* * * *
ELISE
The day started normally.
Coffee. Headphones. Shitty Wi-Fi.
Another lecture about something I couldn't care less about.
I left campus early. My bodyguard waited by the curb—he always did. The guy was fifty, balding, smelled like fake leather and desperation. I hated him. But I trusted him…
At least until I got into the car.
"Seatbelt, Elise. Safety first," he said with a grin that made my stomach twist.
Red flag one.
The door locked.
Red flag two.
He started driving—wrong direction.
Red flag three.
"You're beautiful, you know that? I've been watching you since your sixteenth birthday. You've grown up so well—so perfect for me."
The vomit hit the back of my throat.
I gagged.
Choked it down.
This wasn't a bad day anymore.
This was a nightmare in designer heels.
I reached for the door handle. He hit the gas. My head slammed into the window.
"You're mine now," he said.
I closed my eyes. I didn't cry. I didn't scream.
I counted to ten.
That's when the glass exploded.
The Monster with Mid-Length Hair
Gunshots. Screams. Chaos.
When I opened my eyes, he was there—Carson Henderson.
You know the type: top of the class, bottom of the effort. Mid-length hair. Always looks half asleep. The guy who sat behind me and never once cared to speak. Lazy. Aloof.
Hot.
But this—this wasn't the Carson from school.
This was someone else.
He yanked the door open, his knuckles already bleeding. I didn't even hear him shoot. Just the smell of cordite and the look in his eyes.
"You okay?" he asked, like we were on a lunch break.
"You killed him," I whispered, my voice barely mine.
"I kill a lot of people," he smiled. "You'll have to be more specific."
I should've run.
Should've cried.
Instead, I reached out and grabbed his bloody hand.
Something in me cracked open that day.
Not fear. Not gratitude.
Curiosity.
Hours Before That—Flashback
Before everything exploded, I was bored.
People at university were talking about the latest crypto scam, parties I wasn't going to, and which professor might be sleeping with who. Meanwhile, my dad—Kylon Maurice, head of DCI—was having enemies hunted across oceans.
And me?
I was pretending to be a normal girl.
But that morning, I got the call: someone had tried to tail me after class yesterday. Dad said extra security. I said no thanks.
Should've listened.
The same psycho who used to drive me around now wanted to drive me off the grid into his deluded sugar-daddy fantasy. I guess love letters in your 50s are just kidnapping and duct tape.
The Scene That Changed It All
Back to the present.
After Carson saved me, we left the scene like ghosts—silent, stained, and untraceable.
We met up with Alex at a small restaurant on the East Side. The three of us sat like we were normal students, the smell of red wine and pasta doing a terrible job of covering the trauma.
Alex was pissed.
"You were almost caught. You're spiraling," he said to Carson.
Carson smiled, sipping wine like blood wasn't still drying on his cuffs.
"I was born spiraling," he said. "You all just noticed late."
I couldn't tell if he was insane or honest.
Maybe both.
That's when we heard it—a scream.
A woman. Close.
And everything happened again, like déjà vu with fangs.
We bolted out.
A woman—her throat sliced—collapsed against the alley wall.
I stood there, frozen.
Not because of the blood.
Because I recognized the cut.
Message kill. DCI standard tactic. Meant for someone watching.
Me.
Someone wanted me to see that.
To know they could get to me.
Carson handled the attacker. Again.
Brutal. Clean. Efficient.
His fists were law. His rage, gospel.
When it was done, the man was unrecognizable.
"You good?" he asked again.
This time, I didn't answer.
I just stared.
He was terrifying.
Back at the safehouse, the walls peeled like the lies I used to believe.
Alex stitched Carson's face.
I sat in the corner like something fragile and forgotten.
Then I spoke.
"I want in."
Both heads snapped toward me.
"You don't even know what this is," Carson said.
"Then teach me."
Silence.
Then laughter.
"Welcome to hell, Elise. You're gonna love the fire."
Final Thought
People think trauma breaks you.
But sometimes, it doesn't.
Sometimes, it just sharpens the blade.
And me?
I'm ready to cut back.
He stood up.
Patting Alex's shoulder like a priest blessing the damned.
Then walked toward me.
Slow. Confidence. Dangerous.
His arm wrapped around my waist like he owned it.
He turned me, pressing me gently against the crumbling brick wall of the safehouse.
The heat of his breath slid down my spine as he leaned in.
"Let's see what you could do," he whispered.
Then—he put a shotgun in my hands.
My stomach twisted. My grip was weak, trembling, unsure.
I'd never held a gun.
Never wanted to.
And especially not now—not like this.
His hands covered mine, steadying my aim at a spray-painted target on the wall—blood-red graffiti shaped like a serpent eating its own tail.
"Alright, feisty," he grinned. "One, two, three—"
BOOM.
He pulled the trigger using my finger.
The kickback slammed through my chest like a thunderbolt.
The shot rang out, tearing into concrete and ripping open a part of me I'd buried deep, far below any pain therapy could reach.
The sound…
The smell…
It was that day all over again.
Flashback — Paris, Five Years Ago
French translation included
"Cours, Elise!"
Run, Elise.
Rain hit the rooftops of Montmartre as if the sky was angry at the world. My mother held my hand tight, her eyes scanning every alley. She knew something I didn't. She always did.
We ran through narrow streets behind our bookshop, "Les Mots Perdus."
She stopped suddenly.
Turned to me.
"Écoute-moi, ma chérie," she whispered, brushing my cheek. "Peu importe ce que tu vois ou entends… cours. Ne t'arrête jamais."
Listen to me, my darling. No matter what you see or hear… run. Never stop.
I heard the shot before I felt the wind of it.
Then another.
Then—her blood sprayed across my face.
She collapsed.
I dropped to my knees, screaming.
A man tackled me from behind, choking me with one hand, silencing my sobs with the other. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.
But I saw.
A tattoo.
A dragon circling a cross.
And a voice I would never forget, even in my nightmares.
Present — The Collapse
The memory crushed me like a weight I couldn't lift.
I gasped, lungs collapsing, mind swirling. The ringing in my ears became a siren.
I fell.
Darkness swallowed me.
The last thing I heard was Carson's voice, rough with concern—
"What the hell is happening to her?"
And mine, weak and crumbling:
"You… idiot…"
The Aftermath — Alex's POV (Brief)
Carson caught her before her head hit the ground.
"Hey, hey—Elise. Elise!"
No response.
Alex swore, pulling out a medical kit from behind the safehouse fridge.
"Get her breathing steady. She's crashing."
"She just fired a shotgun for the first time," Carson snapped. "Of course she's crashing."
"No—this is something deeper. Psychological trigger."
Carson looked at her face.
The way her fingers clenched as if still holding something.
The tear that rolled down her cheek was even unconscious.
Something inside him twisted.
"She's remembering something," he whispered.
When She Woke Up
I woke up on wet concrete.
My head throbbed. My limbs wouldn't move.
I blinked and saw an alley—but not the one from before.
Trash bins. Dim neon lights flickering.
The smell of gasoline and rot.
And no Carson.
No Alex.
I was alone.
I tried to sit up—couldn't.
My body was weak, but my mind screamed.
Then I saw it.
A figure—leaning against the wall, watching me.
He stepped forward. Black boots. Black gloves. Face hidden under a hood.
"Welcome back, Mademoiselle Maurice," he said with a French accent that made my blood run cold.
"Your father sends regrets. And his enemies… send their regards."
He whistled.
From the shadows, four more men emerged, dressed in tactical gear. One of them held a blade glinting with poison sheen.
I backed up until my shoulders hit brick.
"Where's Carson?" I rasped.
The hooded man smiled.
"Preoccupied. Let's just say your friends were brave. But not invincible."
"You're lying."
"Am I?"
Suddenly, the knife man lunged.
And then—
Bang.
A head exploded.
Gunfire.
Screams.
Carson burst through a side door like a demon risen from hell.
Covered in blood. Shirt half-ripped.
Face unreadable.
Alex followed, twin pistols barking death into the shadows.
I couldn't move.
Carson dropped beside me, eyes searching mine.
"You okay?" he whispered.
I nodded—barely.
He stood up, turned, and without a second's pause, drove a knife into the hooded man's stomach. Hold it there. Twisted it.
"She's mine," he growled.
"You don't touch what's mine."
Closing Scene
Later, back at a different safehouse, Carson stared at the flame of a lighter like it held answers.
Alex sat beside me, dressing my wound.
"This isn't over," Alex said.
"It never is," I whispered.
Carson walked in, finally meeting my eyes.
"You remember something… about Paris. Don't you?" he asked.
I nodded slowly.
"He had a tattoo," I said. "A dragon. Around a cross."
Carson's face changed. Not fear.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
He turned away and muttered under his breath:
"Glory."
"Tell her."
Alex's voice cut through the stale air like a switchblade.
Carson didn't move.
Didn't even breathe.
Just stared at the pavement like it held all the answers to the questions he never asked out loud.
Alex turned to me.
"Get the hell out of this while you still can. You don't know what you're getting into."
His words didn't land like they were supposed to. Not on me.
Maybe on someone less broken.
He stepped closer, eyes narrowed—not cruel, just tired.
"You're gonna hate this. But if we're on the same page, your daddy is your mother's killer."
Silence.
I blinked.
Then blinked again.
It didn't make sense.
Not in this timeline.
Not in any version of reality where I hadn't completely lost my mind.
My voice was dead when it came out:
"Liar."
He just sighed. Like he'd seen this movie before.
"Your mom died when you were eight. Shot. Your dad told you he was chasing her killer. Truth is, he was chasing his own shadow."
He paused.
"He remarried. Remember? Your stepmother—Victoria. And her perfect daughter Charlotte. Then came the incident. The fire. The separation. You never saw them again."
I backed up.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"How do you know that?" I whispered.
Alex pointed over his shoulder.
Carson was still crouched, dragging a knife into the pavement like he was etching memories into the Earth.
"Mr. Insane over there got curious one day. Dug through your life like it was a war journal."
He said it so casually. Like it was normal to have your trauma catalogued by a psychopath who sat behind you in school and smiled like he didn't dream in body counts.
I left.
I didn't say anything.
Just turned and walked out.
Mistake Number One.
I met him on the corner.
Bleeding, shirtless, hunched like a man who'd just crawled from hell.
He asked for help.
I said yes.
Mistake Number Two.
He pulled a knife.
I didn't even scream.
At this point, it was routine.
They drugged me.
Stripped me to my undergarments like I was property.
Laughed.
They didn't touch me.
Not because they didn't want to.
But because their boss—a man with oil-slick hair and a voice smooth like poison—told them not to.
"No bruises. She's a message, not a meal."
Then they dropped me in a tank of water—shallow, metal, like a coffin.
Hooked up a live wire.
My limbs thrashed against invisible chains.
Every muscle convulsed. Every memory exploded.
And they kept me breathing.
An oxygen mask.
So I could feel everything.
What kind of god allows this?
I prayed.
Not because I believed.
But because pain has a way of making even atheists whisper to the sky.
And then—
Darkness.
Power outage.
Screams.
Gunfire.
A figure in the doorway.
"Never run from me, chaton."
Carson.
Of course.
Alex's voice followed behind like thunder after lightning:
"Five minutes! Move!"
He wrapped his jacket around me. I was shaking so hard I thought my bones might rattle out of my skin.
He turned his back to handle them.
All of them.
I reached into his jacket, fingers trembling, and found it.
A revolver.
Familiar.
My dad's voice in my head.
"Keep the barrel steady, eyes open. Don't shoot unless you mean it."
I never held one before.
But I remembered.
I stood.
Pulled the hammer back.
And let the bullets sing.
Each shot echoed like it was screaming for me.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Their blood decorated the walls like fireworks from hell.
Then I screamed.
Every curse I knew.
Every name I remembered.
Everything that had ever tried to break me.
I collapsed into Carson's arms.
Felt his fingers dig into my skin like he was trying to prove I was still alive.
"You did good," he whispered.
But I didn't feel good.
I felt poisoned.
Later — apartment
Carson lit a cigarette with the same hand he'd used to cradle my bloodied face.
He didn't speak.
He just stared at me.
I sat wrapped in his jacket, half-numb, half-broken.
Alex stood in the shadows, face unreadable.
"She's not going to survive this," he muttered.
"She already has," Carson said, never looking away.
Elise's Thoughts
I should've died in that tank.
I wanted to.
But something inside me refused.
Maybe it was revenge.
Maybe it was Carson.
Or maybe it was just that sick, stubborn part of me that hated being a victim.
My mother's face haunts me.
Her blood.
The gunshot.
The man with the tattoo.
An;d now this—
My own father, the monster behind it all?
I don't know what's true anymore.
All I know is this:
I've killed now.
I've survived.
And there's no going back.
Carson thinks I'm broken.
Maybe I am.
But I'm not weak.
Not anymore.
* * * *