The fluorescent lights in Murphy's Diner buzzed like angry insects, and I was pretty sure one of them was going to give out completely before my shift ended. I'd been on my feet for six hours, my lower back aching in that specific way that meant I'd be feeling it for days, and the smell of burnt coffee and grease had soaked so deep into my clothes that I'd probably never get it out.
"Helen! Table seven needs a refill, and don't take forever about it." Marcus, the night manager, snapped his fingers at me like I was a dog. I grabbed the coffee pot without meeting his eyes and headed toward the booth where a couple sat arguing in low, tense voices.
I'd learned a long time ago that invisible was the safest thing to be. Keep your head down, do your work, don't give anyone a reason to notice you or remember your name. The diner was my third job, the one that paid the least but kept me out of my apartment until almost midnight. Anything was better than going home.
The coffee splashed a little as I poured, my hands shaking from exhaustion, and the man at the table glared at me. "Watch it."
"Sorry," I mumbled, the word automatic after years of practice. Sorry for existing, sorry for taking up space, sorry for being visible even for a second.
I finished my shift at eleven forty-five, grabbed my threadbare jacket from the hook in the back, and stepped out into the Chicago night. September air carried a chill that cut through the thin fabric, and I wrapped my arms around myself as I started the fifteen-minute walk back to my apartment.
The Westside territory wasn't the kind of place you wanted to be walking alone at night, but I didn't have money for the bus and my car had died six months ago. I'd learned the safest routes, the streets with enough light and enough people that trouble usually looked elsewhere for easier targets.
Except tonight felt different.
I couldn't put my finger on what exactly was wrong, but the air seemed heavier somehow, charged with something I didn't understand. The usual clusters of people on corners were missing. Shops that normally stayed open late had their lights off and gates pulled down. Even the traffic seemed lighter than usual, like everyone had decided to be somewhere else.
My stomach twisted with anxiety as I walked faster, my sneakers making soft sounds on the concrete. Three more blocks to my apartment, that was all. Three blocks and I could lock myself inside, for whatever good those flimsy locks did.
I was two blocks away when I heard it. A sound like thunder, except the sky was clear. Then another, and another, and I realized with cold horror that what I was hearing was gunfire, a lot of it, coming from multiple directions.
People started screaming. A car screeched around the corner, moving way too fast, and I pressed myself against a building as it flew past. More gunfire, closer now, and I could see the orange glow of fire reflecting off the buildings ahead.
Something was happening. Something bad.
My mind went blank with panic, every instinct screaming at me to run, but I didn't know which direction was safe. The fire seemed to be spreading, multiple buildings now, and I could hear more cars, more shouting, the sound of breaking glass.
Then I saw them. Men in dark clothes moving through the street with military precision, weapons visible, faces covered. They weren't random thugs or gang members, this was organized, coordinated, an invasion.
I ducked into an alley, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I thought it might break through. My breath came in short, painful gasps as I pressed myself into the shadows and tried to think. Home was in the direction of the fire, no good. The diner was too far back and probably already hit. I needed to get out of the territory completely, but how?
The waterfront. The thought hit me suddenly. Damien kept a boat there, an old speedboat he used for his smuggling operations. He didn't think anyone knew about it, but I'd seen him coming back from the docks too many times, had heard him on the phone making arrangements. If I could get to it, maybe I could get away from whatever hell was erupting around me.
I ran. Not the careful, measured pace of someone trying not to be noticed, but full-out sprinting like my life depended on it, because it probably did. My lungs burned and my legs ached, but I didn't slow down. Behind me I could hear the sounds of destruction spreading, buildings burning, people dying.
The docks appeared ahead, and I nearly sobbed with relief when I saw the boat still there, tied to the pier and apparently forgotten in the chaos. I didn't let myself think about what I was doing or where I would go. I just jumped in, fumbled with the ropes until they came free, and found the key in the compartment where Damien always hid it.
The engine roared to life, and I pointed the boat toward the dark expanse of Lake Michigan. Away from the fire. Away from the screaming. Away from everything.
I don't know how long I drove. The city lights got smaller behind me until they were just a distant glow on the horizon. My hands were locked on the wheel, my whole body shaking, and my mind couldn't process what I'd just witnessed.
Someone had attacked the Westside territory, had come in with enough force to burn it all down.
Eventually the adrenaline wore off and exhaustion took over. The boat drifted as I slumped over the wheel, my eyes refusing to stay open. The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was the empty sky above and the endless water below.
I was alone, floating in nothing, and somehow that felt like the safest I'd been in years.