Mara Chen's POV
Mara's eyes snap open.
She's on the floor of her childhood bedroom—the same floor where she slept for eleven years, believing she was safe. Sunlight streams through bare windows. No curtains. No furniture. No memories allowed.
Her neck aches. Her head throbs. She doesn't remember falling asleep, which means she did, at some point during the worst night of her life.
She sits up slowly, listening for sounds. Nothing. The house is silent in a way that feels dangerous. Empty houses shouldn't sound this quiet.
She checks her phone. Dead battery. No messages before it died, anyway. She'd already learned that lesson yesterday.
The landline phone still works—they never disconnected it. She calls her lawyer first, her hands shaking as she punches in the number.
"Mr. Harrison, it's Mara Chen. My aunt and uncle—they cleaned out my accounts. They stole everything. I need you to—"
"Mara, slow down." Her lawyer's voice is patient in that way that means he's already heard this story. "What exactly happened?"
She explains. The empty accounts. The transfers. The forged documents. The way they vanished with everything she owned.
There's a long pause.
"The thing is," Mr. Harrison says carefully, "proving embezzlement takes time. You'd need to hire a forensic accountant, file civil suits, probably criminal charges. That costs money, Mara. Significant money."
"How much?" she asks.
"Fifty thousand. Maybe more."
The number hits like a punch.
"I don't have fifty thousand dollars," she whispers.
"I know. Which is why..." He trails off, and she hears the apology in his silence. "I'd recommend speaking with the police, filing a report, and consulting with a criminal attorney. But understand—the police move slowly. These cases take years."
Years.
She doesn't have years. She doesn't have months. She barely has days.
After she hangs up, she calls the police non-emergency line.
"I'd like to report a theft," she tells the officer who answers. "Embezzlement. My aunt and uncle stole my inheritance. Thirty million dollars."
She waits for urgency. For that official tone that means someone important is finally taking her seriously.
Instead, the officer says: "That sounds like a civil matter, ma'am. You'd need to pursue it through the courts. If they forged documents, that's a different story, but you'd need to prove that with evidence. Have you consulted a lawyer?"
"Yes, and he says it costs money I don't have."
"Then I'm afraid there's not much we can do right now."
Not much they can do.
Mara sits on the empty floor of the empty house and realizes: no one is coming to save her.
The calls to her friends go unanswered.
Madison doesn't pick up. Neither does Jessie. Or Tyler. Or any of the twelve people she met through Northwestern's biochemistry program, through her aunt and uncle's social circles, through parties at houses that aren't hers anymore.
One text finally comes back from Madison: Hey, I heard about your situation. My parents said I shouldn't hang out with you right now. Sorry. Hope it works out.
Her situation.
Like she's a weather pattern. Like she's something to be avoided until it passes.
She tries her old job next—the pharmaceutical company her parents built. The one she worked at after graduation.
"I'd like to speak to Human Resources," she tells the receptionist.
"One moment, please."
She waits. Elevator music plays. She counts the seconds, counting her worth.
Ten minutes later, someone picks up.
"Ms. Chen," the HR director says. "I'm afraid we can't bring you back on staff."
"I was a scientist there. I worked in—"
"The company was acquired six months ago. Your employment contract transferred, but the new ownership... they've made different decisions. I'm sorry."
Click.
She's not even worth an explanation.
Two weeks pass like drowning.
She sleeps in her friend Lisa's borrowed car—a 2008 Honda Civic that smells like old coffee and regret. Lisa doesn't even know Mara's using it; she's away for spring break. But the keys were under the floor mat, and Mara was desperate.
She rationed the gas, sleeping in dark parking lots, waking at dawn so nobody would see her. Gas station food fills her stomach but not the hollow place inside her chest. Dollar-menu crackers. Bottled water. A granola bar if she's lucky.
Her credit card maxed out on day three when she tried to get a hotel room. She has forty-seven dollars in her wallet and a maxed-out card that might as well be cardboard.
She's invisible now. Nobody looks at the girl sleeping in the Honda. Nobody sees her at the bus station, using the bathroom, washing her face in a sink that smells like bleach and broken dreams.
The world moved on without her.
Tonight, she stands on the sidewalk outside Bernardo's—the Italian restaurant where her aunt and uncle used to take clients. Through the window, she watches rich people order expensive wine, laughing like the world is still good to them.
A woman in a red dress pushes past her without apologizing. A man in a suit checks his Rolex—his expensive watch ticking away seconds that Mara doesn't have.
They have so much. And Mara has nothing.
The injustice of it sits in her throat like broken glass.
She thinks about the lawyer's advice. The police's indifference. Her friends' cowardice. The world's profound lack of interest in her survival.
She thinks about Caroline and Robert, probably on a beach somewhere, spending her money like it was never hers to begin with.
Something hardens inside her chest.
If the courts won't help her, if the police won't help her, if her friends won't help her—then she'll help herself.
The wealthy man in the suit exits the restaurant, checking his phone. He's alone. Careless. The kind of person who's never had to worry about anything.
Mara's eyes track him.
She could do it. Follow him. Corner him. Take what he has. She's desperate enough. Hungry enough. Angry enough.
Her pulse quickens at the thought. At the possibility. At the permission she's giving herself.
She reaches into her jacket.
The kitchen knife she stole from her childhood home is still there—three weeks old, worn from being clutched in her hand during sleepless nights in the car. It's small. Dull. Basically useless.
But it's a weapon.
It's power.
A notification buzzes in her pocket.
A text from an unknown number: Stop looking for them. You won't find them. Some debts are paid in blood, not money. Consider yours settled. -The Rose
Mara's hand trembles.
The Rose. The symbol on the sleeve of the figure who dragged Caroline and Robert away.
She opens her phone to respond, but three more messages arrive in rapid succession:
Your aunt and uncle are gone.
They won't be coming back.
Someone collected what they owed. In full.
But you, Mara Chen... your debt is just beginning.
A final photo arrives.
It's grainy. Shot from far away. But it's unmistakable: Mara, sleeping in the Honda an hour ago. Someone was watching her. Someone knows where she sleeps. Someone has been tracking her for weeks.
And now they're reaching out.
Her hands shake as more messages flood in:
You're smart. You're desperate. You're willing to do what it takes to survive.
That makes you valuable.
Stop trying to rob desperate people with a dull knife.
If you want real power, real money, real revenge—
Meet me. Tomorrow night. The Gold Coast. Midnight.
Come alone.
Come angry.
And maybe, Mara Chen, I'll give you what the world refuses to: a chance.
The address: 842 North Lake Shore Drive. The woman in red.
Mara stares at the phone, her heart hammering.
Someone has been watching her. Someone knows everything. Someone is offering her something impossible.
The knife in her jacket suddenly feels like a promise.
And for the first time in two weeks, Mara Chen feels something other than despair.
She feels hunted.
And that might be enough to survive.