His words were soft but heavy with something I could not put my finger on. He didn't ask to take me home, he said he was taking me home. There was something final about it, like a decision that had already been made without my input. Under different circumstances, I might have bristled at his presumption, might have insisted on my independence. But right now, the certainty in his voice felt like an anchor in a storm I couldn't navigate alone.
The shirt he had given me was draped loosely over my shoulders, the fabric rough against my skin. I pulled it tighter around myself, trying to create some barrier between me and the world that suddenly felt too sharp, too real.
I was numb.
My entire body felt disconnected, like I was watching everything happen to someone else from a great distance. I think my body was shivering—I could see my hands trembling when I looked down—but I couldn't actually feel the cold. It was a strange sensation to be aware of my physical reactions while being completely detached from them but it was nothing I haven't experienced before.
My arms and legs had lost any kind of feeling, as if someone had injected Novocaine directly into my nervous system. I think I was hurt—there were definitely places that should have been painful—but I couldn't pinpoint where. Everything ached in a dull, distant way, like an echo of pain rather than the real thing. My ribs felt tender when I breathed too deeply, and there was a sharp twinge in my left shoulder when I tried to move it, but even those sensations felt muffled and far away.
All I wanted was to lay down right here on this concrete floor and close my eyes and not wake up again. Not because I wanted to die, exactly, but because consciousness felt like too much effort right now. If I could just slip away from all of this, from the questions I knew were coming, from the explanations I'd have to give, from the worried looks and the disappointed sighs...
If I could just disappear for a while...
A hand landed softly on my shoulder, and I didn't struggle. Part of me was surprised by my own passivity—normally, after something like this, I'd be all sharp edges and defensive walls. But I was too tired to fight, too empty to put up my usual armor. I let his hand grab me and pull me up to standing, though the movement sent a wave of dizziness through my skull that made the warehouse tilt sideways for a moment.
A soft wince escaped my lips as I struggled to get upright, my legs feeling like they were made of water instead of bone and muscle. Nate's hold on me tightened immediately, his arm sliding more securely around my waist to take some of my weight.
I kept my eyes fixed on the ground, studying the pattern of oil stains on the concrete. I couldn't look at him. I knew exactly what I would see—that mixture of disappointment and frustration that I'd glimpsed in his face before he'd started yelling at me about the phone. The same look I'd seen from teachers when I didn't live up to their expectations, from my parents when I made choices they couldn't understand, from everyone who thought they knew better than I did about my own life.
I really don't want to think about that right now. I just want to get home somehow and sleep for about sixteen hours. Maybe tomorrow I'll have the energy to think about all of it, to process what happened and figure out what it means. But not today. Not right now when everything feels like it's wrapped in cotton and nothing seems entirely real.
We walked through some cramped corridors that felt like the bowels of the building. The walls were close enough that I could have touched both sides if I'd stretched out my arms, and they were covered in a film of grime that looked like it had been accumulating for decades. It smelled like rust and stale water, with an undertone of something organic and unpleasant that I didn't want to identify.
There was no one else in these back passages—just the two of us and the sound of our footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. Nate's arm stayed firmly around my shoulders, and I found myself grateful for the steady pressure. Without his support, I genuinely didn't think my legs would have been able to carry me out of here. They felt unreliable, like they might give out at any moment and leave me crumpled on the floor.
I could hear people in the distance, their voices carrying through the walls and closed doors. Shouting—some angry, some excited. The sound of running feet, car engines starting up, doors slamming. And underneath it all, laughter. Actual laughter, as if what had just happened was entertainment instead of chaos.
I wondered what they were laughing about. Was it the fight? The riot? Were they sharing stories about what they'd seen, turning violence into anecdotes? The thought made my stomach turn, but I pushed it away. I didn't have the energy to be angry about it right now.
I just wanted to go home.
We walked for what felt like forever through that maze of corridors before finally emerging into the cool night air. The contrast was shocking—from the stifling, fetid atmosphere inside to the clean bite of autumn air that filled my lungs and cleared some of the fog from my head. We were in a field behind the warehouse where cars were parked in haphazard rows, their owners moving between them with the efficient urgency of people who wanted to get away from a crime scene as quickly as possible.
People were meeting up with their friends, checking on each other, comparing stories about what they'd seen. Some looked shaken, others excited, a few seemed to be arguing about money—bets that had been placed on fights that never got to finish. Everyone was focused on getting back to their cars and driving out to the city, getting away from the chaos before it could follow them home.
I heard her before my eyes found her.
"Lia!" The scream was shrill and desperate, as if she had been calling my name for hours instead of minutes. Grace's voice cut through all the other noise like a knife, and suddenly she was there, her small form running toward me with tears streaming down her cheeks.
A smile found its way to my lips without my permission—the first genuine emotion I'd felt since this whole nightmare started. The sight of her face, worried and relieved and furious all at once, brought a small kernel of warmth to the cold hollow in my chest.
There were some guys walking behind her at a more measured pace, and as they got closer, I could make out their faces. Logan and his friends, the same group that had brought Grace here in the first place. Logan was walking at the very back of the group, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his head down like he was trying to disappear into himself.
Grace reached me first, her small hands immediately grabbing mine as fat tears rolled down her cheeks. I could see it all in her eyes—the fear, the relief, the guilt. She knew what I had done and why I had done it. She understood, without me having to explain, why I had risked everything for a phone that wasn't even mine.
The warm weight of Nate's arm disappeared from my shoulders as he took a large stride toward the approaching group. I watched him move with a predatory grace that reminded me forcefully of what I'd just witnessed in the warehouse—this man was dangerous in ways that my sheltered college life had never prepared me for.
Before Logan or any of his friends could say a word, Nate pushed past the guys in front and delivered a solid punch square to Logan's face. The sound of knuckles connecting with bone was sickeningly familiar after what I'd just been through.
Grace gasped beside me, her grip on my hands tightening. She was as shocked by the sudden violence as I was, though for different reasons. Nate and Logan had become close friends over the past few months—I'd seen them together at parties, studying in the library, grabbing lunch between classes. They'd bonded over their shared love of boxing and their mutual disdain for most of our classmates' priorities.
Logan doubled over from the impact, one hand flying to his nose as blood began to trickle down his face. But he straightened up quickly, and when he looked at Nate, his expression wasn't angry—just confused and maybe a little hurt.
"What the fuck, man?" His voice carried that bewildered tone of someone who genuinely didn't understand what they'd done wrong.
"You know exactly what this is about," Nate replied, his voice so low and dangerous that I felt a chill run down my spine despite the warmth of his borrowed shirt. There was something terrifying about that tone—not loud or shouting, but quietly furious in a way that suggested he was holding back much worse.
The rest of Logan's friends just stood there, frozen and uncertain. They looked back and forth between Nate and Logan like spectators at a tennis match, clearly unsure whether they should intervene or run.
Logan's jaw clenched and unclenched several times, his hands curling into fists at his sides before slowly relaxing. Finally, he let out a long sigh and turned away, starting to walk back toward the parking area without another word.
"Dude, where are you going?" one of his friends called out, his voice high with confusion.
Logan didn't reply, just kept walking with his shoulders hunched and his head down.
"You're our ride, man," another friend added, a note of panic creeping into his voice as they realized they might be stranded here.
Logan still didn't respond, disappearing between the parked cars and leaving his friends to figure out their own transportation.
"Are you hurt?" Grace's small voice brought my attention back to her, and I realized I'd been staring after Logan with a mixture of guilt and something that might have been sympathy.
"I've been better," I said, aiming for a light, joking tone but failing miserably when pain made my voice wobble. The attempt at humor only made Grace's tears flow faster.
"Come on, I'll drive you home," she said, starting to pull me toward where her car was parked on the far side of the field.
I stopped walking, my feet suddenly feeling like they were made of lead. "Grace," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "You know you can't go home tonight."
She turned to face me fully, and I could see the moment when understanding dawned in her eyes. Her parents. The strict curfew. They were not the kind of people to sit back and think for even a second. The moment they realise that Grace was not at home, they WOULD, without a doubt, wake the whole neighborhood, looking for their little girl.
"You think I care about that right now?" Her voice carried that familiar note of disbelief that she always got when she thought I was being ridiculous.
"I do," I said simply. Because I did care. Because Grace's life was neat and ordered and safe, and I couldn't be the reason that changed. I couldn't be the chaos that disrupted her carefully constructed world.
"It's okay, blondie." Nate's voice cut through our conversation, and Grace turned to wipe her tears before looking at him with obvious wariness. "I don't know what this is about, but I'll take her home. You can catch a ride back with Ethan—I heard him say he lives in your neighborhood. It'd be better if you gave him a ride instead of trying to explain to your parents why you're coming home at three in the morning looking like you've been through a war."
Grace's entire posture changed, her small frame somehow managing to convey enormous indignation. "Excuse me," she said, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "And who exactly do you think you are to make decisions for us?"
Nate looked up at the sky for a moment, and I could see him counting to ten in his head before looking back at her. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler but no less firm.
"How do you think this is going to play out if you get hurt too?" he asked. "Have you thought about that? This isn't a game. This isn't the place to prove how much you do or don't care about someone. This is real life. Think with your head about what happened there, and how it will play out if things escalate and someone files a report."
The question hung in the air between them, and I could see Grace processing it, her quick mind working through the implications. She looked at me for a long moment, and I could see the internal battle playing out in her expression—her desire to protect me warring with her recognition that Nate was right.
"We'll talk tomorrow," she finally said, her voice small and defeated.
I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I tried to speak.
She walked toward her car on the other side of the field, her shoulders set with determination even as I could see the reluctance in every step. My eyes stayed fixed on her retreating figure, worry gnawing at the edges of my consciousness. We needed to talk, and soon. What had happened tonight couldn't happen again, and if it did, there might not be anyone around to help either of us.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to center myself in the present moment instead of spiraling into all the what-ifs that were threatening to overwhelm me. When I opened them again, I found Nate watching me with an expression I'd never seen on his face before. His eyes were soft, almost sad, with none of the hardness or anger I'd come to associate with him.
"Get me home, please," I said softly, the words coming out more vulnerable than I'd intended.
Something shifted in his expression at my tone, and he nodded once before leading me toward a motorcycle parked at the edge of the field. Of course it was a motorcycle—somehow, a regular car would have seemed too mundane for someone like him.
The ride home was silent except for the rumble of the engine beneath us. Nate drove slowly and carefully, taking turns at a measured pace and going gently over bumps in a way that suggested he was being deliberately cautious. I found myself wondering if he always drove like this or if he was being particularly careful because of my condition.
I wrapped my arms around his waist and pressed my cheek against the warm leather of his jacket, letting the steady vibration of the motorcycle and the rhythm of his breathing slowly bring me back to my body. The numbness was starting to wear off, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made me feel like I could sleep for a week.
As we pulled into my neighborhood, my hands started to sweat from the reality that started to crash through my wall of numbness. I couldn't wait for this nigh to get over.