By nightfall, the walls of my apartment felt like they were closing in, every shadow shaped like him, every sound a warning.
I kept replaying his voice in my head, the certainty in it, the way he spoke like my choices were already accounted for.
Don't run.
I packed anyway.
Just the essentials—clothes, documents, my laptop. No memories. No keepsakes. I didn't want to carry pieces of a life that suddenly felt borrowed.
I booked a last-minute bus ticket under a different name and paid in cash, my hands shaking as I shoved everything into a duffel bag.
I didn't text anyone.
I didn't check my phone.
I told myself that if I moved fast enough, quietly enough, I could slip out of his sight like I'd never existed.
The elevator ride down felt endless. Each floor dinged like a countdown.
When the doors finally opened, I stepped into the lobby—and stopped.
He was sitting on the low marble ledge near the exit, coat off, sleeves rolled up, phone in his hand. Calm. Unhurried. Like he'd been waiting for a late friend.
"You pack light," he said without looking up.
My heart slammed so hard it hurt.
"How did you—"
"You bought a bus ticket seven minutes ago," he replied. "You chose the midnight one. Smart. Fewer cameras."
I tightened my grip on the bag.
"Move " I said.
He stood slowly, blocking the door without touching it. Without touching me.
"I told you not to run."
"I'm not yours," I said, my voice shaking. "You don't get to decide where I go."
"You're right," he said quietly. "You decide."
Relief flared—brief and foolish.
"Good," I snapped. "Then I'm leaving."
He nodded once. "Then listen carefully."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, turning the screen toward me. A live video feed filled it.
The bus station.
My bus.
Two men stood near the platform, pretending not to watch the entrance. Pretending badly.
One of them was holding something metallic at his side.
"You won't make it past the ticket gate," he said. "And if you do, you won't make it home again."
My mouth went dry. "You staged this."
"No," he said. "I interrupted it."
I shook my head. "You expect me to believe you're the only thing standing between me and them?"
"Yes."
"Why?" I demanded. "Why go through all of this?"
He took a step closer. "Because leaving doesn't make you safer. It makes you visible."
I laughed, hysterical. "And staying with you makes me invisible?"
"No," he said softly. "It makes you untouchable."
I hated how badly I wanted to believe him.
He reached for my bag. I flinched.
"Don't," I warned.
His hand froze midair.
"I won't force you," he said. "I don't need to."
He met my eyes, and for the first time, I saw something raw beneath the control—something like fear.
"But if you walk out that door," he continued, "I won't be able to stop what happens next."
Silence stretched between us.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Unknown: He's telling the truth.
Don't trust either of them.
My breath caught. "Someone else knows," I whispered.
His jaw tightened. "I know."
"Then why are you still calm?"
"Because I planned for them," he said. "I didn't plan for you choosing wrong."
I looked at the door. Freedom. Distance. A chance.
Then I looked at him.
"I don't trust you," I said.
He nodded. "You shouldn't."
Slowly, I let the duffel bag slip from my hand. It hit the floor with a dull thud.
"I'm not staying because of you," I said. "I'm staying because I want answers."
A corner of his mouth lifted—not a smile. Something darker.
"Good," he said. "That's all I ask."
The lights flickered as the elevator chimed behind us.
And somewhere deep inside me, I knew—
Leaving would've been easier.
Staying was where the real danger began.