Ava's POV
Ava saw the stranger's eyes first. From her hiding spot on the dark staircase, peering through the banister rails, they were the only part of him that seemed alive. The rest of him was a still, dark shape in the doorway, backlit by the porch light. But his eyes, a pale, focused gray, scanned the apartment and found hers in the shadows instantly. It was like being spotted by a searchlight.
Her heart, already a frantic bird trapped in the cage of her broken ribs, stopped completely.
He came.
The thought was not a relief. It was a new, terrifying layer of panic. This wasn't a policeman in a uniform. This wasn't Sophie's kindly boyfriend. This man looked like the night itself had taken a human form and knocked on the door. He was tall, dressed in simple, expensive-looking black, and his calm was more frightening than Mark's rage had ever been.
"I'm here for Ava."
His voice was quiet. It didn't need to be loud. It cut through Mark's bluster like a knife through paper.
Mark's body, blocking the doorway, went rigid. Ava saw his shoulders hike up toward his ears. "Who the hell are you?" Mark spat, his voice rising back into its familiar, angry register. "Get lost. She doesn't want any visitors."
"She texted me," the stranger said, his tone still flat, factual.
Ava's blood ran cold. He said it. He just said it out loud.
"She… what?" Mark's head twitched, a quick, confused movement. Then understanding dawned, and with it, a volcanic fury. He started to turn, his gaze swinging away from the stranger and into the apartment, looking for her. "AVA! Did you text"
He didn't finish. The stranger moved. Not a fight, not yet. Just a simple, impossible step forward. Mark had been trying to slam the door, but the man's foot was suddenly in the way, holding it open as if it were stuck in concrete. Mark shoved against the door with his full weight, his face turning red with the effort. The door didn't budge an inch.
"You need to leave," the stranger said, the words a soft, deadly command.
"This is my house!" Mark roared. He let go of the door and swung a wild, heavy fist. It was the punch he'd probably thrown a thousand times on the ice in a brawl. Fast, powerful, clumsy with anger.
The stranger didn't flinch. He moved his head maybe two inches to the side. Mark's fist whistled past his ear and hit the doorframe with a sickening thud of knuckles on wood. Mark yelled in pain and surprise, cradling his hand.
In that moment of shock, the stranger looked past him again, directly at Ava. "Ava. Come here."
His voice wasn't gentle, but it was clear. It was an order, but somehow it felt like the first real choice she'd been given in years. Stay in the dark with the devil she knew, or walk toward the unknown angel who had a foot in the door.
Her body moved before her mind could argue. A survival instinct deeper than fear took over. She uncurled from her spot on the stairs, every movement screaming in protest from her ribs. She clutched the banister, pulling herself up.
"Don't you move!" Mark snarled, turning back to her, his eyes wide with betrayed fury. He lunged into the apartment, grabbing for her.
He caught her arm, his fingers the same ones that had just smashed into the doorframe, digging in like claws. The pain was electric, sharpening the deeper ache in her side. She cried out, trying to pull away, but he was too strong.
"Let her go."
The stranger's voice was in the room now. Ava hadn't even seen him move, but he was inside. He stood just past the doorway, his hands at his sides, but his presence filled the small living room, making it feel cramped and dangerous.
"This is none of your business!" Mark shouted, but his voice had a new edge to it. A wary edge. He was still holding Ava's arm, but his eyes were locked on the new threat. He'd assessed the stranger as a fellow predator, and he was unsure of his rank in the hierarchy. "She's my girlfriend. We had a fight. It's private."
"You broke her ribs," the stranger stated, his gray eyes flicking to Ava's pained, hunched posture. "That's not a fight. That's a crime. Let. Her. Go."
The final three words were spaced apart, each one dropping into the room like a stone.
Mark's grip tightened reflexively. Ava whimpered. The stranger's eyes narrowed, just a fraction.
Something shifted in the air. A silent, terrifying transaction happened between the two men. Mark, the professional athlete used to dominating physical space, seemed to shrink. The stranger, who hadn't raised his voice or his fists, seemed to grow larger. It was in the absolute stillness of his posture. The utter certainty in his eyes. This was not a man who threatened violence. This was a man who was violent, patiently waiting for an excuse to be released.
Mark's fingers loosened, then fell away from Ava's arm.
"Go stand by him," the stranger said to Ava, not taking his eyes off Mark.
She stumbled forward, half-falling, half-running the few steps across the living room rug, past the glittering remains of her ornament, past the couch where she'd cried. She stopped just behind the stranger's left shoulder. She could feel the faint heat coming from him, smell the clean, cold scent of winter air, and something else, something like leather and gun oil.
She was now behind the shield of him. The relief was so profound her knees shook.
"You can't just take her," Mark said, but the fight had drained from his voice, replaced by a whining, legalistic tone. "I'll call the police. I'll tell them you kidnapped her!"
The stranger didn't even acknowledge the threat. He slowly, deliberately, reached one hand back toward Ava, palm open, without looking at her. An invitation.
Terrified, she placed her trembling hand in his. His fingers closed around hers. His grip was firm, warm, and completely steady. It was the steadiest thing she had ever felt.
"We're leaving," he told Mark. It wasn't a negotiation.
He began to walk backward, pulling Ava gently with him, keeping his body between her and Mark. They moved toward the open door. Mark took a half-step forward, his fists clenching again, a last spark of defiance in his eyes.
The stranger stopped. He didn't speak. He just looked at Mark. That was all it took.
Mark froze on the spot, his jaw working.
Step by step, they retreated into the hallway. When they crossed the threshold, the stranger turned, finally putting his back to Mark, and guided Ava quickly toward the stairs. His hand never left hers.
"My shoes," Ava whispered, her socks slipping on the wooden stairs.
"Not important," he murmured, his voice low now, all business. "Keep moving."
They reached the bottom of the stairs and burst out the main door into the freezing night. The cold air hit her face like a slap, shocking her system. A sleek, black SUV was parked a few spaces down, its engine emitting a faint, patient hum.
He led her to the passenger side, opened the door, and helped her in. Her body screamed in protest as she sat down. He closed the door softly, a solid, final thump.
Through the darkly tinted window, Ava saw Mark appear in the doorway of the building. He wasn't chasing them. He stood there, under the porch light, his face a mask of pure, impotent hatred. He was staring at the back of the SUV.
The stranger got into the driver's seat, started the car, and pulled smoothly away from the curb.
Ava twisted in her seat, looking back through the rear window. Mark was still standing there. As their car reached the end of the street and turned the corner, she saw him pull out his own phone, not to call the police, but to take a picture.
He was taking a picture of their license plate.
As the car accelerated into the anonymous night, the immediate danger was over, but a new one was already developing in the rearview mirror. A man with resources and a bruised ego now had their plate number. The escape was only the beginning.