The night air was damp, the alleyway quiet but for the sound of their footsteps echoing off wet brick. Johnny held Rose's hand loosely, distracted by thoughts of work, bills, and life. Rose smiled gently, her thumb brushing against his. Then the sound of footsteps was fast, deliberate.
A man emerged from the darkness. Hoodie, mask, gun.
"Wallets. Phones. Now."
Johnny froze.
Rose gasped. Her fingers gripped his. But Johnny, he couldn't move. Not out of defiance or bravery, but pure paralysis. His breath caught in his throat.
"Move!" the man barked.
Johnny flinched, slowly pulling out his wallet. The mugger grabbed it, then looked at Rose.
"You. Come with me."
Rose screamed.
Johnny stood there, paralyzed, horror flooding his veins. His feet were stone. His mind screamed to act, but his body betrayed him.
The man grabbed her, forced her toward a car waiting at the alley's end.
"Johnny!" she screamed.
But he didn't move.
They drove off into the night.
Johnny called the police seconds later, panic consuming him. Officers arrived. Questions. Descriptions. Empty promises. Rose was gone.
Weeks passed.
Flyers, news reports, and interviews. Leads turned to silence.
Johnny stopped sleeping. He stopped working. He stopped everything. His home became a tomb, her scent still on the pillows, her mug still on the counter. Every reminder became a wound.
He'd lie on their bed, staring at the ceiling, guilt eating away at him like rust. Replay the moment again and again. What if he had just moved? What if he shouted? What if he ran?
He thought of ending it more than once. But something inside refused. A hollow whisper that said, If I'm already dead, then I have nothing to lose.
He would find the man. And he would kill him.
Seven months passed.
Johnny became a shadow of who he once was. He dug through every open and closed case of abduction he could find. He lived at the public records office, subsisting on gas station coffee and microwave meals. He fell asleep in parking lots, on library floors, in his car with the engine running.
He took notes obsessively, walls of sticky notes, red string, and maps. Every bit of data, every anomaly, every unsolved case became a thread in his mind.
He posed as a freelance journalist. He snuck into support groups. He befriended victims' families under fake names. The police began to ignore his calls. He didn't care.
Two men, he was sure they were involved. The first, he followed for three days, convinced by a small detail in a police report. The second, he cornered behind a bar, claiming a tip. Both had criminal records. Both denied knowing anything.
They were guilty. They had to be.
But they weren't. Not of this.
Still, they died.
And then, finally, he found someone who matched the composite sketch, who had priors, who had gone silent just after Rose vanished. A man with a history of violence and a different name in every state.
Johnny hunted him down. Found him in a condemned house just off the edge of a forgotten town. The man looked startled at first, then amused.
"I don't know who you're talking about," he said at first.
Then later: "Yeah, I took her. She begged."
Then later: "No, it was someone else."
His story changed every time Johnny asked. The smirk never left his face.
Johnny screamed. Hit him. Begged. The man lied. Or maybe told the truth. Johnny couldn't tell anymore. Every word out of his mouth was poison.
So he killed him.
And then he walked into a police station, covered in blood, and confessed.
Two months later, in jail.
Time passed slower than ever. Johnny stared at the gray walls, lost in static thought. Sometimes he replayed the night over and over. Sometimes he didn't think at all.
Then, one day, a guard knocked on his cell bars.
"Visitor."
He shuffled into the visitation room, hands cuffed.
And there she was.
Rose.
Alive.
Skin pale, eyes hollow, but breathing. Her hair was shorter. She looked older. Tired. But alive.
Johnny collapsed into the chair.
She began to cry. So did he.
They sat in silence for a long while, staring at each other through bulletproof glass.
She pressed her fingers to it. He mirrored her.
"They found me," she whispered.
He nodded, unable to speak.
"I never blamed you. I knew you'd try. I knew you wouldn't stop."
More silence.
More tears.
And then, the final words she spoke as the guard approached:
"I'm safe now."