Camielle's patience snapped the instant his grip tightened. Her eyes, once cool, blazed with fury as her hand slipped to her thigh. In one swift motion, the blade gleamed under the dim light, pressed firmly to his gut.
"You've got one chance to let go," she hissed, voice dripping venom. "Do it now—"
His smirk faltered.
Her wrist twisted, the knife biting just enough to make him hiss. "Not thinking straight, are you?"
She leaned closer, deadly calm. "Last warning—let go, or it gets worse."
The man stumbled back, hands raised, his earlier swagger crumbling into fear. Camielle stepped forward, not letting him breathe easy, her knife still poised.
"You really think threats put you in charge?" she snarled. "Next time you try this, I won't just scare you—I'll cut you where it hurts the most."
The man's face paled. His grip loosened instantly, stumbling backward as the knife followed his retreat. Panic overtook what was left of his swagger, and without another word, he turned and bolted down the alley, footsteps echoing in frantic retreat.
Camielle didn't chase. She stood rooted, her shoulders squared, breathing heavily but in control. The knife gleamed in her steady hand, her glare fixed on the darkness he disappeared into—like a warning to anyone else watching.
Camielle's grip on the knife trembled the moment the man's footsteps faded into the night. Her knees threatened to give out, and she pressed her back against the brick wall, dragging in sharp, uneven breaths. The adrenaline that had fueled her fury drained too quickly, leaving her hands clammy and her chest tight. She bent to pick up the trash bag she'd dropped, fingers fumbling as if the weight was suddenly too much. A shaky laugh slipped out, brittle and thin, as though mocking herself for almost unraveling.
From the shadows at the edge of the alley, a calm voice cut through.
"Took you long enough to scare him off."
Camielle startled, turning sharply, the knife still clutched tight. Reis stepped into view, his expression unreadable, though his eyes lingered on her unsteady hands.
Reis lounged against the alley wall like he'd been there all night, arms folded, wearing that irritatingly self-assured look that made him seem untouchable. His eyes lingered on her, sharp with interest, the kind that made Camielle's skin prickle even as she tried to look unshaken.
She kept her knife steady, voice clipped. "How long were you there? Or should I be asking—were you with him?"
A quiet laugh escaped him. "With him? Hardly. That drunk could barely stand upright, let alone stand beside me."
Her frown deepened. "Then why didn't you step in?"
Reis tilted his head, as if the answer amused him more than the question. "Because you didn't need me. You had him trembling before I could blink. Honestly…" He smiled, smug and unhurried. "Watching you turn like that? Worth the wait."
Camielle's jaw tightened, her pulse still.
Camielle's breath slowed, the weight of the knife in her hand reminding her to stay sharp. Finally steadying, she turned her attention fully to Reis, eyes narrowing as she scanned him in the low light. Recognition struck like a cold spark—him. The author she's currently working with.
Her tone was even, though edged. "You're not supposed to be back here." The guard in her posture didn't ease, not even for a second.
Reis opened his mouth, that infuriatingly calm expression still painted on his face, but before he could answer, footsteps echoed from the back door.
"Cam?" Corey's voice cut through, laced with concern. He emerged into the alley, brow furrowed. "You're taking forever with the trash—" His gaze shifted, landing on Reis. Recognition flickered immediately.
"Reis? Didn't realize you were still around," Corey said, then added firmly, "We're closed. You should head back."
Reis didn't leave right away. His gaze held hers, steady and unrelenting, as though he were stripping back layers and seeing straight through her. Camielle fought to keep her mask in place, but the weight of his stare pressed against her composure, daring it to crack.
Then he stepped closer. She tensed, but his hand rose with deliberate slowness, fingers brushing near her temple. A strand of hair had slipped loose, and with disarming precision, he tucked it gently behind her ear. The touch was feather-light, almost reverent—but paired with that unyielding eye contact, it left her pulse skittering.
"Better," Reis murmured, low and maddeningly calm, as if he hadn't just unsettled her entirely. His gaze lingered a beat longer before he turned to Corey, offering a brief nod. "Appreciate the company. I'll leave you to it."
Without another word, he strode into the night, leaving Camielle rooted to the spot, her guard intact on the surface—but her heart racing, as though he'd seen far more than she intended to show.
They head back inside to close up. Corey glanced at the alley door again as they finished locking up, his concern still etched on his face. "Seriously, Camielle, what took you so long? You had me worried out there."
She didn't answer right away, her jaw tight as she slid the keys into her bag. The memory of Reis's stare still lingered, pricking beneath her skin.
"Cam?" Corey pressed gently, tilting his head.
"I'm fine," she said curtly, not looking at him. The words came clipped, final.
Corey blinked, caught off guard by her sharpness, but before he could push further, Camielle swung her bag over her shoulder and pushed past him. Her heels struck the pavement in quick, decisive steps, each one putting distance between them.
Usually, they walked home together, their nightly ritual of easy chatter softening the late hour. But tonight, Corey watched in silence as she disappeared down the street ahead of him, her figure cutting through the dark like she was determined to outrun something.
He stayed frozen for a beat, uneasy, before muttering under his breath, "What's gotten into her?" and hurrying to catch up—though she was already too far ahead to hear.
Camielle walked home in silence, the night air pressing heavy against her chest. Each step felt unsteady, her mind replaying every moment in the alley—the hand on her wrist, the knife in her hand, Reis's piercing stare. By the time she reached her apartment, her legs ached from the tension knotted in them. She slipped inside, shutting the door with more force than she intended, the echo ringing like a judgment. Her bag slid off her shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud. She didn't look at it. Couldn't. Her body moved on instinct, dragging her toward the mirror like she needed proof she was still standing.
The reflection staring back at her felt like a mockery. Perfect hair, red lips, eyes painted to seduce—Camielle. Not Cameron. A mask that had nearly cracked twice tonight. Her throat tightened, the control she had wielded so fiercely slipping from her grasp.
She ripped out her hair extensions, tugging them free until strands tangled in her hands. Her lipstick smeared under the rough drag of her palm, streaking red across her cheek. The carefully constructed façade crumbled, leaving behind the raw, trembling person beneath.
A sob tore out before she could swallow it down, anger quickly following in its wake. With a sharp kick, her foot slammed into her bag, sending it skidding across the floor. She pressed her palms flat against the mirror, trembling.
Her femininity—the heels, the dress, the softness—felt like a trap, a cage she had willingly stepped into and now couldn't escape. Every swish of fabric, every delicate sway she'd perfected for Camielle suddenly seemed grotesque, mocking her with its fragility. The lipstick, the lashes, the extensions—all of it felt like a costume designed to make her weaker, smaller, easier to corner. Disgust washed over her, raw and relentless, burning through every fragile piece of glamour she had built like it was nothing more than paper set to flame. What she had worn like armor now clung to her skin like chains.
Camielle slid down to the floor, curling into herself as silence swallowed the room whole. Her breath hitched, sharp and uneven, not from the shadow of what had happened but from the gnawing, unrelenting anger in her chest. It clawed at her ribs, insistent, merciless. Tears welled despite her will, hot and humiliating, proof that even her steel cracked when pressed hard enough. She pressed her forehead to her knees, nails digging into her arms, disgust writhing in every thought.
How could she let herself unravel like this? How could she keep slipping, breaking, exposing softness she swore she buried? Fragile. Vulnerable. Woman. The word thundered in her mind, each syllable a wound, a curse she could not scrape free. She hated it, hated the way it felt branded on her skin.
Her fists clenched tighter, palms stinging from her own bite, but it didn't stop the tremor in her body. The anger burned until it hollowed out, leaving only the raw sting of shame. She drew a shaky breath, exhaustion dragging her down like an anchor. Slowly, against the cold floor, her fury dulled into silence.
Spent, empty, she cried herself to sleep in the dark.