The fluorescent lights of the bus station hummed with a low-frequency vibration that rattled straight into Elara’s teeth. Every flicker felt like a searchlight—a rhythmic, stuttering blink that dared her to remain visible. She slumped against a row of bolted plastic chairs, her left hand clamped over her ribs beneath her jacket.
An involuntary hiss escaped her lips; she choked it back into a hollow cough and adjusted her black mask. Beneath her shirt, the muscle felt hot, tight, and angry.
The son of a bitch had actually landed one this time. She should have seen it coming.
A sharp breath hissed through her nose as she forced herself upright. She was restless, vibrating with a cocktail of agony and pure, cold fury. How could she have been this stupid? Years of calculated work were curdling into mud, and for what? The one thing she never believed in. Love.
Gritting her teeth, she leaned down to grab her bag, but the movement caught in her throat. Across the sidewalk, an elderly woman stood at the curb, her face a map of confusion as she looked at the rushing traffic.
Elara sank back, eyes scanning the station. She waited for someone—anyone—to step in. When the crowd remained indifferent, she cursed under her breath and forced herself to her feet. Her nerves felt like frayed wires, sparking with every agonizing step she took toward the curb.
"Ma’am? Do you need help?" Her voice was low, filtered through the mask, but steady.
The woman looked up, her eyes bright with relief. "Yes, dear. I just can't seem to get across."
Elara gave a singular, sharp nod. She looped her arm through the woman’s, surreptitiously tugging her jacket sleeve down to hide her bruised, bloodied knuckles. With her free hand, she reached out and punched the button on the traffic pole, leaning against it for a second of stolen support.
The light flashed green. Elara moved with a forced, rhythmic steadiness, acting as a human crutch. Her eyes narrowed, tracking a police cruiser idling at the opposite curb. She ducked her head immediately, the brim of her hat and the dark mask creating a shadow that swallowed her features.
Once their feet hit the far sidewalk, she gently disengaged, her pulse hammering against her injured ribs. She didn't wait for a thank you, instead pivoting toward the bus that had just pulled into the bay with a hiss of air brakes.
"God bless you, dear!" the woman called out.
God knows I need it, Elara thought, the irony tasting like copper in her mouth.
She hauled herself up the steps, every inch of her protesting the climb, and found a seat in the back corner—low light, clear view of the exit. Her pocket buzzed. It wasn't her primary phone; it was the burner she’d wiped and activated three hours ago.
A single text from Margaret: Unlocked. Hurry.
Elara leaned her head against the cool, vibrating window and finally let her eyes close.
Two hours later
The bus ride had been a blur of potholes and suppressed groans. By the time Elara reached the gravel driveway of the small, nondescript cottage, her left side felt like it had been branded with a hot iron.
The front door gave way with a soft click , the smell of beeswax and old paper drifting out to meet her. The house was dark, save for a single lamp glowing in the kitchen.
"Margaret?" Elara whispered, her voice cracking.
She didn’t wait for an answer. Every step up the stairs was a jagged calculation of breath and balance until she reached her old room and collapsed onto the bed. The mattress didn't feel like a luxury; it felt like a landing pad.
After a few seconds of staring at the ceiling, she forced herself upright. Her breath hitched as she peeled back her jacket; the fabric had fused to the dried blood on her shirt, tearing away with a sickening, tactile rip . In the low light, the bruise was a masterpiece of trauma—a deep, angry purple spreading across her ribs like spilled ink.
She was safe, for now. The silence of the house was heavy, a thick shroud that gave her exactly what she needed: time to think, time to scavenge, and time to disappear.
Wasting no more effort on the pain, she reached into her bag and pulled out her notebook. Her fingers, stiff and stained, flipped through the worn pages until they landed on a specific photograph.
A cold, jagged satisfaction settled in her chest. The young man in the picture stared back, his smile a relic of a time when he’d actually made her believe in a now . Before he’d burned it all down. He was resting in a grave now, but even from six feet under, he’d managed to ruin everything she’d built.
Seth Morris was her karma.
And Elara hated loose ends that came back to bite.
Ignoring the screaming protest of her ribs, she slid off the bed and onto the floor. She store specific pages from her notebook with a rhythmic, controlled snap, spreading them across the hardwood like a grisly mosaic. These weren't just scraps; they were the anatomy of her last five years—the blueprints of a masterpiece he'd tried to smudge.
A sharp knock preceded the door swinging open. Margaret stepped in, her posture still regal despite being in her sixties. She carried a tray of bandages, a steaming bowl of broth, and handful of white tablets. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her eyebrows arching toward her hairline.
"You kept every single one?" Margaret asked, her voice dry as parchment.
" Rule number one ," Elara replied, not looking up as she aligned two pictures to her jagged torn floor plan. " Documentation is the only truth. It doesn't matter if it's right or wrong. If you have the proof, you have the floor. "