The thing about chasing danger for a living is that eventually, it notices you back.
And sometimes, it runs faster.
That night, the air in the dockside warehouse district felt heavy enough to chew. The humidity clung to my skin like a jealous lover, thick with the smell of diesel fuel and something sharper — like metal left too long in the rain. My boots made almost no sound on the cracked asphalt, my camera snug against my palm.
I wasn't supposed to be here.
Not at night.
Not alone.
Not without telling anyone where I was going.
But when you're a photojournalist in a dead-end town where the juiciest headline is usually "Farmer Wins Biggest Pumpkin Award," you don't ignore anonymous tips that promise real crime.
Especially not when the tip says: Dock 17, midnight. Bring your camera.
The place looked deserted — just shadow-streaked warehouses slouched against the waterfront like tired old men. A few sodium streetlamps flickered with an anemic orange glow, not quite banishing the dark. Somewhere far off, a foghorn bellowed.
Then I saw them.
Two men in dark coats, standing by a black SUV with tinted windows. One held an envelope. The other — the taller one, broad-shouldered, his face hidden in shadow — held something small and metallic. My lens adjusted automatically, pulling them closer in sharp detail.
A gun.
My pulse thudded, but I did what I always do when adrenaline spikes — I kept shooting. Snap. Snap. Snap.
Then the taller man's head turned.
Even through the lens, the movement felt like it cut right through me. A cold prickle swept my skin. He took a step toward me, and I realized my cover wasn't half as good as I thought.
Shit.
I turned, sprinting for the mouth of the alley. The sound of footsteps pounded after me, heavier and faster than mine. My bag bounced against my side, my camera swinging wildly on its strap.
I didn't stop.
Past a stack of shipping crates. Around a dumpster that reeked of fish and oil. My breath burned in my chest, my legs screaming.
A hand grabbed my jacket.
I yanked free, losing the jacket entirely, but I kept running — straight for the chain-link fence at the end of the block. My camera strap caught on the fence for a heartbeat before snapping loose. I didn't look back. I vaulted over, skinning my palms, and landed hard on the other side.
I kept running until I reached the faint safety of a street with moving cars and neon-lit corner stores.
Only then did I stop.
My lungs were raw, my knees scraped, my hands trembling as I checked my camera. Empty. Somewhere in that alley, my lifeline — the proof — was gone.
I made it home without seeing him again, but I knew I'd been seen.
My apartment felt different when I walked in — smaller, quieter. I triple-locked the door, shut all the blinds, and sank into the couch with my phone in hand. My heart was still doing that stuttery thing that made it hard to breathe.
At first, I thought I'd imagined the vibration in my hand. But no — a message blinked onto the screen from an unknown number.
Unknown: I know who you are.
That was all. No punctuation. No emoji. Just cold, plain words.
My stomach dropped so hard it hurt.
I should have called the police.
I should have called anyone.
Instead, I sat there, staring at those six words until the edges of the room seemed to go soft and blurry.
And then… a new sound.
Three slow, deliberate knocks at my door.
Three knocks.
Not rushed. Not impatient. The kind that said whoever was on the other side wasn't afraid of being here.
I froze, every nerve ending going rigid.
Nobody knocked on my door at this hour. Not my landlord. Not my friends — the few I had left. And definitely not the kind of neighbor who brings you cookies "just because."
I slid silently off the couch and padded across the floor, my socks whispering over the worn wood. My phone was still in my hand, but I wasn't sure if I was gripping it like a lifeline or a weapon.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The second set was louder.
I leaned close to the peephole.
Darkness.
Not just dim lighting — complete black. Someone was blocking the view. My pulse stuttered in my ears, hot and loud. I stepped back without thinking, my spine pressing into the wall.
"Who's there?" My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
Silence.
Then, a man's voice. Low. Deep. The kind of voice that wrapped around you, not friendly but… commanding.
"I think you lost something tonight."
My stomach clenched. My mind flickered to the camera — the one I'd dropped while running for my life.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do." A pause. "A Nikon D850, telephoto lens, last seen at Dock 17. Ring any bells?"
Every instinct screamed at me not to open the door. But there was something in his tone — not quite threatening, not quite reassuring — that made my hand hover over the deadbolt anyway.
"If you're the guy who chased me, you're doing a terrible job convincing me to open up."
A faint huff of breath — maybe amusement. "If I were chasing you, you wouldn't be standing there to talk about it."
My skin prickled. I hated how calm he sounded. How certain.
"Slide it under the door," I said.
"Too big."
My breath hitched. My fingers flexed against the wood. "Then leave it outside and go."
Another pause. "I can't. Because if I leave it out here, someone else will take it — and they won't be here to return it."
He let the words settle. Heavy. I could hear faint street sounds in the background — a distant motorcycle rev, the soft whoosh of passing cars.
I didn't move.
"I'm not your enemy, Ava."
The sound of my name hit like an electric shock.
I hadn't told him my name.
Every nerve lit up at once — panic mixing with curiosity. "How do you know who I am?"
"That's a conversation we can't have in the hallway."
Something in his tone shifted then — urgency, just enough to cut through my hesitation. I took a step toward the door, my bare toes curling against the cold floor. My fingers hovered over the locks.
If I opened it, I might be inviting trouble inside.
If I didn't… I'd be standing here, alone, with no camera, no proof, and no answers.
My hand twisted the first lock before my brain could stop me. Then the second. Finally, the deadbolt.
I opened the door just enough to see him.
Tall. Broad shoulders under a dark jacket that looked like it had seen better — and rougher — days. His hair was dark, messy in a way that looked accidental but probably wasn't. Stubble shadowed a jaw that could cut glass. And his eyes…
God help me, his eyes.
Sharp, assessing, and so deep I almost forgot to breathe.
In his right hand was my camera.
Up close, I could see the strap was frayed from where it had caught on the fence. Dirt streaked the casing. My fingers itched to take it.
He lifted it slightly. "Told you I had it."
I reached for it, but he didn't let go right away. Instead, he angled his head, studying me like I was another crime scene he had to analyze.
"You were lucky tonight."
"I don't feel lucky."
"You should. The man you photographed — Damian Crowe — doesn't usually leave loose ends."
The name landed like a hammer. I'd heard it before, whispered in back rooms, muttered in the corner booths of bars. Drug running. Smuggling. Weapons. The kind of name you didn't print unless you had a bulletproof source and maybe an actual bulletproof vest.
I swallowed hard. "And you just… happened to be there?"
"I was watching him. You got in the way." His gaze sharpened. "You need to get out of town. Tonight."
My laugh was short and brittle. "Not happening. This is my home."
He leaned just enough that his presence felt like a wall. "If you stay, you're not going to have a home left to fight for."
We stood there, the air thick between us. I could smell him now — leather, soap, and a faint trace of gun oil. It was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
Finally, he let go of the camera. The weight of it in my hands felt like relief and danger all at once.
"Who are you?" I asked.
He hesitated, like the name itself was classified.
"Cole."
No last name. No smile. Just a name that felt like it belonged to someone who'd been in more fights than conversations.
Before I could press, he glanced down the hall, scanning like a soldier checking for snipers. Then his eyes came back to mine.
"They know who you are, Ava. And now that you've seen what you've seen…" His voice went quieter. "You're in it. Whether you want to be or not."
A cold shiver raced down my spine.
"What's 'it'?" I asked.
His mouth curved — not in amusement, but something darker.
"Something you can't run from."
And just like that, he stepped back into the shadows, leaving me with my camera, my heartbeat in my throat, and the sinking certainty that my life had just split in two — the before, and whatever the hell was coming next.