…"
Reagan said nothing. Her throat was raw. Her lips were dry and cracked. She looked like she'd been screaming for hours without ever making a sound.
The apartment was dark. Blinds drawn. One flickering lamp in the corner pulsed like it was about to die. The air smelled like sweat and something faintly metallic.
Skylar didn't ask questions.
She went to the sink. Filled a glass. Handed it to Reagan.
Reagan drank half before her hand began to shake too badly to hold it.
Skylar took it back. Sat beside her on the couch. Slid an arm around her shoulders.
That was all it took. Reagan broke. No warning. No build-up. Just a single sound from deep in her chest—then her whole body gave out. She curled into Skylar, fists twisting into her shirt like she might fall through the floor. The sobs came in waves. But they didn't sound like sobs. They sounded like panic. Like grief. Like fury with nowhere to go. Skylar held her through it. Said nothing. Didn't flinch When the storm began to pass, Reagan whispered, voice broken: "I—I can't—he's always there. I feel him. Like he's under my skin—"
"I know," Skylar murmured, pulling her closer.
"He rang the bell last night. Just stood there. Breathing."
"I know."
"He sent a picture," Reagan rasped. "Of my door. And me. From the street. He's watching me."
Skylar didn't ask to see it. She didn't need to.
"I can't do this," Reagan whispered. "I thought—I thought it would get better. That I was okay. But I'm not."
"You don't have to be," Skylar said, locking eyes with her.
"But I—"
"You don't have to be okay, Rae. You just have to let me in. That's all." Reagan's lips trembled. "I didn't even tell him to stop. I didn't fight. What does that make me?"
Skylar's eyes darkened.
"That makes you a survivor," she said. "That makes you someone who did what she had to do to stay alive. Don't you ever question that again."
Another sob escaped—softer now.
Skylar didn't let go. Not when the tears stopped. Not when the silence stretched long.
Later, when Reagan finally fell asleep on the couch, still wrapped in her arms—
Skylar stayed awake. Watching the windows. Waiting. Not for a knock. This time… there was no knock.
Just a shadow.
It moved past the window. And stopped. Skylar didn't breathe. Her spine locked. Heart frozen.
The shape was vague—blurred by darkness and glass.
But it was a person. Standing still. Watching. On her fucking the fire escape.
Five stories up.