Sarah's couch smelled like vanilla candles and cat hair. It was free. Free was all Elara could afford.
Her best friend since college had asked no questions when Elara showed up three days ago with two suitcases and dark rings under her eyes. Sarah just cleared a corner of her tiny studio and said they'd figure it out.
If only it were that simple.
"I still can't believe they just kicked you out," Sarah said, perched on the kitchen counter, mug in hand. The coffee in the mug cost more than Elara's last meal. "There has to be something illegal about what they did."
Elara folded another shirt into the suitcase. She kept her movements small—neat, contained. "I looked into it," she said. "They bought the building through a shell company. Invoked a renovation clause that—get this—apparently exists in every lease in the city. Offered 'generous relocation assistance' that doesn't actually help anyone."
"Bastards," Sarah said.
You have no idea.
"The relocation specialist they assigned keeps sending places that are double our rent," Elara said. "Or in neighborhoods where I'd need a bodyguard to walk to the mailbox." Her laugh tasted like old coffee. "It's like they want us to fail."
Because they do. Because this was never about renovation.
The BMW was gone now. Vanished after she moved in with Sarah. But Elara wasn't stupid enough to think that meant she wasn't being watched. If anything, the absence of obvious tails felt worse—like a predator that knew it had been seen and chose to be subtle.
"I need to go grocery shopping," she said, zipping the suitcase closed. "Mom's coming for dinner. She's been craving that soup—your grandmother's recipe."
"The one with enough garlic to ward off vampires?"
If only it were that simple.
"That's the one," Elara said. She checked for the pepper spray in her jacket pocket, the thing Sarah had insisted she carry. "I'll be back in an hour."
"Want me to come?"
"No. I need some air."
I need to pretend I'm normal. Normal people shop. Normal people cook. Normal lives. Even if it's a lie.
—
The supermarket hummed with fluorescent light. A temple to mundane things: canned tomatoes, boxes of cereal, rows of indifferent vegetables. Elara pushed a cart and tried to lose herself in routine. Compare prices. Check expiration dates. Keep breathing.
Garlic. Onions. Celery. The holy trinity of soup.
She reached for carrots and felt the prickle at the back of her neck—the wrong kind of attention. Not casual. Not neutral. Focused. Intentional.
Don't turn. Don't look. Finish and leave.
But when she moved to the next aisle, they moved too. Two men in dark jackets. Walking in the same rhythm. Not hiding. Making sure she saw them. Making sure she knew they were there.
This isn't Kael's surveillance. This is something else.
Her cart felt heavy suddenly, like an anchor. She abandoned it near canned beans and headed for the exit. Heart beat loud in her ears. Bird trapped in a cage.
The parking lot sat under sodium lamps, orange halos and long shadows. She had parked near the back. Old habit—cars look better in the dark. Now that distance felt like a sentence.
Keys. Where are your keys?
Hands shaking, she rifled through her purse. Footsteps behind her. Patient. Measured. Closing.
"Elara Chen."
The voice stopped her. Not because she knew it. Because of the way it said her name—like a verdict.
She turned slow. Keys threaded between her fingers. Makeshift claws.
Two men blocked the way. Mid-thirties. Suits too expensive for their faces. Holster bulges under the jackets. Faces that belonged on posters.
The one who'd spoken had a scar from ear to mouth. It gave him a permanent half-smile. But it wasn't friendly.
"You're a hard woman to find," Scarface said, pulling a cigarette from his jacket. "Kael's keeping you tucked away nice and safe, isn't he?"
They think I'm with him. They think I'm his.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Elara said. Her voice surprised her with its steadiness.
"Course you don't." The other man spoke then—Brooklyn, the accent thick with asphalt and bad choices. "Just like you don't know why your boyfriend decided to move into our turf last week."
"He's not my boyfriend."
"No?" Scarface lit his cigarette. Flame carved the scar into darker lines. "Then what were you doing at his little execution party three weeks ago? Just happened to be in the neighborhood?"
They'd been watching. They'd seen her in the alley.
"I was walking home. I didn't see anything—"
"Bullshit." Brooklyn stepped closer. She smelled him: gun oil, sweat, cheap cologne. "We got photos. You and the Ice Man. Having a chat. Looking real cozy for strangers."
Her blood turned cold. Photos. Proof. If they had pictures, they knew everything—the car rides, the office visit, maybe even the eviction notice.
They'd labeled her Kael's weakness.
Which made her their leverage.
"What do you want?" Her voice went smaller. But it came out.
"What we want," Scarface said, taking his time with the cigarette, "is for your boyfriend to understand consequences. You can't waltz into someone's sandbox and start building castles."
"I told you, he's not—"
"Save it." Brooklyn moved left, cutting off one angle. "You're coming with us. We're going to have a nice little chat with Mr. Thorne about boundaries and respect."
Run. Run now. Before they get closer.
Her feet wouldn't obey. The memory of that alley held her—frozen air, the metallic scent of fear. These men weren't clean. They weren't precise. They were rough and loud. They enjoyed it.
They're going to hurt me. And they will like it.
"Please," she whispered. Hating the weakness in her voice.
"Your mother?" Scarface smiled and the scar twisted. The smile turned obscene. "The one with cancer? The one whose treatments are paid for by the Prometheus Group?"
How did they know that? How did they know about Mom?
"Funny thing about charitable foundations," Scarface said, flicking ash to the pavement. "They keep neat records. Donations. Addresses. Names. Almost like they want credit."
Brooklyn produced zip ties from his jacket. Professional gear. Ready-made.
"Here's how it goes," Scarface said, crushing his cigarette with an expensive shoe. "You come with us. We take pictures. Maybe record a little video for your boyfriend. Nothing dramatic. We're not monsters."
Yes. You are.
"And if he's smart—if he values his things—he'll back off. We'll send you home with a story."
"And if he's not?" The question escaped her.
Brooklyn smiled with all teeth and bad intentions. "Then we find out what you're worth. Piece by piece."
This is happening. Real. Not a nightmare. Not a drill.
Her fingers closed harder on the keys. Metal bit into her palm. Not much. But it was something. Maybe enough.
Tires screamed.
The sound cracked the moment. Like a gunshot. Like someone ripping the world open.
A black sedan stopped fifteen feet away. Not the BMW she'd known. Sleeker. Meaner. Expensive in a way that shouted danger.
All three men turned. But Elara's breath stopped when the driver's door opened.
Kael Thorne stepped out like punishment in a suit. Italian wool. Perfect cut. He moved like violence in slow film.
His face was carved—anger restrained, neat as a blade. But his eyes—those eyes—made her knees weak.
She'd seen him furious before: cold, controlled, dangerous. This was different. This was fury with a destination. This was someone who walks toward what he will break.
Murder. That's what murder looks like in a three-thousand-dollar suit.
"Gentlemen," his voice slid across the parking lot. Smooth. Silk over steel. "I believe you have something that belongs to me."